Tackle (K19 Security Solutions)

by Heather Slade

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The simplest answer is by the way you came straight back to Massachusetts after your Columbian ordeal while he chose to stay with your teammate in DC.”

  Here I was, the man who avoided confrontation at any cost, charging straight into the midst of it. “And the more complicated answer?”

  Mr. Clarkson sat back in his chair but rested his palms on the edge of the table. “I’d say you know better than I do.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that he was referring to what was happening between Sloane and me. However, it didn’t sound as though he necessarily disapproved. The words of wisdom he gave me could also be construed as words of warning. If I was in a relationship with his daughter, then I should make note of the fact that if he could do it over again, he wouldn’t choose a life that took him away from home.

  But we weren’t in a relationship. In fact, she told me straight out that she never wanted to see me again. I didn’t believe her, but even then, what was between us wouldn’t constitute anything more than casual dating coupled with equally casual sex.

  If I wanted to walk out of here alive, I couldn’t tell him that.

  “Now, should we talk about Abdul Ghafor?”

  “I’m looking to get information more than give it.”

  Mr. Clarkson smiled. “I gathered as much.” He reached over and picked up a manila envelope. “This is what we know.”

  I wouldn’t disrespect the man by asking if he remembered I was no longer employed by the agency. At the same time, I was stunned by his lack of propriety, given what he handed me was highly classified information.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clarkson, sir.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you started calling me Benjamin? Like I said, I consider you practically part of our family.”

  I left the DHS offices knowing what I’d just experienced was Benjamin Clarkson proving his trust in me. Was it a challenge? Was he saying he trusted me enough to break State Department protocol and, therefore, expected me to understand he was trusting me to do the right thing when it came to his daughter? Or was all of that bullshit I’d concocted by way of a guilty conscience?

  When I left the office, I didn’t go straight to the parking garage. Instead, I went for a walk. Fifteen minutes later, I sat in the café across the street from Sloane’s friend’s apartment, wondering why in the hell I was there.

  15

  Sloane

  “He left about ten minutes ago,” said my father when I answered his call.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about—the man you hightailed it out of here today to avoid in the same way you raced up the back staircase when he showed up at the house yesterday.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “Stop right there. I haven’t decided whether I want to know what’s going on between the two of you, but based on your behavior and his, I know there’s something.”

  “What do you mean by his behavior?”

  “Sloane, do you know what you’re doing?”

  It took me a long time to answer, and even after I decided to tell him the truth, I wasn’t sure I should. “No, Dad, I don’t.”

  “I’m going to give you a piece of advice.”

  “Okay.”

  “Life speeds by far more quickly than you think it will at your age. One day, you’ll wake up and be my age, and I hope, unlike me, you don’t wish you’d done things differently.”

  “What does that mean? What do you wish you’d done differently?”

  “That seems obvious, Sloane. I wish I wouldn’t have put the job before my family. But I’m not saying your reason for regret would be the same as mine. What I’m suggesting is you make sure that when you are my age, you don’t wish you would’ve taken the chances you’re trying to talk yourself out of.”

  “What about Knox?”

  “He must think Tackle is a decent guy to have remained friends with him all these years.”

  “What if this makes him change his mind?”

  “Like I said, peanut, think long and hard whether you want to walk away without taking a chance.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to take a chance with me?”

  “You’re a smart woman whose only reason for asking such a question is based on your own insecurity.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I’m going to take the train home tonight.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least.”

  I walked over to the window and thought about everything my father had said. I couldn’t help but wonder if he and my mom had talked about Tackle and me. Most likely not, since she wouldn’t have hesitated to harangue me about him if they had.

  Just as I was going to walk back into the kitchen, I saw Tackle go inside the café across the street. I stayed where I was and watched him take a table near the front window. I took a step back, hoping that, if he looked up, he wouldn’t see me.

  I’d told my dad I didn’t know what I was doing. Did Tackle? Was he as confused about this as I was? I assumed I was only a notch in his bedpost, but if that were the case, why was he being so persistent? Because I was a challenge? And what was the deal between him and Nick?

  There was only one way for me to get the answers. I grabbed my jacket and raced down the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, hoping he hadn’t left.

  He looked up as I waited for the light to change to cross the street, and while our eyes met, he didn’t otherwise acknowledge I was headed his way.

  I walked inside and told the hostess I was meeting the man seated near the window. The man who stood and pulled a chair out for me when I approached.

  “Hi, Tackle.”

  “Hello, Sloane.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I agree.”

  “My dad knows there’s something going on between us.”

  He nodded slowly. “I wondered if you told him.”

  “I didn’t.”

  He studied me for a few seconds.

  “He said he figured there was, based on your behavior and mine.”

  Tackle leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “How did you respond?”

