Out on a Limb

by Lauren Giordano

  Patrice sighed dramatically. "What we need is to accept the buyout offer—before Omni learns of our problems and changes their mind. Based on the disastrous rollout, I'm surprised they're still interested in us."

  Us. As though Patrice were one of them. It wasn't how Travis viewed her. All the exhausted evenings he'd come home to her—needing to collapse, but pushed relentlessly . . . by his own work ethic and her constant, sniping criticism. "I've never heard Travis mention anything about selling."

  The older woman stiffened beside her. "Well, you haven't been around very long, have you?" The barbed words, wrapped in an insincere smile, hit their mark. "Travis runs through women like they're condoms. Used briefly, then discarded."

  Her breath leaving her, MaryJo was momentarily struck speechless. That moment, Travis happened to glance her way. Noticing Patrice there with her, he made a comment to Moe and headed toward them. She hoped he couldn't read the stricken expression she knew was likely reflected in her eyes.

  "I understand you work in banking?" Patrice's voice held no indication she'd just been uncommonly vicious. "And you do some hacking on the side?"

  MaryJo nodded, suddenly numb as all her nagging doubts began flooding back.

  "Interesting sidelight. Do you do that for purposes of good or evil?"

  "Ethical hacking," she managed to respond. "I help companies close gaps before there’s a breach." Surprised that Travis would have mentioned her work to Patrice, she suddenly wished he could get there faster. Patrice was not merely unpleasant. There was an unmistakable vibe about her. One of malevolence. She liked control. Power . . . but it was the sick pleasure she gained from cutting people down that had chills chasing over her skin.

  As Travis approached, she sensed Patrice edging away from her. "Well, do have a good time tonight, Mary. I have to continue mingling."

  ONE LOOK AT MARYJO's expression had Travis swearing under his breath. Her luminous eyes appeared ready to fill with tears. "What did she say to you?"

  Visibly shaking off her distress, her smile was forced. "Nothing. She—didn't say anything important."

  Pulling her in for a quick hug, he tried to undo God-only-knew what damage Patrice had inflicted. "She's a bitch, MaryJo. Now, you know how I feel . . . having to work with her every day."

  A hint of sparkle returned to her eyes. "I completely get it now. You have my blessing if you need to throw something when you get home from work."

  Relieved that she seemed to be bouncing back, he squeezed her fingers. The party had been a success. Everyone was having a great time. In a few minutes, he would announce to the room that no one would be allowed to work this weekend—because he was sending them home with spa treatments and hoops tournament tickets. Patrice could choke on the news. His teams would return Monday—renewed, refreshed and ready to attack the frustrating problems that had dogged them for four, eternal months. They would meet their deadline. Then it would be time for bonuses and new challenges.

  "Give me another half hour," he urged. "Then we can go home." Home. Travis startled at the realization. Her place had started feeling like home to him. The comfortable, familiar place they would soon return to, together. Where they would make love all night—or until he collapsed from exhaustion.

  "I didn’t realize you’d told her about me."

  Glancing at MaryJo, his mind was still envisioning what he planned to do with her when they got home. Maybe even before they got home. "Huh? Told her what?"

  "Are you thinking of selling Tiberius?"

  He stilled. Damned Patrice. She couldn't take no for an answer. "I'm absolutely not thinking of selling. You got that from her, right?"

  MaryJo nodded. "I figured she must be wrong. She said she's surprised Omni is still interested, since the rollout is such a disaster." She clutched his arm, her eyes suddenly worried. "Those were her words—not mine."

  He smiled, absorbing the pleasant sensation of MaryJo—having his back. Of realizing she cared about his feelings. "I know, babe—she says them to my face."

  "Travis—look at that." She tugged him closer.

  "That's Chuck. You met him earlier, remember?"

  "I know it's Chuck," she reminded patiently. "You never mentioned he's sleeping with Patrice."

  "What?" He stumbled against her. What the hell? He did a double-take. "You're mistaken. Chuck's happily married to Gracie. They met in college. We all hung out together." He frowned. "She couldn't come tonight because . . ." Something. He scrolled his memory, trying to recall his friend’s offhand excuse.

