Morning Star (Broken Mercenaries Book 3)

by S. Massery

  Off we go.

  I watch the signs as we get on the interstate, headed north. Eventually, though, I turn my head and watch the scenery flash by. Homes, water in canals, fenced in yards and wide open parks. When the motorcycle slows, I look up.

  Pompano Beach.

  My heart starts thundering in my chest. Dalton weaves through the streets easily, the map memorized in his mind, and we park in front of a small house. It’s light blue with white shutters, and flower boxes on the first-floor windows. The door is white. The car in the driveway is a silvery-pink.

  I climb off and take off my helmet, shaking out my hair. He does the same, sans the hair-shaking, and winks at me. “Ready?”

  “No,” I breathe, but I follow him up the walkway. I have too many questions bursting across my tongue. If I let one escape, I know they’ll all try to push their way out.

  I’m right beside him as he rings the doorbell.

  A woman comes to the door, pulling open the heavy inside one and pausing a second, her eyes locked on me, before she pushes the screen door at us. “You must be… Grace?”

  Tears fill my eyes. That was the other alternative to the questions. Crying.

  She looks like my mother. Her hair is the same shade as mine, plus streaks of grey at her temples, and her eyes are the same color as mine. Amber-gold, too light to be considered brown.

  “Hi,” I mutter, wiping at my eyes.

  Just a week ago I had my father’s blood on my face.

  “Come in.” She steps back and allows us into her home.

  It’s small, but the space has been well decorated. The first room is the living room, decorated in shades of coral and light blue. She gestures for us to sit, then disappears into the kitchen.

  A second later, she comes back with three glasses of water. She sets ours down on the coffee table, then just watches me. She continues scrutinizing me as she sits in the chair closest to me. My palms sweat. Maybe she thinks I’m faking?

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what she knows or doesn’t know, or if she even knew I existed. Did I meet her? Did I stay with her for sleepovers when I was too young to remember? Did she hold me as a baby?

  Dalton clears his throat. “You’re Grace’s mother’s sister, correct? Sandra Jacobs?”

  She smiles, but it’s sad. “Yes, although everyone calls me Sandy. Rachel was my older sister.”

  Was. Maybe I was the only one my dad fooled. “Did you… did you know about me?”

  Sandy reaches forward, taking my hand. “Yes. I knew you when you were a baby, and I loved you nearly as much as your mother did.” A shadow crosses over her features. “I almost didn’t return your friend’s call. Your father promised he would kill me if I ever tried to contact you. But then he said—”

  “He’s dead,” I finish. It hurts to say, inhaling fire and exhaling ice. “He tried to kill me.”

  She cringes. “I’m so sorry I left you with that man.”

  Dalton clears his throat, glancing at me. “We’re just glad you’re speaking with us now.”

  I nod, eager. “Yes. I had only vague memories of her… She spoke about you. We only saw you on the holidays?”

  Sandy takes a sip of her water. Her hand is shaking, and the water in her glass spills over the edge. “He was a protective man,” she whispers. “I was more afraid of him than Rachel was.”

  We’re silent for a minute, and Dalton puts his hand on my thigh.

  “I don’t know what to say. I learned before my dad’s death that he killed her. Up until a week ago, I thought she ran away.”

  “Oh, sweet child,” Sandy murmurs, inching closer to me. She sets down her water and takes both of my hands in hers. She has callouses on her fingertips and palms, but her skin is soft. “She never would’ve left you. Your father tried to tell me the same thing—the day he threatened me. I just… I never believed it.”

  “I’m glad to have met you,” I say. “Family is tricky.”

  Dalton snorts. I elbow him, and he mouths, “Sorry.”

  Sandy smiles. There are tears in her eyes, too. “You’ve grown into a fine young woman, Grace. All these years… I hate that you had to spend them alone with him.”

  I shrug. It’s water under the bridge at this point. Memories are like scars: some are so faded you forget they ever happened in the first place. Others are painful, bright against your skin, and you wonder if they’ll ever stop haunting you.

