Impossible End (Unchecked Book 3)

by Bartel, Sybil

He stopped in the aisle and fear more familiar than my own name prickled across my skin. His deep, quiet voice hit me a fraction of a second before his scent.

  “This seat taken?” Soap and musk mingled with old church, and blue eyes the color of winter ice stared down at me.

  My stomach in my throat, I shook my head, and he stepped into the pew. When he focused his attention forward, the air whooshed out of my lungs. He wasn’t one of them. They never got this close, not in public, but the fear was ingrained—three years ingrained.

  My exit strategy shot, I set my purse down and snuck a glance at the wall of muscle next to me. Legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front, he stood perfectly motionless. Square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, his features were too harsh to be beautiful and too beautiful to be harsh. His close-cropped haircut screamed military, but the bottom of a tattoo peeking out from his shirt sleeve was the giveaway. USMC.

  For one impossible moment, I closed my eyes. He smelled amazing, like freedom and strength and security—everything I’d never have again. Resigned, to my one hour, to my life, I glanced at the stupid exit and swore under my breath. “Damn it.”

  Quick, precise, the marine turned and locked his gaze on me. Heat hit my cheeks, my mouth went dry and the sweater over my shoulders fell to the seat. Shit. Shit. I quickly looked away but the damage was done. I’d drawn attention to myself.

  For the next forty-five minutes I tried to go through the motions of the service, but the closeness of the marine was making me want to crawl out of my skin. Vibrating with raw power, he was so distracting I wanted to shove him into the aisle…or cower under his huge biceps and hide. And that would be disastrous. Fuck-my-whole-life-up disastrous. I came here for an hour of peace, not soapy musk and unleashed strength. I didn’t have time for bullshit fantasies. I glanced at my watch. I didn’t have time at all. My hour was almost up.

  I reached for my purse. Black boots, worn but polished to a high shine, had caged it in. And because I’d done nothing right since I’d walked through the church doors, I let my traitorous eyes sweep up. Hard muscles strained against black cargo pants. A fitted T-shirt skimmed a flat stomach and stretched across impossibly wide shoulders. A cut jaw ticked and cold, knowing eyes waited.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  My leg began to bounce.

  “Everything okay?” he whispered.

  Okay? No, everything was not okay. I was sitting next to a marine who made me wish I was anyone else besides who I was—utterly alone yet followed everywhere. Nothing about that was okay. But before I could do something really stupid, like acknowledge him, the haunting sounds of the organ filled the church and mass ended. I grabbed my purse and shot to my feet.

  But the marine didn’t step out of the pew. He rose to his towering height, blocked my escape and waited for every single person to file out of the church. Then he stepped out and back a foot.

  I told myself not to. I really did, but it was as if this complete stranger had destroyed all of my self-control. So, I glanced up.

  And the marine glared at me.

  Struck dumb, I stared for two heartbeats before self-preservation kicked in. Then I scrambled forward and tripped. Viselike heat gripped my upper arm and I was immediately righted. Stunned by the strength in his hand, I jerked away and rushed out of the church.

  The priest’s crinkly face smiled in my direction then looked past me with concern. “Sergeant Johnson, good to see you. How is your mother?”

  “Not well, sir.”

  I flew down the steps. The last words I heard were his.

  “Who is that, Father?”

  I DIDN’T BOTHER LOOKING FOR the men that’d been following me since I’d moved to Gainesville. I never should’ve left Miami but I couldn’t breathe for the memories. Fumbling through my purse, searching for my keys, I didn’t recognize the name being called behind me.

  “Ms. Blair.”

  Where the hell were my keys?

  “Ma’am.”

  My hand palmed my keys the instant recognition hit. Layna Blair was my new name.

  “Ms. Blair, you forgot something.”

  Damn it. I never should’ve told the priest my name. Tempering my rising panic, resigned to getting this over with, I turned around.

  “Your sweater, ma’am.” Anger gone, arm outstretched, the marine studied me.