  “Not with much, other than to answer honestly when he asked if I knew what I was doing. I told him I didn’t.” I waited for him to say something, but he remained silent. “Do you know what you’re doing, Tackle?”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked left and right. “No fucking clue.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I can’t answer that either. I wish I could.”

  “My dad told me to think long and hard about whether I wanted to walk away without taking a chance.”

  “A chance at what?”

  I cocked my head. He was the one who had been in such hot pursuit of me. Now, he was playing dense? “I’m sure he meant a chance at having more sex.” I was so tempted to get up and leave. I closed my eyes and silently counted to five. If Tackle didn’t speak by the time I did, I wouldn’t just walk out. I’d go back to the office and put in for a transfer out of the Boston office to a place far enough away that I’d never have to see my brother’s best friend again.

  “Listen, Sloane…”

  “You have ten seconds to finish that sentence.”

  “I like you. I always have. And to be completely honest, I’ve wanted to have sex with you since you were old enough for me to think about it without feeling like a pedophile.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Let me finish.”

  I stood. “Not necessary. I get it. The reason you’ve wanted so desperately to talk to me was only so you could be the one to give me the brush-off. Fuck you, Tackle.” I raced out of the restaurant and into the cab that someone had just gotten out of.

  “Where to?” the driver asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Somewhere that will get me back here in no less than fifteen minutes.”


  “How ’bout Fenway?”

  “Perfect.”

  When we pulled up across the street from the café twenty minutes later, I made sure Tackle wasn’t still sitting at the table by the window before I got out. I reached into my pocket to pay the fare, realizing then that I’d left the apartment without my wallet.

  “I’ll be back in two minutes,” I told the driver after apologizing. “Keep the meter running.”

  He nodded, and I got out, hoping Tackle wasn’t waiting for me inside the building. I didn’t see a single other person in the lobby while I waited for the elevator or when I came back downstairs after grabbing my wallet. I rushed out the door and didn’t see the cab either.

  “Shit,” I muttered, looking left and right. “Where did he go?”

  “If you mean the cabbie, he got another fare,” said a woman waiting a few feet away at the bus stop.

  “I owed him money,” I mumbled.

  “Whoever the guy was must’ve really needed to get somewhere quick cause I heard him say he’d take care of it.”

  “Was he about this tall?” I raised my hand in the air. “Short hair and wearing a brown leather jacket?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  The bus pulled up, and she got on before I could ask anything else. “Thanks,” I called out after her.

  By the time I got back upstairs to the apartment, the nausea I’d felt on and off for the last few weeks had returned. I peeled a banana, hoping I could get it down before I felt worse. After inhaling it, I went into the bedroom, intending to put the rest of my things into a bag and go home. Instead, I lay on the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and cried.

  The time between my telling Tackle to fuck off and the day of my doctor’s appointment passed uneventfully. I went to work, came back to the apartment, and went home to my parents’ house, all without him showing up or me running into him.

  I left his number blocked so I wouldn’t know whether he tried to call or not, yet thought of little else besides him.

  While I wasn’t so sick that I thought it warranted a visit to urgent care, the nausea came and went enough that I knew something had to be wrong with me.

  The nurse had called to say they wanted to draw blood, so I had to fast prior to my appointment. Fortunately, I was able to go in at seven and get it done. I always felt worse if I didn’t eat a decent breakfast.

  Six hours later, I was ushered into a room and asked to strip down and put on one of those horrid hospital gowns that no one could ever get fastened in the back.

  I grabbed my jacket and put it around my shoulders so I could stay warm in the chilly room. Ten minutes later, I heard a knock at the door, and the doctor came in, followed by a nurse.

  She rolled a stool close to me while the other woman opened up a laptop and stood near her.

  “You’re worrying me,” I said, wringing my hands.

  “We were able to get the results of your blood and urine tests from this morning, and there is nothing for you to worry about. However”—the nurse handed the doctor the laptop—“you said twice that there was no way you could be pregnant.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I had the lab run the tests more than once, just to be certain. Both returned the same results. You are pregnant, Miss Clarkson.”

  “That can’t be,” I whispered, gripping both sides of the exam table when vertigo overcame me.

  The doctor put her hand on one of mine. “Evidently, this is a surprise to you.”

  “I only…” Had sex a couple of times? Was that what I was about to tell her? My eyes filled with tears, and I buried my face in my hands.

  This couldn’t be happening. I’d saved myself until I was twenty-six fucking years old, and I got pregnant the first damn time I had sex? What were the odds? I dropped my hands and laughed, maniacally, but it was still laughter.

  “What is your relationship with the father?” the doctor asked.

  “Nonexistent.”

  “I apologize if this feels intrusive, but do you know who the father is?”

  Through more maniacal laughter, I answered. “Oh, yes.”

  “I’d like to perform an exam, after which we can discuss the next steps.”