  The answer is: They will stop.

  I lean into Dalton. He’s been a rock in the last week—even beyond that, before everything really blew up. He was there to absorb the shock of Marco’s death, my father’s betrayal, the fear of being hunted. And somehow… he makes me smile. Even when I think I should be numb.

  “Dalton,” Sandy says, pivoting in her seat toward him. “Thank you for arranging this. You’ve been most kind.”

  He lifts his chin.

  She continues, “Grace, I know this is sudden, but you should be with family. I don’t have much, but I do have a spare room that you can…” She hesitates when she sees the look on my face.

  “We’re moving,” I blurt out. “We’re leaving Florida, especially after everything that’s happened. Thank you for the offer. Truly. But—”

  There’s no way I would stay here.

  She nods, but it’s suddenly jerky. “I understand that trauma has come to you, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “He was tortured,” I hiss. My emotions have been all over the place, and today is no different. Even with Dalton’s hand on my thigh, squeezing in warning, my temperature rises. “He was tortured by my father, in front of me, and you think I should just settle down with you? You don’t even know me.”

  She stands. “You’re right,” she says. “You were raised by your father. I expect you’re more like him than I initially thought.” It stings worse than a slap, and Sandy winces. “I’m sorry, I just had my hopes—”

  “We’re going to go.” Dalton takes my hand and pulls me up.

  Our waters are untouched on the counter, and I can’t help but think about the last drink someone gave me. Drugged. We both haven’t recovered.

  “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Jacobs,” Dalton says.

  “Wait,” she says, holding up her hands. “Let me just…”

  She rushes away, and we stand in her living room in silence. I raise my eyebrow at him, and he shrugs.

  When she returns, she isn’t empty-handed. She flashes the cover of a yearbook at me, then flips it open. “Jacobs,” she says, “happened to be right next to Jones all through high school. Granted, it was a small class.” She points to a black-and-white photo of a young woman. “Your mother.”

  She’s beautiful. I stare at her, unable to tear my eyes away. If I thought Sandy and I shared a resemblance, it’s even more startling to see a young version of my mom. Just when she had started to slip from my memory.

  Sandy draws her finger sideways, to the boy to my mom’s right. “And your father. Oh, how the two of them fought when we were kids. He scared off your mother’s prom date junior year, and the rest was history.”

  Unfortunate history, but I appreciate the story all the same.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to her. “I needed to see her again.”

  We leave with a small stack of photos. Sandy claimed that she was saving them for me, but I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe she was just unable to let go of them until now. I tuck them into the saddlebag and fiddle with my helmet, watching Dalton.

  It’s not unusual that he’s quiet. He taps the top of my helmet and grins.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “You… It was the best surprise.”

  “I’d do anything for you, okay?”

  I grin, and he leans down, stealing a kiss from my lips. I put on my helmet, sliding the visor down. The world gets a little quieter. He pulls on his own and climbs on the bike. I climb on after him, holding on tight.

  I don’t know where we’re going next, but I trust that he’ll ge
t us there.

  34

  DALTON

  The most amazing part of our northern trek? Grace didn’t complain about our slow crawl over land, not once. We could’ve flown and been in New York in a matter of hours. Instead, we took a train.

  Our restlessness was cured with creative places to have sex. Including, but not limited to: our sleeper cabin, the dining cabin, the caboose—heh—the bathroom…

  And then we were there. Our stuff had been sent on ahead, and all that was left to do at the train station was roll my bike out of the storage car. We climb on and head to Bitterwood, New York, enjoying the scenery.

  I haven’t actually been here. The closest I got was the airport, and Reece wouldn’t let me off the plane. He said I would take too much time getting back on, and therefore he was holding me hostage. That was a miserable time—although slightly less miserable than the flight, because the plane was on the ground.

