by Juno Rushdan
Simon had smelled like oatmeal. It should’ve been the first indicator sex would be equally as horrid. His eel-tongued kisses should’ve been the second.
Gideon’s brows drew together. “You’ve only been with one guy?”
“Yes.”
Gideon pulled away, dropping his hands from her, but she wasn’t ready to let him go. When she moved forward, he stepped back toward the door.
“What’s wrong?”
A loud banging erupted from the top of the stairs. “Willow! No boys in your room!”
The one time she managed to get a guy she wanted in her room, her father was spoiling it.
“Willow! What are you two doing down there?”
Sighing, she adjusted her clothes. “Gideon wanted to see my room. We’ll be right up!”
“I bet he wanted to see your room. Get up here. Now!” Harsh knocking resounded.
Her father must be slamming his baseball bat on the floor.
“I’m twenty-five,” she said to Gideon. “You’d think he’d stop treating me like a child.”
“Why did you write Babel, my mission to get Daedalus?” His cold eyes shot to her book.
The warmth in him had evaporated, replaced with a lethal edge of menace. He’d reverted to the hard, killing machine who stalked the halls of the Gray Box. What happened?
“Nothing went wrong on that op,” he said. “I completed the mission.”
She smoothed her hair with a trembling hand. “You eliminated the target, Daedalus, which was your primary objective, but you failed to retrieve data he had on a jump drive.”
Rocking back on his heels, he crossed his arms, gaze pinned to the floor.
“You never completed your debriefing because…” His wife had been killed. The shock had thrown everyone off, and the detail had been overlooked by Daniel, the analyst assigned.
“Willow!” Hammering resonated through the wood floor above.
She wished she’d given her father the glass of whiskey.
07
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Thursday, July 4, 8:55 p.m. EDT
The Daedalus mission had fallen through the cracks.
Young operatives didn’t lose spouses to death. Divorce took them. Most black ops agents screwed up their marriages with secrecy, disappearing on missions for unspecified periods of time. It was tough on partners and incomprehensible to regular civilians such as in-laws.
The car accident, Kelli’s death, had shaken everyone. What no one else at the Gray Box knew was that his wife hadn’t been in the vehicle alone. The cop on-site had told Gideon the cause of the accident was a combination of rainy road conditions and distraction while driving.
At first, he hadn’t understood, but the cop painted the picture for him. His wife in the passenger’s seat, no seatbelt on. Male driver, also deceased, with his privates exposed.
Gideon had later stumbled on the divorce papers inside her Jeep’s glove box and had paid her best friend a visit, demanding the truth. The affair had gone on for two years.
The guy had also been married with kids but had decided to leave his wife for Kelli.
Gideon had just gotten back from the Daedalus mission and hadn’t seen her in weeks. When he suggested that they both take time off to spend together, she’d shot him down with excuses. One of many was that her Jeep needed an oil change and tune-up, and she insisted he handle it and had taken his truck.
After learning Kelli had died while giving her lover a blow job, he hadn’t bothered reading the police report. Maybe it was time he did.
“Willow! Come upstairs!” Her father banged something hard on the floor.
She hung her head and wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself. Gideon ached to finish what he’d started but stuffed his hands in his pockets, retreating to the doorway.
The usual disconnect wasn’t there. When he looked at her, he didn’t see a target or a mission. Only an exquisite woman, tender and sweet, ready to open herself. She was giving him the precious gift of her trust—a miracle and a mistake inextricably tangled.
He was a bad man, who did bad things for a living.
Screwing to get off was easy, but he wouldn’t screw over Willow. He was capable of gruesome, cold-blooded stuff, but there was a line he wouldn’t cross. Not with her. He respected her too much. Where in the hell had his sudden pang of conscience come from?
Tomorrow, he’d swap targets with Maddox and contend with Ares.
“We should go upstairs,” Willow said, not looking at him.
“I’m sorry.” He wanted to say more but lacked the right words. “Your father sounds anxious.” Gideon understood and wouldn’t want his daughter in a basement with a guy like him either. Stepping out of the bedroom, he extended an arm for her to walk ahead, and she did.
At the top of the landing, her dad had a baseball bat on his lap. “No boys in your room.”
Willow hurried up the stairs, her movement graceful, not making a sound. She slid around her dad and wheeled his chair down the hall.
Gideon came up behind them, hovering between the kitchen and living room, while she settled her father in front of a dining tray, facing a forty-inch television.
“There are rules for a reason. You’ll respect them,” her dad said. “No boys downstairs.”
“Gideon isn’t a boy.” She handed him a fork, her face flushed and lips a deep pink from kissing. “He’s a coworker, Dad.”
“Bullshit. If that boy can whip out nerd code, I can shit gold.” Her father took the fork.
“I’m not an analyst, sir. I manage problems of a physical nature.”
“Physical, huh?” Her father eyed him hard. “Any good at it?”
“He has thirteen commendations,” Willow said.