  "He may be married, but—not happily." Her husky voice lowered. "Because he's doing Patrice Reynolds. Look at them," she pointed out.

  Turning, Travis attempted a subtle surveillance. They weren't standing close together. "I don't see it, Mariela. They've got like—four people in between them."

  She rolled her eyes, making him smile. He never had to wonder where he stood with her. "Hell, I can feel the vibe from here. There—she just signaled him." Her hand clutching his arm, she raised her gaze to his. "I'll bet you five bucks, she's gonna one-off him in a janitor's closet."

  He cracked up. "That sounds sort of fun."

  Her gaze still trained on Chuck, she smiled. "We'll have to put it on our list."

  When her eyebrow rose suggestively, Travis' pants began to tighten. Jesus—what was it about her? All it took was a glance. A suggestion. A smile—and he had trouble thinking about anything other than getting her naked.

  "The difference is, she's going to do it while everyone's still here." Her gaze drifted to Patrice. "She's an exhibitionist."

  "You got all that from talking with her five minutes?" Unaware of him watching her, MaryJo absently chewed her lower lip, her gaze locked on Patrice. Already hard with wanting her, Travis had trouble maintaining focus on their conversation.

  "Look at his body language." Several seconds later, she sighed. "He's been cheating for a while, I'm afraid."

  Unable to put a finger on why—Travis suddenly sensed she was right. A million little tells—and he hadn't put two and two together. In three hours, MaryJo had caught what he'd managed to miss in his best friend's marriage. Chuck's general moodiness lately. His over the top—even for him—interest in Travis' sex life. He frowned as he remembered Chuck's changing comments about Grace—fewer funny stories about being married and more mean-spirited put-downs. With her unable to defend herself. "God, I hope you're wrong."

  "Maybe-"

  Unable to maintain eye contact, she glanced away. Another tell. One he would never miss. Because MaryJo was honest to a fault. "Hell—you're not wrong, are you?"

  "I'm sorry, Travis."

  A weight of sadness settled over him. Though he’d never believed in love—the foolish notion that something so nebulous could truly last—or for someone like him, it could exist in the first place—Travis hadn't wanted to be proven right. Grace’s shy smile floated before his eyes. Did she know? Troubled, he lifted MaryJo’s fingers to his lips, suddenly needing the reassurance of her skin against his. "Let's wrap this up, babe. I want to go home."

  Chapter 13

  Five nights later, Travis' mind wasn't on the game flickering on the big screen in the lounge at the firehouse. Insulting banter had given way to a raucous, good-natured argument over which team would come back stronger after the half. His brain wasn't working feverishly on his software release . . . now less than five weeks away. Crowding in on his restless thoughts, the Thursday night game served as a distraction as they lounged around, waiting for a call.

  The night was cold and clear, the temperature dropping after a daytime high that had flirted with the forties. Perfect conditions for black ice. There was no doubt in anyone's mind they would be busy with vehicle spin-outs in the coming hours. In the meantime, they filled their plates with beef stew and argued over the Celtics game. Smiling as an insult was hurled his way, Travis forced his mind to shut down the unruly thoughts careening through him like wall-storming Huns. "Not my teams, guys. I don't ca
re either way."

  He'd spent the previous weekend with MaryJo. The whole weekend. Something he'd never done before. Something that would have been—so unbelievably out of the damned question only a few months earlier. Hell—before MaryJo, he'd rarely spent the night. His internal clock never failed him, waking him well before dawn, so he could slink away from yet another slumbering partner. Whatever her name was. It was easier that way. Mostly for him. But, it served the dual purpose of reminding women of the rules. Don't make plans. If she didn't like his rules, then the hot woman two seats down at the bar would do just fine.

  MaryJo was destroying fifteen years of discipline. His hard and fast rules were disappearing. His don't-stay-the-night rule had been blown to hell the first time he'd slept with her. Basketball Saturday. When they'd spent the entire day in bed. He'd stayed over that night because . . . Hell—because he'd wanted to. After months without sex—and five weeks of deliberately holding out for it, they'd had a lot of catching up to do.

