by Alison Kent
Was he going to let her go? Had she been nothing to him but a fine piece of ass? Could he have had more with her if he’d ever given half an effort to finding out? Was he going to let her go?
He shrugged, not sure of his voice.
“How far up your ass is your head? The girl is mad for you.”
Woman. Not girl. “She’s mad, period. Living here as long as she did when she had nothing tying her to this hellhole.”
“She had you.”
“And now she doesn’t. C’est la vie.” King wasn’t going to talk about it anymore. He had other things he needed to say. Things he’d been holding on to a lot of years. “It’s good she decided to go.”
“Good for her? Or for you?”
“Both, for certain. I’ve got some things to deal with, and they’ll go down easier this way.”
“I don’t know, boo.” Simon glanced toward the house, where King knew Micky waited. “Alone isn’t always the best way.”
“You’ve had some experience with that then.” King didn’t even know what it was that Simon did these days, what it was that made it possible for him to come up with ninety thousand dollars when King had asked. That was the distance between them.
Simon nodded. “I have. After the service, I worked places that put me in a lot of danger. Then I took a position that sent me into even worse. I never wanted to bring anyone else into that. Felt it would be too hard to lose them, selfish to put them in harm’s way just so I wouldn’t be alone. And so I was. I am. I was.”
Interesting. “How did she get you to change your mind?”
“By showing me the other side. I’d rather have what time I can with her than no time at all. The thought that she could’ve died kills me, but it doesn’t take away how being with her lifts me up.”
After a long quiet moment, King said, “And she feels the same.”
Simon laughed. “If she doesn’t, I’m going to be in a world of hurt.”
More hurt than doing time for a crime he hadn’t committed. More hurt than hating the one man who’d been there for him through all their years of silence. King wondered if it was too late to go after Chelle, but his heart knew it was too soon.
“About the money—”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“I have a son.” The words were out. The relief, monstrous.
“I didn’t know…”
King laughed once. “Neither did I until three years ago. He’s thirteen now.”
“I’ve got all the usual questions, King, but you telling me what you want me to know is probably best.”
He wanted Simon to know everything, but even King hadn’t gotten that far figuring it out. Getting answers had been worse than realizing how much he regretted the things he’d missed.
“She was a woman who put me up for a while. Before I got the trailer moved in, the water well and septic dug, the electricity working. I met her at Red’s. Gina. I honestly can’t remember much more.”
Simon frowned. “The money wasn’t for a lawyer, was it? To set visitation rights, or fight for custody?”
“Oh, hell no, boo. I’m not father material. At least…not then. Probably not even now. For a while it looked like my adventures in parenting were going to be over before they got started.”
“He was sick.”
King nodded. “I knew he was mine when she showed me his picture. Remember that one Ma used to tease me about? In third grade?”
“Where your ears looked like a jackrabbit’s poking up through your hair, and your shirt was inside out?”
“That’s why my wardrobe’s nothing but white Ts. And I tear off the tags. Hard to tell the difference,” he joked, then sobered. “Besides, I got used to wearing the same thing all the time in the pen.”
“I never asked you about any of that, about those years.”
“Nothing about it to say.”
“What’s his name? Your son.”
“Calvin. Cal.” Just voicing it…God, his throat. His heart.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s getting there.” King didn’t mention how many nights he’d spent in waiting rooms at the Texas Medical Center, never going into the boy’s room, seeing glimpses of tubes and monitors and a tiny body swallowed up by sheets and blankets when he’d walked by the door.
“He couldn’t have got the treatment he needed here. He had to go to Houston. His mother had raised some of the money, barbecue fund-raisers and bake sales, and then donations from friends and families from his school and church. His grandparents.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“I don’t know why she thought I could get it,” he said, choking on his laugh. “If he’d never got sick, I’d never have known he was out there. I don’t know if it would’ve been easier that way.”
“Sounds like he’s got a lot of caring folks around him.”
“He does. A great father, even. Just not me.” Damn, but that was hard to say.
“Does he need more? Do you?”
“I’m not asking for more, Simon.”
“I know. But I’m offering.”
“Well, keep your offer. I’ve got the trees about to produce, and I’m going back to Delcambre to work with a shrimper I know until then. I’ll save what I can. If Gina doesn’t need anything more, I’ll put it aside. A college fund maybe. Or one day I might have enough to really do a workover on the well.”
“And somewhere in there you’ll go after Paschelle?”
“Not sure I’ll have time.”
“Then you make time. Make time for me, too. Twenty years is long enough for this Hatfield-and-McCoy bullshit.”
“We’re family, boo. That analogy doesn’t work.”
“It works if you know what I mean, and that I’m serious.”
“I do. It’s nice knowing someone out there who has my back. Next time I go after a judge who’s a criminal as well as corrupt, I’ll do it on more sleep and less booze. Maybe then I won’t need the save.”
“It’s what I do,” Simon said with a shrug that reeked of humble.
But that was it. King wasn’t going to press for more, for answers Simon didn’t want to give—even if he’d had his fill of secrets. “You do it well, cuz. I hope they pay you what you’re worth.” He dug into his pocket, spun his keys around on one finger, and palmed them.
