“Good job,” he said as she let him go.
“Let’s go again.”
“No. Right now, I just want you to practice the cross-chest carry. The trick here is to keep my head above water. As the victim, I must be able to continue a normal breathing cycle. Remember, whatever you do, don’t let me get a grip on you to pull you under.”
He lay on his back, and she swam up next to him, her body against his, and tucked her arm over his shoulder, grabbing under his arm.
He was Andre the Giant in her arm as she began to swim, pulling him along. How he wanted to help her, to keep his hips up, to add a kick to her efforts. “Try and keep me planed in the water. It’ll be a lot less work.”
She swam parallel to the shore, the waves splashing over his face as she skip-breathed, taking every other breath.
“Try a scissor kick.”
“Try and pretend you’re dead.”
“If I’m dead, it’s not a rescue.”
He hoped she was smiling. But she was getting it, his face not bobbing as much into the water, her arm fixed across his body. She towed him a hundred yards down the shoreline, maybe more before she let him go.
He sculled the water, watching her catch her breath. But she was grinning at him. “Thanks, Marsh.”
Teammates. Right. Maybe he should remind his heart, not to mention the rest of his body, because everything inside him wanted to offer to buddy tow her, maybe right back into his arms. I’m not that guy, Red.
He still wasn’t. “When’s your test?”
“A week from this Saturday, in the morning.”
He nodded. “You got this. They’ll hone your technique when you get into training.” He tried not to let the words tighten a noose around his chest. “I gotta get back to…uh…”
She splashed him. “Right. Thanks for your help.”
He wanted to ask her what she might be doing for dinner, or even how her mother was, but that would bring up everything they’d left behind in Montana. Where it should stay.
Except, he just couldn’t stop himself. “I’ll help you—we can meet in the mornings, and I’ll let you rescue me.”
So much surprise and hope filled her eyes he felt like a jerk for not believing in her.
“Thanks, Ford.”
He didn’t trust himself not to offer something else, like a ride home, dinner, his heart, so he splashed her back, winked, and swam to shore.
He picked up his shoes and shirt and walked over to a shower, cleaning off before he pulled his shoes on. Rinsed out his shirt and pulled that on too.
His gaze found her then, swimming freestyle in the ocean.
And for the first time, he really wanted her to make it.
Tate sat in the hotel sauna, silent, letting his thoughts stew.
A smart guy would know when to surrender. To slink out of town, the broken pieces of his stupid, impulsive heart in his hands, and not look back. Tate should hop on a plane and head down to San Antonio, where he’d left his truck after the impulsive decision to take on the gig as the Yankee Belles’ security.
That guy might have a chance of gluing his life, not to mention his sanity, back together instead of spending the past week ignoring the niggle in his gut that this wasn’t over.
Not him and Glo.
Not even the threats against Glo.
But apparently, Tate wasn’t smart, because all the evidence suggested otherwise. Here he was, hanging around in a town where everywhere he looked, Senator Reba Jackson’s face on billboards and yard signs reminded him of his mistakes.
It didn’t help that Glo had turned into the darling of CNN, appearing in the news almost constantly this week as she hit the campaign trail with her “bold and innovative” mother.
Reba’s changing of political parties was being heralded as the move to “unite all women.” Apparently with her moderate stance, she still appealed to her base and had gathered in the women of her new party.
Glo and Slick were definitely a team because Tate wasn’t unaware of his presence in the camera shots standing next to her, his hand always on her back. Or her shoulder.
Holding her hand in raised victory.
Like he belonged there.
As for security, Tate occasionally caught glimpses of Sly or Rags or even Swamp as they hustled Reba and her entourage into a nearby transport. However, since his outing of Reba’s lies, apparently everyone was breathing a sigh of relief.
Clearly, they were bypassing the lies part. But she was a politician—no doubt she’d slithered her way out of any culpability.
The sauna door opened, letting cool air from the hotel locker room in to the steam room. The newcomer sat on the lower bench and picked up a scoop of water. “Do you mind?”
Tate didn’t say anything, and the man poured the water over the hot rocks of the sauna stove. Steam rose, and the sweat on Tate’s skin boiled. He hung his head. His knee was starting to loosen up, along with the stiffness of his muscles after his run today. And last night, he’d gone to a local gym and warmed up a heavy bag, putting everything of the past three frustrating months into his punches.
A little of it was directed at the nightmares that left him knotted in his sheets at night. Jammas and sometimes Raquel and even the bombing in San Antonio. Never mind the daymares that he saw every day on the news.
He was sort of a glutton for punishment, maybe, because he even had a news alert on his phone with Glo’s name.
Yeah, he should get on the road. He wasn’t sure what he might be waiting for. Glo to run after him, tell him that she was wrong? That she loved him?
The worst part was—he got it. He wouldn’t choose him either. Not with her bright, shiny future ahead of her.
More than a few of his punches had Slick’s face on them.
Tate breathed out again, aware that his heart rate was rising, probably faster than it should.
Or maybe that was just him, reliving the moment when he decided to make Glo choose. You’re all things to all people. But who are you? And what do you want? Me? Your mother?