  But the past weekend, Travis had clearly lost control of the situation. Though his party had been a success, he'd been deflated to learn about Chuck and Gracie. He'd needed MaryJo that night. Her enthusiasm over the party, her insightful interpretations of his staff, her calm, unwavering faith that everything would work out the way it was meant to. He'd wanted to stay that night, he admitted. He'd needed the familiarity of waking next to her Saturday morning, of her reassuring weight in his arms, the warm length of her next to him. But then—he'd stalled. Knowing he should leave . . . but never doing it. After repeated excuses, he'd stayed at MaryJo's place for the whole damned start-to-finish weekend.

  With a flash of annoyance, Travis swiped a suddenly clammy hand on his jeans. They'd spent much of it lying in bed, her head often nestled against his chest. They'd spent it in her shower, driving each other crazy with satisfaction, his soapy hands sliding over her curves with heart-stopping precision . . . and an increasingly uncomfortable sense of familiarity. They'd spent it watching basketball, eating a pizza on the floor of her living room . . . after he built a crackling fire. Jack on one side. MaryJo on the other. They'd spent it cooking—enjoying her lighthearted lessons, teaching him each little step the recipe required. They'd spent it exhausting half a month's supply of condoms—in nearly every room of her house.

  He would likely be embarrassed if he calculated the number of hours he'd watched MaryJo sleep, while he'd stroked the long, silky, amazingly soft hair draped over him. She was a talker—or she wanted to be. Half asleep, vulnerable, her dreamy eyes drooping as she fought the blanket of drowsiness drifting over her, she'd whisper little secrets. Stories. Confessions. Worries. Completely open to him. Trusting him. That he would protect her confidences . . . as she would guard his. If he could ever steel himself to tell her any of them.

  When sleep overtook her, she would slip into it like a light winking out. As it eluded him, he'd spent his time counting freckles. Listening to soft sighs. Touching her. When he'd finally slept, it was the heavy, dreamless, refreshing sleep that evaded him most nights. Like—a normal person. Awakening several times to beautiful, chocolate eyes observing him. Eyes brimming with sensual heat. Or a spark of amusement as they argued over sports. Mostly, her eyes reflected a glowing happiness. As though each time she awoke, she was pleasantly surprised to still find him there.

  Her beautiful, drowsy smile was now seared in his memory, like a tattoo acquired after a night of heavy partying. Something he never would have spent a moment thinking about. Something he'd never wanted, but was now saddled with—forever. Admitting that fact caused his heartbeat to accelerate.

  Sunday night, he'd finally snapped back to his usual self. Though MaryJo hadn't been informed of the rules ahead of time, Travis had invoked them, almost as an emergency measure. More proof that he'd left himself dangerously exposed. Everything was moving too fast. If he were honest, he suspected she'd known the score when he left Sunday night. His awkward excuses at the door. . .

  Shaking off the sharp pang of guilt—and something uncomfortably like regret, Travis steeled himself. What he needed was to get his head out of his ass and refocus on work. On his life—the tried and true one he was familiar with. He'd begun the painful process of forgetting her. The husky laugh and those knowing eyes. But, he couldn't seem to forget the haunting flash of hurt before MaryJo's expression went carefully neutral—as though she'd read his jumbled thoughts—and found them sorely lacking. He hadn't spoken with her since.

  The loudspeaker broke into increasingly grim thoughts, announcing the call for Unit Two. "Finally," he muttered, rising from the armchair, welcoming the distraction an emergency call would bring.

  THE ICY WIND HIT HIM, awakening senses that had been dulled by the warmth of the station. His breath huffing out in snowy puffs, Travis turned up the collar on his jacket as he scrambled once again into the rig. By the time the ambulance's interior finally warmed up, they'd likely be arriving at their destination.

  "Another Code Three," his partner Rick acknowledged, his voice elevated over the siren. Single vehicle MVA, female, late-twenties, severe trauma. Loss of consciousness. Cops were already on scene. With vehicle accident volume spiking, they'd been running hot all night, responding to calls from sister stations. This run, Travis found himself all the way back on his side of town, the streets familiar, despite the shrouding darkness. It would be his sixth car wreck of the evening—mostly fender benders that left the driver rattled, but largely uninjured. This would be their second Code Three. And the night was still relatively young.