“You heading home?” Simon asked.
“Figured I’ve kept you long enough. You’ve got some miles out there calling your name.” He headed for his truck, stopped and turned as a thought struck him. His grin nearly split his face. “And I’ve got a buried treasure calling mine.”
Forty-three
“A re you ready to go back to New York?” Simon asked after slamming his truck’s tailgate and closing the bed cover over his stash of supplies.
Micky stood there watching him, her hair in a ponytail, a smile on her face, a sparkle in her eyes that a few days ago he took as a warning to keep his distance but now was a beacon beckoning him.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not, does it? I came to see Lisa. I’ve done that. It’s time to go home.”
Nothing about her accident, Lisa’s kidnapping, Bear’s death, how close she’d come herself. She made it sound like the days she’d been here had been a relaxing vacation rather than the truth of what they were. The attempt on her life didn’t even seem to faze her.
He wondered if the shock would hit later, if it would send her to seek counseling, or if she had sectioned off those memories, that experience, and lopped it off like overlong hair.
He wanted to know the truth of how she was doing, how she was dealing. He didn’t want to put her on a plane. “Was your father glad to hear from you? That you’re okay, and on your way back?”
“He never knew I wasn’t okay. The physical accident-on-purpose part anyway. He knew the underpants thing was a symptom of a much larger problem. He told my intended that there would be no wedding, so at least I got his attention.”
“Or the pict
ures did, anyway.”
“According to Jane, the pictures were dark and blurry and incredibly grainy even after they were cleaned up. The ass could have belonged to anyone wearing that skirt.”
He doubted Michelina Ferrer would have been seen in public wearing something so easily purchased as she wore now. He looked at her again in her twelve-dollar sneakers, her twenty-dollar jeans, the oversized black polo marked down to half price because of the sun-bleached streaks on the shoulders.
He couldn’t believe she was the same woman from the billboard, the one who’d stared down into his tiny patio and refused to let him give up, who’d told him that he’d only been doing his job, that Stella Banks getting hurt was the sort of collateral damage no one could prevent or anticipate, and that if Eli McKenzie was man enough to deal, he’d better be.
He nodded, trying to remember what she’d just said, or what his life had been like a week ago without her. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad.”
“Glad about what?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I do know. I’m glad about a lot of things. It’s just—”
“What?” she asked, coming closer. “What are you glad about?”
Ask him something easy. “That Lisa was found safe. That she and Terrill are going to get the hell out of here.” Micky had told him she’d convinced them to come to New York, at least for a while.
“I’m glad about that, too,” she said, smiling. “They need to be safe, to be with each other away from here.”
Away from their loss that was wrapped up in so much anger and pain. He got that. “I’m glad King’s going to stay on at Le Hasard. At least for now.”
“Until he goes after Paschelle, you mean.”
“Yeah. I was thinking he won’t be sticking around here long.”
“But you’ll still keep the property.”
He nodded. He had to. “I’m glad I finally know the truth about my father.” Though with Bear gone, he would never know the why.
“I am so, so sorry about that.” She was close enough now to wrap her arms around him, and she did, holding him, her head on his chest, where it fit like his favorite thing to wear.
He glanced up at the house. “I’m glad I saw this place again. It’ll be easier to tear it down knowing what bad shape it’s in.”
She looked into his eyes. “When did you decide to do that?”
“Just this morning. It seemed to fit. Putting an end to the past. Starting over.”
“Then you’re ready to get back to work?” She paused, letting her fingers walk up his spine. “Or does that not mesh with the starting-over thing?”
He remained silent, enjoying the feel of her fingers on his back, her breasts flat against his chest, her hips in the cradle of his. He was used to this already, used to having her at arm’s length when he reached for her, used to her making him think with the way she prodded and questioned, nudged and provoked.
He was already used to her making him happy, to thinking of her as his own. “I’m going back, yeah, but I’m not in a big hurry.”
“Understanding boss.”
He’d like her to meet Hank, and one day the rest of the guys. But they could wait. He wasn’t ready to share her. “He’s the best.”
“You’ve never thought of changing careers?”
He’d been in the service of his country under Uncle Sam’s eye for twelve years, in the service of its people in one way or another since. He’d never thought of doing anything else. Anything safer. Something that would keep the woman in his life from worrying about him.
That didn’t keep him from asking, “You got something in mind?”
“Actually, I do.” She backed out of his embrace, walked in a circle around him. “Ferrer is introducing a new male fragrance next year. Trieste. We’re just now beginning to work on the ad campaign. That’s actually why I want Lisa in New York. She’s advertising brilliant; don’t ask me what she was doing down here in the swamp.”
“Uh, making a life with her husband?” Simon reminded her, feeling as if he were being sized up like a porterhouse.
“Besides that.” Micky easily waved him off. “Anyway, she could have commuted. Or telecommuted at least. If she’d been busy working for me, she wouldn’t have had time to get involved in the Landrys’ genealogy—”
“And Bear would have gotten away with my father’s murder.”
She stopped, stared at him. “Then you admit that good can come out of dangerous situations.”
