Guts & Glory: Walker (In the Shadows Security Book 4)

by Jeanne St. James

  “I do all right,” she said softly, lifting her head.

  A home-cooked “all right” meal was better than his own cooking or take-out. “Since you don’t have enough money to pay for the job, expect you to do all the cooking while you’re here.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  Yeah, it was the least she could do.

  “I can clean, too. It’ll keep me busy.”

  “Not asking for that. I have a housekeeper who comes once a week, cleans, brings groceries. Make a list of what you need, I’ll send it to her.”

  “Okay.”

  Ellie had never been a person who simply answered with an “okay.” She’d always had something to say and a lot of it.

  It was one reason for his rules. He wasn’t sure he could handle having in depth conversations with her. Not like they used to have. Walker used to love watching her talk animatedly about subjects she was passionate about. Sometimes he’d pretend his view was different from hers, just so she’d want to debate him. He’d fight back his smile and his urge to kiss her until she realized what he was doing, then he’d laugh.

  So would she.

  Neither of them was laughing right now.

  She also hadn’t moved from her chair.

  “Ellie, come inside.” It came out softer than he meant it to.

  She nodded, unfolded her legs and stood. She was petite in all ways. A good eleven inches shorter than his six-foot-one. And he wouldn’t be surprised if his hands could still encompass her waist.

  Her tits had filled out, so had her hips, but she wasn’t nearly as curvy as the women who belonged to his teammates. Or at least the three Shadows who had been hobbled by pussy.

  He stepped back from the doorway and let her pass just inches from him to catch her scent. It was light, probably a lotion. Ellie had never been one for makeup, clothes and perfumes. She had loved being barefoot, her coloring came from the sun, and she always smelled like the outdoors. That’s why he couldn’t understand her leaving him for McMaster.

  Fuck. This shit had to stop.

  He couldn’t spend the next how many days, possibly over a week, with her and keep getting pulled back in time.

  It wasn’t healthy for him. And it might pull other shit, long buried, to the surface.

  When she hit the center of the well-equipped kitchen he barely used, she stopped, turned and looked at him with her head tilted, her hands on her hips. “Do you have the stuff to make them?”

  His eyes slowly slid up from her hips, paused on her tits, then he met her eyes. “Your tits fake? I don’t remember them being that big.” It wouldn’t have surprised him if McMaster wanted her to look like the Barbie doll she wasn’t.

  Her whole body jerked and she frowned. “I don’t weigh the same, either. When you put on some pounds, they tend to land in a couple places first. I guess I was lucky where they landed.”

  He agreed.

  “So?” she asked.

  “So, yeah, you’re lucky.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I meant the stuff for grilled cheese.”

  “Don’t have tomatoes but have the rest. Plus, bacon. Want bacon on mine with the ham. I need more than a sandwich, so check the cabinets and the fridge to find something to go along with it. Whatever you can find, you can use.”

  “Okay.”

  There it was again.

  “I’m gonna go take a shower. Yell when it’s ready.”

  “Okay.”

  He gritted his teeth. He hated her submissive like that. But he’d also told her to mind her own business. So, maybe it was for the best.

  “Gotta shower,” he muttered and stalked off.

  Chapter Five

  Ellie watched him turn and bolt from the kitchen. She waited for the slam of a door at the other end of the house, but it never came.

  He didn’t remember her “tits” being that big. She didn’t remember him ever calling her breasts “tits.” But then...

  Things had changed and she needed to resign herself to that fact.

  While he was as tall as she remembered and towered over her, his shoulders seemed much broader than when he was twenty. His muscles were not nearly as developed back then, either. His face also held lines that could probably tell stories.

  And most likely, not all good ones.

  His body moved differently now, too. Gone was the youthful swagger he had, the looseness of hips and shoulders. He appeared to be as tight as a stretched rubber band. And as he walked away, she might have even picked up on a slight hitch. For only a step, no longer.

  She sighed, glanced around the kitchen and then began her search for what she needed.

  Within a half hour, the sandwiches were crispy and brown on both sides, the cheese perfectly melted and gooey. She’d found a can of creamy tomato soup in his pantry, which now simmered in a pot, one hardly used, on the stove, also hardly used.

  Her stomach had been growling the whole time. She hadn’t eaten all day besides a tiny bag of peanuts and a Sprite on the plane. While she hadn’t had much of an appetite then, she also wanted to save every penny she had by avoiding buying a meal.

  She had plates out, found the silverware, napkins, everything they’d need, but no Trace.

  He hadn’t come back into the kitchen. In fact, she’d heard nothing from the other side of the house at all.

  “Trace!” she called out and winced at her faux pas. “Walker! It’s ready.”

  No answer. Nothing.

  She turned off the burners under the soup and grill pan, leaned back, tilted her head toward the hallway where he’d disappeared and called out his name again.

  The right name. Walker.

  She didn’t like calling him that but would try to remember to do it.

  Still nothing. No footsteps. No answer. Silence.