Yeah, that had been a brilliant moment of following his gut right into heartache.
He closed his eyes against the image of her shaking her head, her meaning rising to fill his chest with darkness.
No, I won’t go with you.
I won’t trust you.
If you love me, you’ll stay.
He shook his head. He did love her. And if he hadn’t let his pride get in the way, he might have been able to convince Reba to let him stay.
Maybe.
Probably not.
They were all right. He was impulsive, and probably it wouldn’t be long before he…well, before he got her hurt. Somehow.
He ran his hands through his sopping hair, ready to leave, when the door opened again. He looked up and drew in a breath at the man who met his eyes and settled in beside him.
Rags waited until the other man left before he spoke.
“Sly said you were here.”
Rags wore a towel tucked at his waist, and for the first time, Tate noticed a scar on the man’s upper body, near his shoulder. Rags might have seen his gaze slip over it because he pointed to it. “IED. Shrapnel. Kunar Province.”
Tate pointed to the scars on his knee. “Paktia. Ambush.”
“Can’t be worse than what went down at the Jackson place.”
Tate lifted a shoulder.
“For the record, I was rooting for you.”
He glanced at Rags. “Who are you—Friar John?”
Rags frowned.
“He’s the messenger sent to tell Romeo that Juliet is faking her death to be with him…never mind.”
“Wow, you got it bad. If you’re thinking of sucking down poison.”
“I’m fine.”
“And so is Glo, by the way.”
“Thanks. That’s just what I want to hear.”
“I just mean that she’s still alive. No danger. I’m not sure she’s…well, she seems to have thrown herself int
o her mother’s campaign.”
“I can see that. She’s all over the place.”
“We’ve been in three states in the past forty-eight hours.”
“Good for you. What are you doing here?”
“Sly sent me.”
“He couldn’t call?”
“You tell me. He sent me on a field trip to the catering company for Liam Anderson’s party where I passed around the photo you pulled off the photographer’s phone.” He lifted the water ladle.
Tate nodded.
Steam lifted off the rocks, settling into his bones. He should probably leave, his lungs parched now.
“Apparently, your guy with the tattoo was on the setup crew that night. At least three people remember his ink. And he vanished after setup, so Sly thinks you’re onto something.”
Tate’s jaw tightened. “Did you pull a name from the caterers?”
“Yeah. We tracked it and it was an alias. But…” He ran a hand around his neck. “Sly said if you wanted to follow your hunch, he could use you in San Diego.”
Tate’s head swam a little. “San Diego?”
“The National Convention. It’s this weekend, and the setup crew is headed out tomorrow. We could use your eyes—no one else has seen this guy.”
“I don’t remember seeing him in person in San Antonio. That was my brother. But I remember the pictures and Knox’s sketches.”
“And he can’t be hard to miss with the tat.”
“It’s a big crowd.”
“A rowdy crowd too. Something big is going down with the Jackson campaign. It’s all behind closed doors, but Isaac White—the other presidential contender—has been out to the house twice. They think that maybe he’s going to be her VP.”
Tate climbed down from the benches and braced his hand on the wall. He didn’t have to ask if Glo would be there.
“When do you want me?”
“I’ll call you with a sit-rep.”
“Thanks, Rags.” He pushed out into the shower area and turned on the water, cold, his body shaking.
He shouldn’t have left Glo. Shouldn’t have let his pride—even his anger—get him fired. He slammed his palm into the wall and let out a shout. Hung his head under the spray. It sloughed off the sweat and frustration of the last few days but left him cold and edgy. He tucked his towel around him as he walked out to the locker room area.
Opening his locker, he pulled out his clothing, and grabbed his cell phone. He needed flights to San Antonio, pronto. He wanted to track down this guy from the source.
That’s when he noticed the missed call from Ford.
Rags exited the sauna and headed for the shower.
Ford picked up on the first ring. “Bro. ’Sup?”
Tate didn’t know where to start. “You called.”
“Right.”
Tate heard clinking in the background. Probably his brother cooking up something gourmet.
“RJ FaceTimed with me a few days ago. Told me to call you with some information—”
“And you’re just now calling me?”
“Hey! I’m not your personal secretary. I got called out on training. Sorry.”
Tate ran his hand across his face. “Naw, I’m sorry. I’m not in a good place. Just tell me what she said.”
“She said she tracked down the guy in your photo and that he was ex-Marine, sniper. Graham Plunkett. His brother is Alan Kobie, who is a member of the Bryant League. And—here’s the important part. Kobie was EOD.”
Which meant, he knew how to make bombs.
“How did we miss this?”
“Maybe it’s because Kobie is the son of the mayor of San Antonio?”
“So politics as usual.” Tate wanted to hit something. “You around for a while?”
“I have training, but I’ll be in town. Why?”
Rags walked into the locker room area, a towel around his hips.
“Throw some sheets on the sofa. I’m on my way.”
Tate closed the phone.
Rags’s gaze was on the ink across his chest. “Surrender is not a Ranger word.”