“It usually does,” he agreed, having brought down enough bad guys to know.
“And being in life-or-death situations doesn’t always mean innocent people die or get hurt.”
He saw what she was trying to do, where she was going—which was okay since he’d already done a bit of working it out for himself. “Not always, no. But it can happen. It happened to you.”
“I didn’t even know I was in a dangerous situation, and I got through it anyway. A few bumps and dings, but basically unharmed.”
“Yes, but you were lucky.”
“I was also resourceful. I know how to take care of myself. I just want to make sure you know that.”
“I know it.”
“Good, so then you can do some test shots, see how you look on film and in pixels, and if that doesn’t pan out and you have to go back to your life as a spy—since I’m assuming that’s pretty close to what you are—at least we won’t have to worry about us.”
“Us?”
“Yes,” she said, emphatically adding, “Us. I called Jane from the hospital. She’s looking for an apartment for me. I told her to start on the Lower East Side.”
Ah, what she did to his heart. “You don’t belong there.”
“But you’re there. And that’s where I want to be.”
“I can afford to move. I just stay there for the flavor.”
She tilted her head and considered him slyly. “You wouldn’t miss the billboard?”
“You won’t be there forever. I’d rather have the real you.”
“I can get you a print so you’ll have me to talk to when I’m gone.”
“We haven’t even picked out china and you’re leaving me already?”
“Traveling gone. Not leaving-you gone. Unless you can get time away to come with me.”
“I’ve seen a lot of the world already. I like the idea of staying home.”
“You haven’t seen it with me. And I’m a lot more fun to be with than your Buffy DVDs.”
“What’s up with everyone disrespecting my girl Buffy?” he asked, though he had to admit he was liking this sassy Michelina, the business tycoon, the go-getter. He could imagine having her boss him around in bed. He could imagine liking it. What he couldn’t imagine was letting her go.
“Here’s the thing, cher,” she said, and his heart began to pound, his body to tighten. “I want to be your girl.”
“And you want me to be…your bodyguard?”
“Yes. And my confidant, my best friend, my lover. My man.”
It was time for sharing what he had on his mind. “Are you set on catching your plane?”
She shook her head. “Not really. At least not today.”
He slapped the truck’s front quarter panel. “How about a road trip? Camping out. Sleeping under the stars. Showering outside. Naked.”
“You know I’ll have to give up the nature girl act once we’re home.”
“In public, sure. But in private? The nature-y-er the better.” He opened his door. “How do you feel about getting naked in my truck?”
“Now?”
“The sooner the better.”
His pants were around his hips, hers around her ankles, and he was inside her before either of them could breathe.
“Is this going to be happening a lot during the trip?”
“It had damn well better, chère. It had damn well better.”
If you like this book,
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FIGHT FIRE WITH FIR
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out now from Brava…
“Y ou don’t have time for that.”
Instantly Riley scooped up the pistol and spun on his knees, aiming.
A figure stood near the blown-out entrance. Shit. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Still as glass, the man’s head and shoulders were wrapped in dark scarves over a once green military jacket, now a dull gray like the weather. The only skin exposed was his eyes. Around his waist, a utility belt sagged, and the sniper rifle was slung on his shoulder, the weapon held across his body, ready to sight and fire. Yet he stood casually, without threat.
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have wasted bullets to see you two safe and alive.”
The sniper, Riley realized with a wee shock, was a woman.
She advanced with easy grace, stepping over piles of rubble to hop down at his level. Her rifle looked all too familiar.
“Yes, it’s American,” she said, noticing his attention. He lowered his weapon. She stood a couple feet away, staring down at Sam. “He doesn’t look good.” She unwound her head scarf and a braided rope of shiny dark hair spilled down one shoulder. She met his gaze. Beneath arched brows, whiskey-colored eyes stared back at him.
“Sweet mother a’ Jaasus.” She was younger than him.
“I get that a lot.” She gestured at Sam. “What do you need to do?”
“Set his leg again and get a tighter splint on it.”
She nodded as her gaze bounced around the interior. “Let’s get busy. I don’t know how much time we have.”
Though the pop of gunfire was lazier now, Riley wasn’t ignoring the help, or the danger of staying put too long. He instructed, glad Sam was unconscious or he’d be screaming to the heavens. After unbuckling her utility belt, she got behind Sam, her legs and arms wrapping his torso and hips as Riley grasped his calf and ankle. On a count, he pulled. Even drugged, Sam arched with silent agony. Riley ripped the flight suit more and pushed the bone down, forcing it to align closely. Blood oozed from the gash. He met her gaze and nodded.
“It’s set. Well…better than it was.”
She eased from Sam and unclipped her canteen, offering it.
He cleaned his hands and the wound, then Riley worked against the cold. With the needle poised over Sam’s flesh, he shook too much to stitch. “For the love of Mike.” He dropped the needle, sanding his hands, blowing on them. She quickly grasped them both, wrapping her scarf around them, then brought his fists to her lips. She breathed hotly against the fabric, and Riley felt the warmth sting his icy skin. She rubbed and breathed, her gaze flashing up. He felt struck, her soulful eyes hiding so much.