by Jami Gray
The toes of his heavy-soled boots came into view but didn’t move. I found my head being directed upward with a finger under my chin.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
There weren’t many lights out here, but there was enough to see his frown as he studied my face. Adjusting the slipping strap of my backpack, I said, “Nothing. Why?”
His lips thinned, and he said, with a hint of command, “What’s with the hangdog routine?”
Understanding dawned. I waved a hand. “Honestly, nothing, Bishop.” I stepped back, away from him, and did my best to put his mind at ease. “I just remembered why I shouldn’t be playing tourist and figured it was safer to keep my mind on something less specific.”
The hovering storm of displeasure dissipated, and his face cleared. “Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.” He offered me a small grin. “Glad to see one of us is thinking clearly.”
Heat hit my cheeks at his causal compliment, but I ignored it. Instead, I returned his grin and curled my hand over his upper arm. “Lead on, good sir.”
He started walking, and I fell in beside him, my gaze back on the ground. We left the asphalt of the parking lot and moved on to the smoother terrain of cement pathways. Light and shadow played tag as he steered us along.
Needing a distraction, I pondered out loud, “Why is it, when you’re trying not to notice something, that’s all you can see?”
He chuckled. “It’s called the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.”
Not expecting that answer, I shot him a look. “Seriously? That’s a thing?”
He looked down at me, humor easing the normally stern lines of his face. “Yep, but it’s also known as a frequency illusion. It happens because your brain is excited about the challenge, so now it’s on the lookout for exactly what you’re trying to not to see.”
Shaking my head, I went back to my concentrated study of the ground. “You are just a font of information.”
That got an honest-to-God chuckle. “Want more?”
Enjoying the momentary respite, I bumped his shoulder. “Let your brilliance shine forth, oh wise one.”
“The name—Baader-Meinhof—didn’t come from a researcher.”
Happy to follow his lead, I played along. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where did it come from?”
“It’s actually named after a militant West German terrorist group from the seventies.”
“Now you’re making it up.” I shot him a look, trying to determine if he was screwing with me or not, and managed to trip over a crack in the sidewalk. He caught me before I could do a face-plant and left his arm around my waist. I went back to focusing on the ground.
“Nope, cross my heart.” He made an X over his heart that I caught from the corner of my eye. “I think it was sometime in the nineties on some Midwest online chat room that somebody heard Baader-Meinhof referenced twice in, like, a day, so the frequency illusion became the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.” He came to a stop.
I lifted my head enough to note that we were in front of a tidy one-story cabin. I deliberately bypassed the numbers half-hidden by shadows and focused on the dark windows. That’s bland enough, right? I let go of Bishop’s arm so he could move up the two steps to the narrow porch.
The rattle of keys preceded the snick of the lock sliding free. He leaned inside and hit a switch near the door. Yellow light spilled free, leaving me blinking. When my vision cleared of little white spots, he was holding the door open. “Welcome home for now.”
I stepped inside to find a clean but dated interior. Despite the fact that most of the furniture had to be close to ten years old, it still managed to give a homey impression. There was even a picture of some marina stretched above the couch—a sure sign of a beach home—but there were no impersonal rental motifs, and comfort trumped style.
The living room, eat-in dinette, and galley kitchen took up the front of the house. A hall disappeared toward the back, where I assumed the bedrooms and bathroom were located. Remembering how small the house looked from the outside, I hoped it led to more than one bedroom but knew I might be reaching.
Keys danced across the laminated counter, making me jump, as Bishop stepped around me. “There’s a bedroom back there.” He dropped his bag near the two-person table. A rush of images hit me, all revolving around Bishop and a bed, but before they could gain strength and get me in trouble, he added, “It’s all yours.”
I shrugged off my backpack and dropped it on the seat of the easy chair next to the couch before turning to Bishop. “You take it. I think I’ll stay up for a bit.”
His gaze drifted over me, and I got the sense he saw more than I was comfortable with, but he finally shook his head and said, “You need to sleep.”