  Griffin had texted me an address. It almost reminds me of Colin’s place, with the long driveway. Once we get down it, weaving around mud puddles, my jaw drops. The foundation is done, the framing is finished, and there are workers putting up the outer walls. I wouldn’t call it a mansion, but it’s a pretty fucking spacious house.

  “Did you rent something like that?” Grace laughs, flipping her visor up.

  I tilt to the side, putting my foot on the ground, and look back at her. “You wouldn’t know what to do with all of that space.”

  She scoffs. “I’d fill it with art.”

  “Statues? Of me?”

  “That’s the only kind of art in your brain, huh?”

  I chuckle, reaching back and closing her visor. We head into the heart of Bitterwood, crawling past a sleepy downtown.

  Grace points to our left and calls, “Hadley works at that library, I think.”

  There’s a school and a post office, a tiny grocery store. A boutique store signals the end of the commercial section and the start of residential.

  We turn, gunning up a short hill, and Grace taps my shoulder. “There.”

  I kill the engine in the driveway. Grace hops off and stretches, arcing her back before pulling off her helmet. It’s been a week since everything went down, and while things have been nonstop movement, I feel like we’ve found our stride.

  We’re both irreparably clingy—products of our childhood and the trauma we shared, I’d guess. We both like the occasional nightcap, and dancing to loud music, and sitting on rooftops staring at the stars. Silence isn’t a bad thing—hell, it’s a damn blessing. And sex. So much sex.

  She shakes out her hair, combing her fingers through it, and catches me watching. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she says.

  “Nah,” I answer, hooking her arm in mine. “I couldn’t capture the real thing on a piece of paper.”

  She snorts as we walk up to the house. Our stuff was shipped ahead of us, and Griffin should have it already. Hadley and Griffin’s apartment is the first floor of a larger house, and Hadley slides outside before we’ve made it to the door.

  “It arrived,” she says, grinning at Grace.

  “Already? That was fast.”

  “Faster than a train, apparently.”

  I look back and forth between the two of them. “Obviously,” I say. “They shipped our luggage by air.”

  Grace just nods, patting my arm. “Where’s Griffin?”

  “Inside.”

  They exchange another glance, and suspicion prickles my skin.

  “What are you planning?” I ask Grace.

  She frowns. “Planning? Nothing.”

  “Hmm.” I follow Hadley to the door, which she holds open for us. A second later, a black-and-white blur races toward me.

  Barking.

  “Holy shit,” I say, falling to my knees. Shooter, the mighty border collie from Florida, spins in excited circles around me. “You—” He licks my hand, and a lump forms in my throat. Do not cry, you fucking baby. I have to swallow a few times to make sure I don’t fall apart.

  “Had to,” Grace mutters. “I called around once things settled down, and you were off doing something. They said the dog wouldn’t stop moping after bonding with you, so…” She shrugs, but she’s smiling. “Easy decision.”

  I snort, leaning down and letting him sniff my face. He licks my cheek, and I sit back up with a wide grin. “You got me a dog,” I repeat, not taking my eyes off him. “That’s a high level of commitment, Ms. Jones.”

  Like in the kennel, within a few minutes Shooter has relaxed and lies next to me, putting his chin on my leg. True love. I don’t even care that I’m sitting in the middle of their kitchen, sprawled out like a heathen. If Shooter doesn’t want to move, we’re staying here forever.

  “Where are we going to put him?” I ask, suddenly stricken. “Does our rental—?”

  “They gave me a temporary yes,” Grace says, patting my shoulder. “So that means we should probably look for a new house.”

  I laugh. “At least that was part of my plan.”

  Griffin and Hadley slip out, and Grace lowers herself to the floor next to me. She lets Shooter sniff her hand, then scratches behind his ear. She seems to immediately find an itchy spot, because a goofy smile overtakes Shooter’s face.

  “So this is it,” I say. I lean over and kiss her. “I got the girl, a small town, a dog… What else could I need?”

  She rolls her eyes. “A job, or at the very least, a hobby.”

