Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  “Roc, if you breathe a word about this to Roman, I’ll—”

  A cell phone rang. He checked his. Nope. Rocco was still on the line. Another ring. Cash looked toward the noise. Down on the floorboard, Nicola’s cell lay face down. He tried to grab it and watch the road.

  “Gotta go,” Cash said.

  “You’re welcome, dick.”

  Click. End call. He pulled hard into a parking lot and clipped the corner curb. The cell continued to ring. He grabbed it and looked at the caller ID. Unknown Number. Of course. She needed this before leaving with the butler. She’d probably get a burner phone for the trip, but she probably needed this phone too. And if he brought it back to her, he could mention the whole one deadbolt didn’t do shit thing.

  Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he decided to return the phone. Cash squealed tires and gunned it back to Nic’s apartment. It wasn’t like he could call her to say, “hey, I found your phone.” He wanted to look into her eyes and try to see into her brain. Check out that whole love-like conundrum.

  What would it even mean if she did love him? His stomach flipped into his throat. His mouth felt dry and watery all at the same time, and that fucking smile tugging at his cheeks was enough to give him a headache. His head pounded like a freight train burning coal.

  Like. Love. He felt like a lunatic.

  What if he went down that road? It was all good and fine to grab her and say mine. And he’d loved her once.

  Could he…

  Or rather was he…

  In a blink, Cash was in front of her apartment and uninterested in finding a parking spot. He parked in the fire lane, holding her phone in his hand like it was the only damn reason he’d flown back to her place. His lungs pumped in his chest, and his blood raced. Such a familiar feeling. Like high school, driving to her place before Homecoming or before their pool party for two.

  He rapped on the door, his gut full of butterflies on crack, whirling in a tornado. Why? What was he even going to—?

  A man in a towel opened the door. Wet hair. Damp chest. About to die.

  “Who the fuck are you?” The bellowed question came from the bottom of his boots and burst from his mouth, as Cash stepped through the door. He heard a shower running.

  “Hey! What the hell?”

  Cash clearly had the advantage. Dude looked GQ, even in his towel. He’d kill the bastard. “Where’s Nic?”

  “The goddamn shower. Who the fuck are—”

  Bam. Cash cold-clocked the fucker and sent him flying across the living room and into a side table. It crashed over. A lamp and picture frames shattered on the tile floor.

  Nicola rounded the corner in a towel, soap suds dripping from her hair and a gun in her wet hand. He marched toward the .357 pistol, daring her to put that dual action recoil to good use.

  “Goddamn it, Cash!”

  “Goddamn me? Goddamn me!”

  Nicola slid back the cover plate, ejecting the loaded round. “You have to go.” The man was still out, and she stepped to him. “Get out!”

  Everywhere he looked, Cash saw red. No. Actually, he saw exactly how he pictured Nic decorating her place. Muted colors. Things all matchy-matchy. It made him sick. The knocked out asswipe on the floor made him sicker. “Explain him. Now.”

  “To the raving lunatic knocking out people in their own home?”

  It was his home?

  But it was her home.

  This was their home.

  The bile in his stomach churned. A spot behind his eye throbbed. Both reactions were much better than grabbing the dude in the towel and draining the life out of his limp-assed body.

  “You forgot your phone.” Cash threw it against the wall. It shattered. Stepping over the man, he slammed the door on the way out. Screw her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nicola grabbed a napkin and mopped the soap from her eyes. Garnier Fructis shampoo might actually have a splash of citrus. Her right eye stung like it was drenched in fresh-squeezed lemon, and she blinked rapidly. What the hell just happened? This was a nightmare situation, Jackson wearing a towel, just out of the shower. Her in the same getup. This was beyond bad, in a lose Cash kind of way.

  Her roommate was still out cold. Shit. She shook his shoulder. Nothing. Grabbing the throw off the couch, she draped it over his damp, cold skin.

  “Wake up!” A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. Nicola shook him again. “Come on, Jackson. Wake up. Now!”

  First aid kit.