Actually, sleep was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment and not just because of the possible threat lying in wait. After the catnap in the car, my brain was wide-awake. I wanted some alone time. I lifted my chin. “I’m good.”
Bishop frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Megan, about what I said earlier—”
Nope, we are not going back to that. I cut him off. “Don’t!” It came out sharper than I’d intended. Not wanting to spur an unnecessary argument, especially when it was obvious to me that the one who needed sleep was the man trying to protect me, I closed the distance between us until I could pat one of his arms, which was folded over his chest. “Look, Bishop, you’re right to be cautious.”
When his tense stance didn’t soften, I turned to study the couch. Well-worn it might be, but it also invited a person to drop in and stay awhile. Since all I wanted was a spot to curl up in for a bit, it would work. “You take the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”
“You can’t stay up all night.”
God save me from overprotective males. “I won’t.” Turning back to him, I had no doubt he’d keep arguing with me until he was blue in the face, so I admitted, “I need some alone time, okay?”
He didn’t look convinced. His gaze drifted over my face, and he relented, albeit reluctantly. “Fine. I’m leaving the door open. You need anything, just call.”
Channeling my younger sister, I held my position, folding my arms over my chest and raising a brow in challenge. “Good night, Bishop.”
His coffee-dark eyes held mine, and I hid my amusement at his hesitation. Ultimately, necessity beat manners as he stalked to his bag, snatched it up, and headed toward the bedroom. I held my position as he moved into the bedroom. I dropped my attention to the carpet as he walked from the bedroom to the bathroom.
Only when the bathroom door closed with a soft click did I let out a full breath. “All righty, then.”
Even though Bishop wasn’t happy, I was. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was alone. I hadn’t been joking when I told Bishop I craved some alone time. Too much had happened in too short a time, leaving me reeling. I needed time to process it. Staying out on the couch with Bishop down the hall would work. He was close enough to make me feel safe but distant enough for me to try to work through all that had happened.
While Bishop did his thing in the bathroom, I dug through my backpack and pulled out the oversized T-shirt and yoga pants I used for pajamas. I set my clothes on the counter along with toiletries for my nightly routine. Since the rest of the night was all about taking a break from reality, my choices were limited to my Kindle or my sketch pad. My brain was spinning like a hyperactive hamster on a wheel, and bolstered by my recent decisions, I decided to brave my sketch pad. The choice made, I set the pad and pencils on the side table. A quick visit to the kitchen netted me a can of soda and glass of ice. That, too, went on the side table.
“Bathroom’s free,” Bishop called.
Gathering my clothes and toiletries, I claimed the bathroom. I managed to complete my nightly routine in less than fifteen minutes. On the way out, I shot a glance at the bedroom, but the partially closed door showed only darkness.
Back on the couch, I found a neatly folded blanket topped by a pillow. I che
cked the front door, making sure it was locked, even though I knew Bishop would have taken care of that already. Safely locked inside, I turned off all the lights but the one by the couch and settled in. I flipped open the sketchbook, and it hit me that the last time I’d drawn was before I was kidnapped. As I bypassed the first few pages filled with random images—a dog and a toddler at the beach, a close-up of an older woman’s face, a surfer riding a wave—I hit the more detailed panels of a story I’d been working on before… before my life went off track.
Done in graphite, the images were stark but clearly showed the first steps into a wild adventure. Once upon a time, I’d considered pursuing a career in graphic arts, but life and bills had sent me in another, more responsible direction. Studying my creations, I started rethinking my future. It wasn’t like I’d be going back to work for the colonel. If this whole screwed-up situation taught me anything, it was that life was too short not to go after what I wanted.
Caught up in my thoughts, I was soon lost in the stroke of the pencil over paper. There was something therapeutic about watching the lines come together to morph into the images clogging my brain. Fortunately, it wasn’t just the twisted nightmares spilling from my hand but a mix of everything, as if I was purging my subconscious.