  As she poked, prodded, and pressed on different parts of my body, the doctor asked if I recalled when my last menstrual cycle was. I did, and it was before Thanksgiving, I realized as tears rolled down the side of my face. That hadn’t occurred to me until now? God, I was such an idiot.

  “You can sit up,” the doctor said, holding out her hand to help me. “Based on the timing of your last period and other indicators, I’d say you’re still in your first trimester. You do have options.”

  “What options?” Abortion? Was that what she was suggesting?

  “I can’t help but notice you don’t seem happy about the news. I’d like to refer you to an OB/GYN who can discuss them with you. In the meantime, take this pamphlet home with you and think things over.”

  Before leaving, the woman at the front desk scheduled an appointment for me to see the other doctor on Monday, giving me the weekend to “think things over.”

  Earlier in the day, I’d told my mother to expect me home this weekend, so the first thing I did when I returned to my friend’s apartment was to call and tell her that something had come up and I’d be staying in the city after all.

  “Is everything okay, mija?”

  “Yes, fine,” I lied. “I had something come up that I need to take care of.” That was certainly the truth.

  I spent the entire weekend alternating between crying and throwing up. Sometimes at the same time. By Sunday, I’d worked myself up into such a tizzy that I had to talk to someone.

  Who, though? My mother? No way. My father? That would be worse, especially given the bizarre conversation he and I had had. I had a few friends from work, but the last thing I would tell any of them was that I was pregnant. Same with friends from school. If I did that, word would spread in our town like wildfire.

  There was only one person I could trust not to say a word to anyone—Knox. And he was on a mission. But hadn’t he and Tackle both said it was a missing-person case? That had to mean there was less risk involved, right? It wasn’t like he was undercover somewhere.

  “Hey, Sloane. Everything okay?”

  While I’d vowed not to cry, the minute I heard my brother’s voice, I dissolved into sobs so intense I couldn’t speak.

  “Sloane?” he said in a raised voice. “Is it something with Mom or Dad?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” I blew my nose.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just…I need…I’m sorry.”

  “Sloane, I can hardly hear you.”

  “Is there…any…way…you can…come home? I know I’m asking a lot, but I need you, Knox.”

  “You’re breaking up again, but if I’m needed at home, I can catch the next flight out. Tackle can finish things up for me here.”

  “Tackle?”

  “Long story, sis. He’s here in Italy.”

  “You’re in Italy?”

  “Yes…you’re breaking up again. I’ll be in touch when I land.”

  It was morning by the time I heard from Knox again. I called the office and told the lead on my team that I needed to pick my brother up at the airport. Given they all knew about the plane crash, no one questioned my taking the time off.

  I thought about bringing him back to the apartment, but the idea of telling my brother I was pregnant in the same place it happened, turned my stomach.

  Instead, I drove to a diner that was far enough from the city and far enough from Newton that I doubted we’d run into anyone we knew.

  Thankfully, Knox didn’t ask any questions until we were seated at a table in the back of the restaurant with no other customers in the vicinity.

  “What’s going on, Sloane?”

  I bit my bottom lip, trying my hardest not to burst into tears. “I’m pregnant,” I blurted.

  My brother reached a
cross the table and held his hands out to me. “I, um, don’t know what to say, Sloane.”

  “I know. It’s hard.”

  “Do the parents know?”

  “No one knows, except the doctor and nurses I’ve seen.”

  “What about the father?”

  “Not in the picture and never will be.”

  Knox nodded with scrunched eyes.

  “Are you going to be able to handle that?” I asked, smiling for the first time, it seemed, since Friday.

  My brother lowered his head momentarily, then looked back up at me. “Yes.”

  “Simple as that?”

  Knox’s eyes filled with tears, which he quickly tried to hide. “I told you at the airport, that day, that I want to be a better brother to you. I meant it. I can’t tell you how good it makes me feel that I’m the person you reached out to for help.”

  “You understand I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

  He smiled. “There will come a time they’re gonna know, peanut.” The look on his face changed. “I mean, if you’re going to…you know.”

  “Have the baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have to, Knox.”

  “I get it, Sloane. I mean that. I hope you know I wasn’t suggesting anything else.”

  I nodded. “I do.”

  “You’re sure about the father not being in the picture?”

  “One hundred percent.” I turned my head away, feeling the onslaught of more tears.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m here. Whatever you need. I’m your guy.”

  I smiled through my tears. “Thanks, Knox.”

  “When do you plan to tell Mom and Dad?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Can I get you two something to eat?” said the waitress who’d finally approached our table.

  “I haven’t looked at the menu yet, have you?” Knox asked.

  “You look. I know.”

  I ordered a double cheeseburger with fries, a salad, and a chocolate milkshake. “Don’t say a word,” I told Knox when he looked up at me with wide eyes.