  She ran to the kitchen and trashed the cabinet under the sink. Nothing. Where would it be stashed? It’d help if she was here more often. Nic slammed through all the cabinets. Nothing again, and the whap, whap of the doors opening and closing didn’t cause Jackson to stir.

  Linen closet. Nic ran around the corner and threw the door open. Towels hit the floor. A storm of wash cloths followed.

  First aid kit! She found the blue box with the red cross and ripped it open. Band-Aids flew everywhere. The CIA would be very disappointed in her chaotic response right now.

  Yes! Smelling salts.

  She booked it back to Jackson, grabbed a pillow to stuff under his head, and cracked open the tube under his nose. His nose twitched. Once. Twice. Eyes flew open. His head tossed to the side, and he groaned, repulsed. His eyes were all kinds of confused.

  “Jackson? Jacks? Are you okay?”

  His hands went to his temples and then his mouth. The blood was still fresh. His memory seemed to kick start as his eyes went wide. Oh, his metrosexual side would be pissed when he saw the bruise.

  Fumbling for words, he sputtered something about her being okay. Damn men. He was knocked out one second, then asking if she was okay the second he regained consciousness. Hello, I’m the deadly one who lives here.

  He tried to sit up too fast and caught himself. Cash would be a dead man when she got her hands around his neck. Dead. She continued to pet Jackson like it would soothe away her guilt. “Jacks, I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

  It took him a second to focus. Jackson sat up, taking in the towel and blanket, then rolled his eyes. “Sexy, right? I’m the man of your dreams.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be all right.” He brushed her hand from his hair, righting himself against the couch. “I’m good. I’m pissed. But, yes, I’m all right.” Jackson eyed her. “You have soap bubbles drying on your forehead.”

  “And we have to buy a new lamp.”

  He looked at the glass shards and busted accessories. “Fuck me.”

  “No kidding, right? I’m going to kill him.”

  “That’s Cash?”

  She nodded.

  “Think you could’ve mentioned me?” Jackson asked.

  “It seemed complicated at the time.”

  “A sucker punch to the dome uncomplicates shit fast. He’s going to be tough to partner with if you don’t. Or maybe that was your angle all along.” He laughed. “Or maybe, subconsciously, you just don’t want to let go of me.”

  “No. I just… didn’t find the right moment.” And she barely lived there. Why bring up her ex as a roommate?

  Jackson rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “You seriously okay? ’Cause I need to get back into the shower.”

  “Call your boy.” Her phone was in pieces on the floor, and he caught sight of it when he cracked his neck. “Temper, temper. You love the macho type, don’t you?”

  “Are you jealous, Jacks?”

  “Want me to be?” A sad smile flashed across his face. If she didn’t know better, she’d feel bad.

  “Nope.” Jacks was such a good guy. Maybe unsure of his platonic place in their friendly relationship, but he epitomized a comfortable closeness.

  “Too bad for me then.” He took a deep breath. “Then, no, I’m not jealous.”

  Nicola leaned over and kissed his forehead. “You’re a catch, Jacks.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Catch and release.”

  “That was jealousy. I heard it.”
She tried to fuss over him. Maybe he needed an ice pack.

  “Nope. Sorry, babe. That’s the chemicals in your shampoo making you hallucinate.”

  Nic walked to the kitchen, stepping over all the Tupperware and napkins she’d thrown in her search-and-find mission. She fashioned an ice pack and brought it back to Jacks, who sprawled on the couch, leaning his head back. The view would be enough to make some women swoon.

  She handed him the ice pack, apologized again, and jumped back into the shower. Jackson was a male model lookalike with a pretty boy smile that made all the girls at the FBI giggle, blush, and forget about the agent badges clipped to their hips. They were all skip-down-the-hall happy if he threw them a smile. They also got all knock-a-bitch-out when she visited him at work.

  Drama, drama. Nicola hated drama but felt like she was drowning in overprotective men. She re-washed her hair and considered how the conversation with Cash would go. If she could get a hold of him. Nothing pleasant would come of that discussion.