  I silently took the sweater.

  “In a hurry?” Patient, deep, his voice was almost cathartic.

  I didn’t say anything. What was the point? I’d be gone in ten seconds and I’d never see him again. I flipped the sweater over my shoulders and got one arm shoved in before he reached out to hold the other sleeve. When his fingers brushed over my shoulder, I shivered.

  He frowned. “You’re cold.”

  This was taking too long. Sucking in a breath, I forced out polite words. “Thanks for the sweater.” I turned back toward my car.

  He moved with me. “You’re not from here.”

  I scanned the parking lot. He’d been talking to me too long. “No. Good night.”

  His eyes narrowed and without moving, he seemed to come closer. His voice went even, quiet. “Everything okay, ma’am?”

  “Yeah, fine. Thanks again.” I unlocked my car and reached for the handle.

  The marine’s hand shot out, bracing against the driver’s door. “Wait,” he commanded in a hushed whisper.

  “Is there a problem?” an accented voice asked.

  Shit. Shitty shit shit. I’d lingered too long. Play it off, play it off, I silently chanted. Maybe they wouldn’t do anything to him. I took a deep breath and turned around to face the men who followed me.

  “That depends,” the marine said in his even, quiet voice.

  The shorter of the two men laughed and my skin crawled. They were like all the rest over the years. Hispanic, muscled, too non-descript to be anything but purposeful and they always traveled in pairs. But I’d found out this past week what Shorty was capable of, and he was a hundred times more dangerous than the others. He nudged the taller one.

  “Depends on what, G.I. Joe?” Shorty smirked.

  The marine’s hand dropped from the door and closed over mine. As he squeezed, my keys dug into my palm.

  The act didn’t go unnoticed by Shorty. His forced humor instantly disappeared and his face twisted with venom. “So it’s like that, huh?” he spat out.

  “Step back,” the marine warned as he slowly took my keys from my hand.

  “Or what?” Shorty asked, casually lifting the front of his shirt a few inches to reveal a gun tucked in his waistband. “You’ll bench press me?” He grinned eerily.

  The marine didn’t blink. “You won’t be alive to know what I did to you.”

  A cold, sick dread rose like bile in my throat.

  Shorty turned to me. “You even know this joker, girl? Cuz I ain’t seen him before and we both know I know you real good.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him where to shove it when my hand was squeezed hard in warning. I snapped my mouth shut and the marine took a step forward, shoving me behind him.

  “Disrespect her again and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

  Shorty shook his head. “Hope he was worth it, girl.” He reached for the gun.

  Faster than I could scream, the marine moved. His left arm shot out, elbow first, as his right hand grabbed Shorty’s gun. With a sickening crunch, the tall one’s face erupted with spurting blood, his eyes rolled back in his head and his arms went limp. Before his knees even buckled, the marine had twisted Shorty’s arm and jammed the barrel of the gun back into his stomach.

  The tall one hit the pavement face-first with a nauseating thud as the marine clamped his left hand down on Shorty’s throat. Three successive pops sounded and Shorty let out a choked howl as his broken hold went slack.

  “Get in the car, Layna,” the marine said calmly.

  I stared at the bloody carnage on the ground.

  “Layna.”

  I looked up. Shorty’s g
ood hand was futilely clawing at the marine’s death grip on his throat.

  The marine spared me a glance. “Passenger side, get in.”

  I snapped out of my stupor and scrambled around the car. Still pointing the gun at Shorty, the marine let go of his throat and executed a merciless knife strike to the side of his neck. Shorty crumpled to the ground.

  Hands shaking, I tried twice before I got the car door open and fell into the seat. Thirty seconds later we were doing seventy in a forty-five zone, putting distance between us and them.

  The marine leaned forward, tucked the gun in his back waistband, and scanned the rearview mirrors. “Are there more?”

  There were always more. I concentrated on breathing. “No.” Jesus, were they dead?