  Men like Trace didn’t take a half hour to shower. Not unless they used a lot of product on their hair and body. Like George did. His side of their master bathroom had been packed with product.

  In truth, Ellie had always been satisfied with a quality shampoo, conditioner and a functioning hairdryer. She only put on makeup and fancy clothes when it was expected of her, while entertaining, dinner at the club, meeting “friends” or potential business clients for drinks.

  She didn’t mind doing it. She actually enjoyed dressing up on occasion, but she was glad she didn’t have to do it every day.

  “Walker,” she called one more time, then padded barefoot down the hall. She had kicked off her shoes when they first got to his house because she’d always preferred going barefoot.

  I’m gonna keep you barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen, Trace had teased more than once.

  George didn’t like her working in the kitchen, which was why he paid a cook. He always worried about her running around barefoot. She wasn’t sure why since it wasn’t like she was doing it on the streets of New York City. And the pregnancy part....

  She passed by an empty but large guest bathroom, and two spare bedrooms. Trace had put her luggage in the one farthest from the master.

  The door at the end of the hallway was open, a light on and in the master bedroom, on the opposite side of the king bed from where she paused, sat Trace. He perched on the edge, his back in full view, only a cream-colored towel covering him from his waist down. His blond hair was cropped short but even so, she could tell it was still damp. As short as it was, it wouldn’t take long to dry.

  He was bent over doing something. A plastic tub of cloudy liquid set nearby on the nightstand.

  He straightened as she took another tentative step into the room.

  Now she could see the large back tattoo he had a little better.

  At first she thought it was Pegasus or a Centaur inked into his skin. But it wasn’t. It was a combination of the two. The creature had the upper body of a man, the lower body of a horse with wings. The man held a raised sword. And a crescent moon was tattooed on the upper portion of his right shoulder. The “horse” was rearing up as the ma
n pointed to the sky with one hand held flat and holding a raised sword with the other.

  But this wasn’t a typical horse. The front left leg of this “horse” was missing from the knee joint down.

  A mythical three-legged winged man-horse.

  Strange. She had never seen a creature like that anywhere before. She wondered what the meaning was behind it.

  She raised her eyes from his tattoo to see him looking at her over his shoulder.

  She had expected him to jump up and yell at her to leave, since he didn’t want her to know anything personal about him. And here she was, standing in his bedroom, seeing his tattoo, seeing him only wrapped in a towel. She couldn’t get any more personal than that.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” his voice was low, but held no anger, surprisingly.

  “I called you several times. Dinner’s ready.”

  “Just got out of the shower,” he grumbled. “I didn’t hear you.”

  That was a hell of a long shower, then. What does a man do in a shower for that long?

  She closed her eyes as heat bloomed in her face.

  Shit.

  In those two years they had waited, Trace had joked with her that he was always squeaky clean and had pruned fingers constantly from all the time he spent in the shower. What he did in there was one way to keep himself locked down tight and under control.

  She had teased him back, telling him that one day she wanted to watch. They never got that chance.

  Now that vision was burned into her brain. Not of an eighteen or nineteen-year-old Trace, but of the one currently sitting on the bed. All mature thirty-nine years of him.

  Her knees wobbled a bit, but she locked them in place. She also turned her face away to hide the blush and the fact she had to squeeze her thighs together when everything inside her clenched.

  As she went to backtrack and leave his room, her attention got caught on something else. Not just one thing. A few things lining the floor of his large walk-in closet, which had not only the door wide open, but the light on.

  She blinked, unsure of what she was seeing. “What...” escaped from her on a hitched breath.

  She stared at those items in that closet, unable to wrap her head around what they were. Unsure why Trace, of all people, would have them. Why he needed them. She threw a glance over her shoulder at him, then turned back, taking a hesitant step toward his closet.

  A muttered “fuck” came from the direction of the bed.

  “Trace...”

  His name came out on a pained whisper. One that held a hint of a tremble. “Trace,” she whispered again. “Are those yours?”

  “Ellie,” he said, making it clear his saying her name was a warning. Her breaking down and getting emotional about something that couldn’t be changed wouldn’t help either of them.

  She spun on her heels, stared at him, her eyes shiny, and let her gaze slowly wander down until it hit his lap. Where he sat, she couldn’t see the rest of him.

  “I want to see.”

  His head jerked back, and his heart began to thump in his chest.

  He wanted her to mind her own business, but this was one area he knew couldn’t be avoided if they were going to live in the same house for potentially the next week or so. He thought he could at least delay it, but apparently not. “Ellie...”

  “Trace, I need to see.”

  He lifted his chin toward the closet and his line-up of prostheses. “You saw.”

  She shook her head and murmured, “No.”

  “I set rules—”

  Her head snapped up. “Fuck your rules!” she shouted and moved around the bed.

  She stopped short, her eyes focused below the bottom edge of the towel.

  Trace gritted his teeth, his fingers gripping the bedding in an effort not to hide what she was seeing. To cover himself up.

  None of this was any of her fucking business.

  None.