  Toweling off, Nic found her burner phone and buzzed Beth. She needed to clear her head before going wheels up with the butler.

  “Yes?” Beth answered after a short ring. Her voice was hesitant. Of course she’d be concerned the call wasn’t from Nic’s personal cell.

  “Cash and Jacks just met.”

  “Oh, bet that was fun.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Well, how bad did it go?”

  “Um, I forgot to mention Jackson to Cash. I’m pretty sure Cash thought Jacks and I were, um, showering together.”

  “What I wouldn’t do to shower with that man. I bet he’s totally hung. Is he hung? He’s totally—”

  “Focus, Beth.”

  “Fine. Focused.”

  “Cash knocked him out.”

  “Oh my God! Well, you know Jacks wouldn’t put up a fight with those precious bomb tech hands. It’s like he’s a freaking brain surgeon or something.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking it went something like, “hi,” punch.”

  “You have to talk to Cash. Explain everything.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I could walk away and survive without him.”

  “What!” Beth yelled into the phone.

  “I did it once, though it about killed me.” And now, could she do it again? No. She couldn’t…

  “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “I’m better alone. Bad things happen when I’m involved with others.”

  “Nic, you can’t blame Cash. He shouldn’t have knocked Jacks out, but shit. You didn’t tell him. He had no idea. Guys like that, they go all ape shit whenever they think some man checks out their girls. Jackson’s lucky to be alive.”

  “First, I’m not his girl. I’m a girl he has an attachment to, and the sex happens to be… volcanic. He feels protective and possessive. Give it a few weeks, and I’d bet he wants to get back to his bangin’ ways. Until then, there’s carnage. First, Roman was hurt. Now, Jackson.”

  “You need to call him.”

  “That’s what Jackson said too.”

  “But you called me instead.”

  “Yup.” Nic nodded into the phone. Such a bad habit.

  “Call him and say, ‘Cash Garrison, this is Nicola Garrison, and I love you.’”

  “What! I don’t love him.” She scoffed and scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  Beth laughed into her ear. “Yeah. And I’m not on a Mojave dry spell right now, wondering if your ex is hung.”

  “You can have him.”

  “Eh, you know who I wouldn’t mind? Roman. I met him when you and Cash brought in David. Nothing to complain about in the looks department.”

  “Ew, he’s my brother. Besides, he’s as bad as Cash. They’re all assholes.”

  “Someone’s beeping in. Call Cash, and check in later with David and Cash updates. Bye.”

  Nicola finished packing and grabbed her burner phone again. Time to call Cash. Hmm, if only I knew his phone number. She went back to the hall and picked up the pieces of her cell to see if it would turn on enough for an address book search.

  Nope.

  She sent Beth a text, asking her to track down Cash’s number. Beth was good. The best damn handler she could’ve wanted. Until the number appeared in her phone, she was content to sit on the bed and watch for it.

  ***

  Cash banged on the door. The wrought-iron security door rattled. It was after hours, but that '69 Mustang Boss 429 sat in its spot. The hood was still warm, so wherever she’d gone, she was back.

  “Open up,” he yelled at the security camera.

  Click. The door unlocked, and he pulled at it before the last deadbolt disengaged. Finally, he was in the dark room and heading down the hall. Sugar’s steps came from her office.

  “What the hell, Cash?”

  He stormed toward the indoor range and didn’t wait for her to catch up. “Load me up. Now. High powered anything.”

  “Cash—”

  He slammed to a stop and spun around. “I’ve never asked for anything, but I am now. Right now. I want a gun and ammo.”

  She stared at him for a second and turned around. He continued toward his destination, picked a firing stall in the middle, and propped his elbows on the wall. Fuck me, my head hurts. He tucked his head into the nook of one elbow and pinched his eyes shut, hiding his face from the whole damn world.

  He heard Sugar’s heels before she spoke. “What crawled up your ass?”

  Where to fucking begin? And why would he confide in Sugar? “Nothing.”