“No,” Tate said as he got up and tossed his towel in the wire basket. “No, it’s not.”
Last time Glo stared out the window of a hotel room, she had just kissed Tate Marshall. Had started to believe that she might be the special one. That her life was going to change.
The thought brought her up, back to herself, to the current view of San Diego—the pool, the ocean, and the multitudes of high-masted sailboats moored in the harbor—and the chatter around her in the VIP suite of the Hilton Bayfront. To Sloan making arrangements with Nicole about tonight’s event. The private dinner was a warm-up to the big stage event tomorrow night, but it still had her stomach in a knot.
I think Gloria should give a speech.
Yeah sure, Mother, great idea. But here she was, twenty-four hours later, her name on the program.
She’d even tried to appeal to her father, but he’d just sat across the table, giving her a shake of his head.
How did she get in this far? She never really wanted the limelight, not really. Just wanted to be with Kelsey and Dixie. And yes, she’d wanted to be with her mother.
But most of all, she wanted to be with Tate. His absence this week as she attended her mother’s events, clapped, even introduced her—yes, she could see the slow sinking into the mire—and especially in the evenings as she sat in her darkened room wishing he might be on his chair beside the pool, left a widening hole in her.
Please, come with me, Glo.
Oh, she’d hurt him, and she knew it. But she’d made her choice. She’d have to live with it. She glanced at Sloan sitting at the conference table, dressed in a blue oxford, the sleeves rolled up above his forearms work-style as he bent over her stupid speech for tonight. He must have seen her looking at him because he glanced up. Smiled at her.
She smiled back. Clearly, she’d been too hard on Sloan. Sure, he was overly protective of her, and her mother, but that was his job. And, he’d been her groupie before anyone else knew her name.
He seemed to respect her aching heart, too, because he hadn’t tried to kiss her, not once this entire week. As if giving her space.
He went back to his work, and she slipped into one of the anterooms that overlooked the pool. A balcony jutted from their second-story VIP suite they were using as a greenroom. She toed off her heels, picked up her phone, her earbuds, and stepped outside.
The sea salted the air, and the humidity, along with the heat, blanketed the afternoon with a sort of sogginess. Down at the pool, kids splashed. She measured the drop down. Two stories. Not a terrible drop, but nope, probably too far. Still, her entire body longed for the cool water.
Something to wash away the heaviness in her soul.
Where did the woman who used to paint on a tattoo and wear leather onstage go? I miss that girl. Now…you’ve vanished… And what do you want?
Tate was haunting her. She put in her earbuds and queued up her Pandora. Sat on the lounge chair and watched a seagull stalk a plate of food.
The husky blues voice of country singer Benjamin King came through her buds.
* * *
We said goodbye on a night like this
Stars shining down, I was waitin’ for a kiss
But you walked away left me standing there alone
Baby I’m a’waiting, won’t you come back home…
* * *
It brought to her mind the explosion of their tour bus during a gig in Mercy Falls, Montana. Ben had invited them to his house to regroup and talk to the local police.
She’d never expected Tate to show up, practically banging down the door of Ben’s lodge home to get to her. He’d crossed the room in giant strides of panic, his eyes pinned to hers, and she’d half expected him to sweep her up in his arms, the anger and fear radiating off him nearly palpable.
She might have lost her heart to him the night when he’d cornered her in the kitchen of his family home. Wh
en she’d offered him a cookie.
He’d wanted something else, she knew it, but she’d ducked away, afraid of the emotions between them.
Afraid of losing her heart again to a man who could walk away with it.
Her eyes filled as King reached the bridge in the song.
* * *
I need you, I need you, I need you
Don’t say goodbye
I need you, I need you, I need you
Can’t live without you
I need you, I need you, I need you
Come back to me tonight.
* * *
She drew up her knees, staring out toward the ocean, hearing Tate’s pleading. I love you. I have for months, and I…I’d give my life for you.
Her phone vibrated, and she looked down to see Kelsey’s name on the screen. She accepted the call and the music died. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Silence.
“So, you heard then.”
“No. I guessed. I saw you stumping for your mother, and Tate was nowhere to be seen. Is that my imagination?”
“He left me.”
A beat, then, “Tate left you? C’mon—”
“He kissed me, and the media found out, and Mother—”
“Oh. Glo.”
“Yeah. And then he was quitting and walking out of my life and…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s trouble. Did you know that the last woman he protected was killed?”
“Knox told me the story. She wasn’t a woman he was protecting. She was his girlfriend.”
Glo nodded. “He was in love with her.”
“Which probably gives a good reason why he’s a little rabid about protecting you.”
“Well, the threat is over—or it never was. The Bryant League wasn’t behind the bombing, and all the rest of the crazy moments have been, well, just crazy moments. None of it is connected. I’m perfectly safe.”
“Even from Sloan?”
“Sloan? Please. He’s harmless. Protective, but that’s all.” Poor man—he deserved better from Glo.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“It’s a dinner for my mother and Isaac White. Don’t tell anyone, but my mother is going to be announced as his running mate.”
Tate Page 24