  He waited for a look of horror to cross her face. Or even a look of sympathy. Something to fuel his anger so he could snap out at her, chase her from his room.

  Her face showed neither.

  She raised her gaze to his and asked, “What happened?”

  “No, Ellie. I told you no questions.”

  “I’m going to ask it anyway.”

  Of course she would. He knew this would be one area she’d have a hard time biting her tongue. Not simply responding with a meek “okay.”

  Ellie had never been meek.

  Even at sixteen. Especially at sixteen.

  He swept his hand toward the open closet and then his bare legs. “Now, I gave you this. That’s all you’re gonna get. We’re done talking about it and can move on.”

  “You didn’t give me anything, Trace. I want to know how, why... When.”

  “You don’t get that, Ellie. That’s not yours to have. Now, I need to get dressed.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You sticking around for that?”

  “I need to hear it, Trace.”

  Fuck, she was determined.

  “Guess you’re sticking around for that.” He unknotted the towel, letting it fall open, not caring she was only inches from him. He reached behind him to snag the long shorts he’d thrown there earlier, then pulled them on, working them up his hips.

  She was now leaning back against the wall where she’d been watching how he maneuvered them on. Then he pushed from the bed and held out an arm. “I need my crutches.”

  Ellie followed his eyes to where they were propped in the corner. Her gaze slid to the closet. “You don’t need one of those?”

  Those.

  “No, I normally use crutches in the house when I’m done for the day.”

  Fuck, he was giving her more than he wanted to. But him using crutches around the house would be a bit obvious. He just needed to ignore her questions.

  He planned on only taking off his prosthesis in his bedroom at night, holding off on this whole conversation as long as he could.

  Now that she knew, there was no point in not going about his normal routine.

  “If you’re gonna continue to stand there and gawk, at least hand me my fucking crutches.”

  She sprang into action, grabbing them and bringing them over.

  But she didn’t let them go when he took them from her. Instead, she held on tightly, her green eyes locked with his. Now, he was seeing something in them he definitely did not want to see.

  Concern. Caring.

  Maybe something more. But he didn’t want to look any deeper.

  “Ellie, I’m used to it.” He hoped that would put an end to it there.

  Of course, it didn’t.

  “How can you get used to a piece of your body missing?”

  The same way you get used to a piece of your soul missing.

  You just do.

  “You have no choice. You adapt. You can lie down and give up or you can rise and keep going. You look at the negatives and find a positive and that’s what you hang onto. That’s where you draw your strength.”

  He said too much. Enough to spur more questions, demand more answers, explanations.

  He couldn’t do it.

  He was done.

  If she had stayed, she would have known all the answers to all the questions swirling in her head.

  And that was a good reminder, this conversation needed to be over.

  He jerked the crutches from her grip and moved past her. On his way out of the room, he paused, turning off the closet light and closing the door so she could no longer see the evidence of what had been taken from him because of the choices he made.

  Chapter Six

  Sitting at the table with her was worse than he imagined. He shoveled his grilled cheese sandwich into his gullet, picked up the bowl of soup and drank it, not giving a fuck about manners. And as soon as he was done, he grabbed his crutches, rose from the chair, made his way over to the fridge and snagged a beer.

  “Need help?”

  “Been doing this myself a long
time, Ellie. I managed before you got here, will manage after you leave.”

  “But I’m here now, I can help.”

  Walker kept his eyes to the fridge as he squeezed them shut. They opened when he heard her get out of her chair and move in his direction. “I’m good,” he muttered. With his crutches and beer, he pushed past her and went to the French doors, opened one and went outside. Not to enjoy the late summer weather, but to escape her.

  Even so, he didn’t bother to close the door because he expected her to follow him. To hover.

  Once he settled in a chair and cracked open the bottle of lager, he was surprised she hadn’t.

  It had been a long fucking day. He didn’t think one beer was going to cut it. A fucking six-pack wasn’t going to cut it. However, there was no way in hell he was getting blitzed with Ellie in the house. His guard could go down and...

  Hell, things could become more fucked than they already were.

  Nope, best to keep sober. He was meeting Hunter at the warehouse early in the morning, anyway, so they could start what they were both good at. Hunting and tracking.

  They needed to find out who McMotherfucker owed money to. And why. Then decide where to go from there.

  They might even have to fly out to Denver and put boots on the ground. Do face to face visits with McMaster’s brokers, his banker and whoever else might have some clues.

  They’d figure that out tomorrow once they dug as deep as they could electronically.

  He lifted the bottle to his lips and let the cold beer slide down his throat and into his gut, which was still tense. The grilled cheese sitting in it like a brick didn’t help.

  He guzzled half of the bottle down and then looked at it.

  One definitively wouldn’t be enough.

  “Trace, we talked about starting a family soon.”

  “We can have a family.”

  “With me here and you there? That’s not us raising a family, that’s me raising a family. And what if you don’t come back just like—”

  He had cut her off not wanting to hear the rest of it. He understood her fear, but still... “Doing this to provide for us, sweetheart.”

  He finished off the beer in one swig.