Gideon schooled his features, not letting his unease show. Thirteen included his time at the CIA. Was his entire personnel file logged in her head? He hoped she didn’t try to hack into the sealed parts, if she hadn’t already. The idea of her reading the redacted sections made him squirm on the inside. Willow caught him staring at her.
“I’m not a stalker,” she said. “I remember facts, figures, dates.”
Her dad nodded. “Do yourself a favor and stay away from this one. Everything gets locked up in that steel trap upstairs. It’ll come back to bite your ass in the middle of the night. Her mother had the same thing, woke me up at all hours. Steel trap.” He stuffed a forkful of food in his mouth and gagged. “Don’t misunderstand. You shouldn’t be sleeping with my daughter.”
Willow smoothed down her skirt. “Dad, stop. He isn’t interested in sleeping with me.”
Mr. Harper threw his fork on the plate. “I don’t want you sleeping with my daughter, but why aren’t you interested? Think you’re too good for her?”
“No, sir. She’s beautiful and brilliant and has a big heart. She’s too good for me.”
Willow’s wide eyes met his. The urge to touch her, to taste those lips again, rushed up like a riptide, but he eased himself toward the door.
“I like this kid. He’s got good answers.” Her dad smiled. “You drink whiskey?”
“Yes, sir, but not tonight.” Gideon put his hand on the doorknob, fighting the desire to stay. “I need to get going.”
“You’re welcome back to have a drink with me. The ole warden”—he hiked a thumb at Willow—“won’t deny me, if I have company.”
“Dad.” Willow waved a hand at him. “You’re giving him the wrong impression, making our home sound like jail.”
“Sorry.” The old guy cleared his throat. “Let me clarify. I hate ambiguity. Visiting hours here in the slammer are anytime you bring a bottle of whiskey.”
Gideon chuckled. “Willow, what time should I pick you up tomorrow?”
“No need. I can drive my dad’s van.” She lowered her head. Chocolate-
brown wisps of hair stroked her cheeks. He itched to sweep them from her face and smooth them into place.
“Nobody drives Betty but me.” Her father ate another painful bite of food.
“I’ve been leaving at five to work on the program.” Still, she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Gideon wanted to slug himself for messing with her emotions. The cause was just, the method proven to produce results, yet he felt lower than pond scum. And not the stuff that floated at the top but the sludge at the bottom.
He opened the door. “Can we make it eight?” The garage where her car had been taken opened at six. He wanted to be sure the inspection was thorough.
“Okay.” She finally looked up, her gaze crashing into his. The unguarded look on her face, the beautiful honesty in her expression, took hold of him like a prisoner.
His judgment was clouded, and his presence was only doing damage. He needed to get out of there, away from her. Gideon stepped across the threshold.
“Good night.” He closed the door, took long strides to his car, and peeled off.
Hurrying away after reeling her in rubbed him all kinds of wrong. Guilt and self-loathing knotted in his chest. Tomorrow, he’d talk to her and at the very least give a better apology.
He drove to the storage unit he’d opened while Kelli was alive and believed he still worked for the CIA, since the existence of the Gray Box was classified. Whenever he’d come home with injuries, she’d ask questions and search his things. His heavily filtered answers pushed their marriage from troubled to terminal—although the demise was probably inevitable the moment he’d agreed to marry Kelli. With her dogged determination, it was only a matter of time before she’d find his go bag hidden in the house, so he’d moved it to the storage unit.
Every operative had a go bag with international passports in different names and cash in a variety of currencies. Sometimes missions kicked off with no notice, and one had to be ready.
After Kelli’s death, he let her parents take what they wanted of hers, and Maddox had helped him sort through the rest of Kelli’s things. But he’d kept her Jeep exactly as she’d left it. Guilt plagued him for not giving her the life she’d expected. She never wanted to live in the Beltway with the oppressive traffic, hitched to a civil servant. Never even wanted the Jeep.
He parked in front of the climate-controlled storage facility. Musty air circulated inside the dim corridors. His unit sat at the intersection of two rows in the middle of the building, giving him two routes to access it.
Motion-activated lights flickered on as he passed. He punched in the code to the lock, opened his unit, and slid the metal door closed behind him.
He hadn’t been here in months. Since her death, each visit stung a little less. He rifled through reams of folders in boxes until he found the right one and fished out the police report.
Willow’s accident nagged at him. One way or another, he was going to get to the bottom of it. With the file in hand, he locked up and drove home.
Inside his townhouse, he pulled off his boots and grabbed a German beer from the wide assortment lined up in the fridge. Most nights since Kelli died, he needed an Ambien to sleep. One pill equaled three hours, four if he also knocked back a couple of beers.
His job never kept him up at night; compartmentalization was the key. But seeing how much Kelli had despised what he stood for, how far she’d gone to disrespect him, and knowing if he’d only let her go—or never married her—she’d still be alive…that denied him peace of mind.
Crossing into the living room, he eyed the metronome sitting dead center on the bookshelf. A memento of his past, keeping him rooted in purpose.
Taking a swig of ice-cold hefeweizen, he plopped on the sofa and opened the police file. No Ambien tonight. He needed to be up early, and before hitting the sack, he wanted to get through this and research the autism spectrum disorder to learn more.