  He peeked at the weapon. That he could deal with. She placed the Colt Competition rifle and high capacity magazines in front of him. Cash straightened from his woe-is-me position. Making quick work of it, he loaded the lightweight long gun but didn’t move to the wall. Neither of them donned their ear guards. He just stood there, big-assed gun in hand and big-assed problems on his mind.

  Sugar spoke softly. “She seems like a good woman. Certainly has a set.”

  “Seems. Perfect description. She seems like a decent person.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Are your feelings hurt over a chick?”

  “Back off, Sugar. Not in the mood to talk about it.”

  “Well, shoot or talk. One or the other, buddy. Otherwise, you’re going to accidently lose it and punch someone just because. I’d like it to not be me.”

  “Too late, and no accident about it.”

  Minutes ticked by in the dark. The illuminated target provided the only light. Taking the line, Cash threw on his ear guards, clicked the safety to rock ‘n’ roll, and let it fly. The kickback felt good. The power and fury released by the trigger press helped. Some. Not a lot, but no other solutions popped into his head. He released the empty magazine and backed out, pulling off his ear guards and placing the rifle on a nearby stand.

  “There’s someone else.” It was all he could say, all he would admit. Sugar laughed. Screw her. Screw them all. “What’s so damn funny? You think this is karma or something?”

  “Hell, no. But I think you’re wrong.”

  “Trust me. I’m not.”

  “She told you that?” Sugar shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. Twenty-twenty, perfect freakin’ vision.”

  Sugar laughed again. “You only know what you think you saw. Just like what she saw with me and you.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why? Because we’ve screwed?”

  He shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  “Big fucking deal, Cash. So the woman’s had sex. Unless you walked in and—”

  “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this shit.”

  “Bang out another mag. You’ll feel better.”

  He slammed in the fresh magazine and turned down range. Before the safety flip, he called to Sugar as her heels clacked away.

  She popped her head back into his stall. “Yeah?”
/>   “Why don’t you ever have someone serious? You and me. You and whoever. It’s never serious and steady.”

  “Cause it’s more fun that way.”

  “Truth. Why not?”

  “Cause it’d take some asshole with big boots and a big cock to tie me down.” She winked at him. “You’re lacking the attitude problem, as is every other man out there. So, I do my thing and don’t lose a wink of sleep at night. It was fun, Cash, and I suspect we won’t happen ever again. At least I’m hoping not, cause I kinda like that Garrison girl.”

  His gut twisted. I kinda liked her too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The hangar and private jet looked the big money part. Nicola shifted in her Ferragamo heels, ready to get this trip over and into the done column.

  The catering company loaded the last cart broadside, and Nicola figured the trip had another upside. Playing the part of a well-to-do socialite also meant an onboard chef ready to make some five-star dinner as they flew overseas. Lobster. This trip called for some serious lobster and something with truffles in it.

  After the Town Car dropped her off, Nicola had breezed through the private check-in for charter flights out of Dulles International. The TSA woman had been far more intrigued with Nic’s new Tom Ford sunglasses than her almost-the-real-deal credentials. She’d have to thank Beth for airbrushing the headshot. Her skin looked flawless, and there was no way someone would call her passport and license fake. They were as genuine as you could get, considering they were made by the U.S. government.

  Her cover name for the trip was Sarah Beth Pennington. Pretty, with an old money flair. Not too memorable, but specific enough to provide support for another CIA undercover team who needed an additional layer of back story. Plus, she could keep this round of designer duds. That included this very cute, very out of her price range, Jil Sander shirt dress that she now rocked. It fitted and flared in all the right spots. Cash would’ve liked it. Too bad.

  It didn’t go unnoticed that a few items in her Louis Vuitton luggage didn’t fit and weren’t intended to. Beth hadn’t purchased Nicola’s long legs petite-sized pants for nothing. Nope. Beth was the petite one, and that was all right with Nic. She eyed her carry-on. The luggage was a loaner. It’d have to be returned. Eventually.