  After his brother's accident, Travis had made the year-long course of study a priority. For that year, even Tiberius had taken a backseat to his acquiring an EMT certification. With Curtis' yearlong recovery and the three year sentence for the accident he'd caused, Travis had needed to focus his anguish—and his resources into something worthwhile. Something he could do that might make a difference. Something that could possibly assuage his guilt—over dropping the ball with Curt.

  "Looks like two vics." Travis noticed the guy immediately. Standing in the warm zone with a cop who was preventing him from getting any closer. Rick frowned as they were waved off the road, parking behind the flashing strobes of the police unit already on site.

  "They only called in one." He reported back in to dispatch. Like every call, Travis slipped mentally into auto-pilot as he jumped from the rig, assisting Rick with all the equipment they would need. Clinical. Detached. Emotions not required. The vehicle had spun out on black ice, skidding off the road into a gully before flipping—possibly twice. "To end up over there, they were goin' way too fast for conditions," Rick muttered as they hauled equipment, dragging the backboard behind them.

  At night, every crash scene looked surreal—like a cop show on television. After several shifts, Travis always had trouble remembering specific details from different scenes. Because they were all messy. There was always carnage. Smoke curling into the night from twisted steel. Broken glass, unconscious or barely conscious victims. The sharp, metallic scent of blood, sometimes mingled with gasoline, hanging in the night air. Typically, on shifts later in the week—like this one—there was usually the stench of alcohol.

  Briefed by the officer as to severity, they bypassed vic one- male, thirtyish, standing, pacing, semi-coherent and bleeding from a surface head wound. Rick had called for another rig. Vic One's problems could wait for the next crew. "Driver's down there," the officer directed. Waved closer to the overturned vehicle by fire department personnel, they hustled to where the more seriously injured female lay.

  The scene was garishly lit with the over-bright, artificial light needed to find and extricate victims. In this case, no extrication required. Travis' brain snapped pictures as he approached. The female had been flung from the rolling vehicle, landing approximately fifteen feet away, but not before being tossed like a rag doll into the windshield and God only knew what else. Drivers might lie about their actions and accountability, but their damaged, smolderin
g vehicles always revealed the truth.

  "She's already coded once," the fire department paramedic informed them. "Her vital signs take a hit every time we try to move her." It was Rick's turn to take lead on this case, so Travis readied the backboard as his partner conducted the assessment. Only as he turned back, did he finally take a good look at their victim. She had long hair. His heart went into overdrive. Straight. Dark. Matted down with blood, shards of glass sparking against her skin like a million, tiny diamonds in the overly bright light. Terror jagging down his spine, Travis staggered. She looked like-

  "No." A single tortured syllable was all he could manage as he dropped to his knees beside her.

  "Trav, you okay?" His partner glanced at him, concern in his gaze as he tried to multi-task on their patient.

  Travis shook it off, his panic mounting, despite his brain beginning to cognitively recognize the victim wasn't MaryJo Mullaney. She was shorter. By several inches. Catching her hand in his, he acknowledged fingers that didn't fit his. Her eyes—pupils dilated; non-responsive. Eye color hazel, his brain shouted, in a desperate bid to re-engage. Not brown. Not sparking with laughter.

  "Let's go," he managed to rasp. He wanted to drag in great, shuddering breaths of relief. He wanted to cradle his head in his hands and thank God. His stomach roiled with the need to empty the contents—so great had his fear been. It had only been a moment. A frozen, terrifying nano-second. Before recognition kicked in. Before he'd begun shaking with relief. Because it wasn't her. The woman lying in the grass—slipping away before his eyes. Her battered face was not the one he'd grown to—love. Hell . . . love. He—loved her. It wasn't Mariela dying that frigid night next to a smoldering vehicle.

  But, she was someone. She was loved by someone. She was important. Cared for. Tonight, someone would experience the same gut-wrenching agony he'd just lived—for the woman he loved. Someone would miss her deeply if she didn't make it- Flipping the switch, his mask slipped back in place as he went to work, his concentration fully focused on stabilizing her for the trip to the hospital.