  “Luca sends me my salary,” I say. “Hobby? Yeah.” I’m quiet for a minute. “And… I need to deal with this, ah…”

  “The nightmares?”

  I shrug, keeping my gaze on Shooter. “I figure it’s probably post-traumatic stress, you know? So I should get help for that.”

  She leans into me. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Why on earth would you be proud of me?”

  “You’re going to face your demons,” she says. “And I guess that means I should face mine, too. We’re all sorts of fucked up.”

  I snort. “Yeah, true. I’ll book you a session, too.”

  That’s what we need: health, happiness, and a fucking hobby.

  Epilogue

  GRACE

  Two months later

  Dalton and I stand in our new home, each at different stages of shock. I’m in shock because he just announced his retirement, and he’s in shock because I chose this place. To be fair, he agreed to it without even looking.

  “Retirement?” I ask, confirming I heard him right. “Retirement from what?”

  “Danger,” he answers. “And you want to buy this dump?”

  It’s little more than a shell. In fact, it’s probably worse than a shell, because everything on the inside will need to be gutted. New electrical, judging from the pop when we walked in, at the very least. The walls probably need to have new sheetrock, and I wouldn’t mind new windows. There’s a strong breeze that comes in through a broken windowpane.

  We have a month and a half left on the lease of our current house. Longer, if we can manage to sweet-talk the landlord. I’m not sure if the timing will be right, but I’d like to try. I can see its potential. For the first time, this will be something Dalton and I build from the ground up—well, sort of.

  “We already closed,” I say. “You were the one who wanted no part of it.” I shrug. “You just wanted to help Griffin with his house.”

  Shooter is exploring every inch of the space, occasionally rushing back over to us to make sure we haven’t left.

  Dalton rolls back his shoulders, distressed. “I almost wish we had bought a plot of land—”

  “This one does have a plot of land,” I say, suppressing my laughter.

  He picks at his fingernails as I lead him through the house. “Picture it. We take down that wall. Put in an island for the kitchen. White cabinets, a dark sink, stainless steel appliances. Hardwood floors.”

  He nods.

  I continue, “Big window overlooking the backyard. A porch.” I crack a smi
le. “A shooting range.”

  He perks up. “How much land did you say?”

  “We own a straight shot back to the river,” I say. “About eighteen acres. There’s wilderness beyond that.”

  He grins. “Okay, and upstairs?”

  I point to the dilapidated stairs. “Best not risk it, but there are three bedrooms. A master with its own bath, and then two…”

  “For children?” His eyebrow quirks, but there’s something odd in his voice.

  “I was thinking more for guests,” I answer, trying to keep my voice level. In all of our late-night pillow talk, in all of our early morning conversation, we never discussed the possibility of kids.

  Familiar dread picks up in my chest. If he wants kids, I suppose I could stomach it. For him. Maybe.

  “Guests,” he echoes. “Yeah.”

  I clear my throat, wishing he wasn’t so far away. If I can grab on to him, maybe this conversation will be easier. Maybe I should just blurt it out. Like that ever goes well or good. I look out the small window, which is covered in grime, and inhale a sharp breath. I’m gonna say it. Right now.

  “I don’t really want kids,” he says, turning back to me. “I mean, they make me uncomfortable. I don’t think I’d be a good dad. Are you mad?”

  I exhale slowly, trying to release the tension in my body. “No, I’m the opposite of mad.” I shake my head. “I was just working up the nerve to tell you the same thing.”

  He comes toward me, looping his arms around my waist. “Yeah, I don’t know how good of a dad you’d be, either.”

  I punch his shoulder and tip my head back. He leans down and kisses my neck, his teeth scraping against my skin. A shiver runs up my body.

  “Shall we christen our new home?” he asks.

  “We’ll just have to do it again when we move in.” I wink.

  “Devilish girl.” He chuckles. “I’m okay with that.”

  He presses me up against the wall, and sheetrock dust falls on our heads. We both look up, pausing.

  Dalton says, “Maybe the car would be…”

  “Cleaner?”