I had no idea how deep I’d fallen into my work until Bishop’s hand wrapped around my ankle. The unexpected touch caused my hand to jerk, marring the shading I was working on. I swallowed a noise of protest when I caught sight of the bare-chested man with sleep-tousled hair crouched in front of me.
Okay, that’s an image I can definitely get lost in. I dug my toes into the cushion as I thought about that.
“Megan, what are you doing?”
It took an embarrassing moment for his question to pierce my dazed appreciation. I looked at the sketch pad propped against my thighs. “Sketching.” Then I realized why he was asking. The images I’d been drawing filled a couple of pages. On the current one was his face, done in starkly defined lines. Not keen on sharing, I tried to casually pull the pad closer to my chest.
That turned out to be a huge fail when he caught the top edge of the pad and pulled it free of my grip. I white knuckled my pencil as he studied my drawings. It was hard to read his face. After what seemed like forever, he lifted his eyes from the pad. “You’re really good.”
Based on his tone of admiration, he meant what he said. Heat hit my cheeks, but I managed to say, “Thanks.”
Instead of handing back my sketch pad, Bishop rose and settled into the cushion next to me, using the small table to prop his feet up. He was so close his thigh brushed my hip and his shoulder rubbed against mine. It wouldn’t take much to give in and lean against him. And boy, did I want to, but I somehow managed to resist, despite the enticing scent and warmth that seemed to follow him wherever he went. I tried to convince myself the rush of unsettling emotions was nothing more than hormones, but I knew better.
Oblivious to my near lapse in self-control, he continued to study my renditions of his face. “How long have you been doing this?”
His continued focus on the images made me nervous because those sketches carried a depth of emotion I wasn’t ready to admit to. Nor was I sure if he would even welcome them. Needing an outlet for my nerves, I fiddled with my pencil. “Since high school. I had an art teacher who was really into manga and comics.” I managed a shrug. “I got hooked and found I enjoyed it, so I use it when I need to decompress.”
He shot me an unreadable look. “You ever thought of doing it professionally?”
Surprised by how closely he was mirroring my earlier thoughts, I gave him a half grin. “Once upon a time, but making a living from it isn’t easy. Besides, I worry that if I had to do it as a job, it might not be as much fun.”
His attention went back to the sketches, and his brow furrowed as he brushed a thumb over the paper. “Maybe you should give it a shot,” he said thoughtfully. He looked at me and held my gaze. “Talent like this shouldn’t be hidden.”
There was no missing his sincerity. Feeling it settle deep inside, where I allowed very few people, I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat. “Maybe, when all this is done, I just might.” In an effort to dial back the seriousness, I added, “Especially since I think a career change may be imminent.”
Following my lead, Bishop smiled. “The colonel would rehire you in a heartbeat.”
I wasn’t sure it would be her decision to make. “Maybe she would, but my security clearance is shot at this point. Besides, I’m not sure I’m ready to come back.”
When those dark eyes roved over my face, I dropped my gaze and reached for the sketch pad.
His hand tightened, refusing to let me take it away from him. When I looked back up, he was staring at the paper. “Is this how you see me?”
I looked at the sketch I’d been working on when he interrupted me. Hard, grim, and determined, Bishop’s face stared back in stark black and white. The expression was burned into my mind because it was the one he’d worn when he found me. It was the same image I’d held onto when I woke in the hospital, scared out of my mind that I was still trapped in hell and reality was just some fragile dream.
Start as you mean to go. With that reminder whispering in my ears, I gave him the unvarnished truth. “It’s who I see.”
A weighted silence fell, filled with unspoken things and broken only by our breathing. I didn’t dare look up. I was too afraid of what I’d find. He had to know that what lay on that pad was more than just my artistic talent. It was Bishop who steered us around the invisible elephant taking up space between us. He flipped through the pages backward until he came to a sketch of the stone cell I’d created to hide from the monster in my mind. He stopped. “And this?”