Gritty details and graphic pictures in the file chipped away at old wounds, making his gut burn. Kelli and her lover’s blood alcohol count indicated they’d had drinks but weren’t inebriated. His truck’s antilock braking system light and brake warning lights had both engaged, but the vehicle had never been examined for a mechanical malfunction. At the time, the initial ugly facts had spelled out what’d happened, and he’d been shredded by the news. But if he’d scanned the report, maybe he would’ve had the vehicle inspected and discovered something far more nefarious. Now there was no way to know.
If someone had tampered with his vehicle after the Daedalus op, the same person might’ve sabotaged Willow’s.
He was overlooking a vital detail about that mission, something bigger than a flash drive he’d failed to recover. Once he figured out what it was, things might make more sense.
08
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 7:55 a.m. EDT
Willow sat on the front stoop, waiting for Gideon, too restless to enjoy the tepid breeze. Anxiety ticked through her over the hours wasted when she should’ve been working.
Gray Box field officers lazed in around nine and drifted out no later than three when not on an assignment. During missions, they worked as long and hard as necessary, sometimes around the clock. It was an unspoken rule that’d taken her a while to learn.
Understanding the rules, particularly social ones, and remembering them was a hundred times harder than learning how to write code. Ivy had assured her after high school, everything would get easier. But it’d only gotten more challenging.
By sixteen, she’d tested out of high school early, and at Princeton, it’d taken her two months to have a conversation that lasted longer than two minutes with her roommate, Hayley. She’d been nice, did most of the chatting, and Willow didn’t mind doing her math assignments. Hayley dragged her to parties, where the music had always been too loud and Willow lurked in the corner, examining gestures, dissecting what others talked about so she didn’t do or say the wrong thing. It had been exhausting.
The first time she’d pretended she was like the other girls at a frat party, Michael Dutton had noticed her. He’d lured her into a bedroom. She’d managed to get him off her, but he’d left bruises. The kind of bruises people saw on her body. The kind she carried deep inside years later.
She told her father everything over Christmas break. He thought it best if she transferred to Georgetown and lived at home. The suggestion had been a great relief.
Willow opened her eyes. The breeze brushed her skin, and she imagined it was Gideon touching her, making sensation flare. The kiss replayed on a loop, as it had the better part of the night. His hands spanning her hips, pressing her against the wall with his heavy, delicious weight. His mouth hot and sure on hers, the intimate tangle of their tongues…obscene and addictive and nothing eel-like about it. She’d remember it until the day she died.
But she’d done or said something wrong, missed some rule, a behavioral cue. If she fixed the problem, maybe he’d want to see her room again. Better yet, he might show her his place.
She fiddled with her fingers, longing to know what had thrown things off.
Gideon pulled up, and her heart fluttered. She stood, grabbing the chicken salad packed in her insulated bag and the Tupperware container of scones she’d baked earlier. Stomach tightening, she opened the door and hoisted herself into the Jeep, determined to get answers.
“Good morning.” Gideon extended a hand.
She put her palm on his, letting him help her inside. “Thank you. I appreciate the ride.” She shut the door, and he pulled off.
“I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
After he’d stirred so many different sensations in her, she hadn’t fallen asleep until two in the morning. Her eyes opened at four before her alarm went off, body vibrating with anticipation. She’d made her dad a huge breakfast, baked scones for Gideon, and waited.
“Two and a half h
ours.” Smiling, she wondered if she should ease into the discussion. Her sisters hated when she blurted stuff out, but she didn’t know how to talk around things.
“Coffee?” He handed her a paper cup with a plastic lid. “Splash of cream, two sugars.”
Taken aback, she accepted the cup. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
“I paid attention during our ops whenever you made a cup in the conference room.”
Warm flutters stroked her insides, like she’d swallowed a swarm of sun-soaked butterflies. “Gideon, I enjoyed the way you touched me in my room yesterday.”
His head snapped forward, his body stiffening ramrod straight.
“I’m sorry if I said or did something wrong,” she said.
His face was a blank slate as he sipped his coffee.
“I’d like to be friends.” She put her hand on his thigh, and his muscles tensed. “I want to have sex with you.”
Gideon choked, spewing coffee on the steering wheel as the car swerved. He went to set his cup in the beverage holder without looking and fumbled. Hot liquid splashed on the console.
“Shit.” The car swerved again.
She reeled her hand away from his thigh and back into her lap.
“It’s not a good idea for us to be friends. I crossed the line yesterday. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. I’m sorry.”
“Why? I enjoyed it. I thought you did too.” There was no mistaking he’d been aroused.
“It’s not you, Willow. It’s me. I’m not the right type of guy for you.”
A weight settled in her chest along with the true meaning of his words. She wasn’t the right type of girl for him. He could have anyone. A gorgeous woman with beauty queen potential who’d mastered the sexual techniques those magazines outlined.
Willow was simple, nothing fancy, nothing stunning. She struggled through briefings, with her stomach twisting into knots. What would she be like on a date?