My eyes were locked on the detailed sketch, and my stomach did a slow pitch and roll. Walls stretched fantastically high, disappearing into the unseen horizon, while up out of reach was a small window providing the barest glimpse of an approaching storm. Swallowing hard, I answered, “Where I hid.”
He tipped my chin up, holding my gaze. His jaw tensed. “When I joined Special Ops, there was an operator who managed to bank almost a decade on the teams. We were at a dive bar in some hot spot after a mission went sideways—intel was shitty, and we were outgunned and outnumbered.” His face clouded. “We lost a couple of us, and I was second-guessing our actions until he said something I’ve never forgotten.”
I waited while his thumb brushed over my chin.
“He said, ‘You can’t win every battle, son. When the odds are against you, your best option is to hunker down and survive to fight another day.’” His thumb stopped, and the shadows lifted from his face. “You did what you needed to do to survive. There is no shame in that.”
He let me go, and while I was feeling his words smooth the ragged edges of my pride, he turned to the next page and stilled, a frown creasing his forehead. “What?”
I turned to look at the page. When I saw the hint of a face staring back, my head swam, and I reached to snatch the sketch pad from Bishop. Wrapping one arm around my shoulders and pulling me to his side, he held the pad out of my reach. “This is him, isn’t it?”
The vague profile was wreathed in shadows, which added a palpable menace to it, taunting me. My hand curled into a fist against Bishop’s chest as fear squeezed my voice into nothing, leaving my throat aching. I gave a barely perceptible nod.
He murmured, “You can almost see him.”
I tried to suck in a breath without being obvious about it. The tight band around my throat eased, and I was able to get out, “Not enough.”
He set the pad down on his other side and turned to me, his arm tightening around my shoulders. When I finally lifted my eyes to his, he promised, “We’ll get him.”
Stifling an automatic denial, I tucked my doubts away because they served no purpose. Instead, I dropped my head to his shoulder. He didn’t say anything more, and I sank into the quiet, enjoying the comforting feel of his hand str
oking my spine.
My lids drifted closed, and my fist relaxed until the beat of his heart pulsed against my palm. Every breath was filled with the clean spice scent I associated only with him. The combination of heat and strength under my hand was hard to resist, and soon, I was absentmindedly petting him. I wasn’t sure how long I wallowed in being close to him, but the tension our discussion had generated slipped away, leaving me to enjoy the sense of safety I found in his arms.
In no rush to lose that, I burrowed into him, rubbing my face against his shoulder, brushing my nose against the base of his throat. As close as I was, I couldn’t miss the hitch in his breath or the way his hand stalled mid-stroke. The chest under me flexed, and I felt him drop his head on top of mine, his groan nearly silent. My pulse slowed, going molten as a creeping tide of hunger, need, and want slipped in, changing that safety into something much more tempting and definitely more dangerous.
Chapter Fourteen
BISHOP
I ran my hand through Megan’s silken strands, my attention caught on the sketch of my face staring back from her sketch pad on the coffee table as her delicate fingers trailed down my chest, stirring the hungry beast lurking outside my control.
Is this how you see me?
It’s who I see.
There was something in her voice that made my chest ache, but instead of having the balls to follow it through, I’d changed the subject. I was probably being stupid, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to brave those treacherously deep waters yet. I was still struggling to stay above the damn waves. In order to keep her safe, I needed to keep my mind clear, but it was so fucking tempting to just let go and sink with her, into her.
Closing my eyes, I pressed my lips to the top of her head, taking in the flowery fragrance of her hair. Keeping my eyes closed, I wallowed in this moment out of time, when she was safe and here with me. Those whispery strokes slowed, becoming longer, dipping lower as she rubbed her face along my chest. Fire licked over nerve endings, and I swore I felt her tongue take a quick taste, but it was so fast, so light that I couldn’t be sure. Unable to resist, I opened my eyes to find Megan’s flushed face raised to mine, and I knew I was fighting a losing battle.