  He glanced at me. “You’re lying. Why?”

  For some reason, having him call me on my bullshit was calming—like a-syringe-full-of-Valium calming. My breathing evened out and I looked out the window. I should’ve been taking stock, figuring out how to lose the marine, but I wasn’t. I was drowning in the surreal feeling of not being alone and wondering why he’d protected me with no questions asked. I fixated on his superhuman soldier skills and a dangerous sense of relief washed over me. I leaned back in the seat. “Did you kill them?”

  “No.”

  Did I believe him? “The tall one didn’t look like he was breathing.” Facedown, blood everywhere, he’d stopped moving after a twitch and a gurgling sputter.

  “I broke his nose and some surrounding facial bones and knocked him unconscious. He’s not dead but he’ll need surgery,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I swallowed. “And Shorty?”

  “Unconscious, broken wrist, broken hand.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was trying to figure out if I was glad or mad.

  “Should I have killed them?”

  I whipped around in my seat. Surreal jumped ship and insanity came crashing down like a ton of bricks. “You in jail for second-degree murder would be a waste of tax payers’ dollars, not to mention what the Marine Corps spent training you.” I was incredulous. This soldier’s life wasn’t worth mine, no way.

  He completely ignored what I said. “They were in their car when I went into church, they circled the parking lot twice while we were talking and they seemed intent on making me go away. What’s the deal?”

  Shit. “Drive back to your car or wherever you want to go. I’ll drop you off and you can be on your way.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What?” Was he crazy?

  “You heard me.”

  “You don’t want to get involved,” I warned.

  “I got involved the third time you looked behind us in church. I’m not going to leave you to fend for yourself—unless you have another option?” He glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “That’s what I thought.” He eased my car onto the highway.

  “Where are you going?” This was kidnapping. Except I couldn’t put any force behind my words or the sentiment.

  “I’m hungry. We’re going to dinner.”

  Dinner? Shit. This was like going from one hostage situation to another. I didn’t do dinner. I didn’t know how to do dinner. Years of solitude and avoidance of any social interaction, I didn’t know what I’d say to him, not that I felt like talking. I was busy thinking about the ramifications of what he’d just done.

  We drove a few miles before he spoke again. “You haven’t asked my name.”

  “I heard the priest, I know your name. It’s Sergeant Johnson, not that it matters. I won’t see you again after tonight.” One way or another, he would disappear.

  “Is that a threat or a request?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you telling me to go away or asking?”

  The adrenaline was wearing off and I was suddenly tired, of everything. “Neither. Stating fact.”

  “It’s Blaze, Blaze Johnson. Nice to meet you, Layna Blair.” He held his hand out.

  I took it grudgingly, but the second our hands touched, I wished like hell I hadn’t. Warm and strong, his firm grip sent a shockwave of awareness all the way to my stomach.

  “If, in fact, that is your real name.” He released me.

  Ignoring the goose bumps all over my body, I turned back to the window. Who was he kidding? What kind of stupid alias was Blaze? Fire Boy would have been more original. Not that it mattered what his name was since I wouldn’t see him after tonight. Miami would make sure of it. I was only humoring him with the whole dinner thing. Not like I had anywhere else to be.

  We were silent as he took the next exit and pulled into a restaurant on the south end of town. Parking, he cut the engine, pocketed the key and hopped out. I swore under my breath. Casual, as if he carried concealed every day of his life, he untucked his T-shirt and pulled it over the gun. I tried to keep some distance between us but he came to my side and put his hand on my back. Instant heat shot straight to my stomach and traveled all the way south to my toes. I pretended I didn’t feel safe as hell with him next to me or that his hand didn’t generate instant heat, making my legs tremble. Blaze glanced across the parking lot then led me into the restaurant like everything was normal.

  The hostess, a pretty college-aged girl, stared at Blaze as he asked for a table. I knew where she was coming from. He had presence—in spades. Not to mention all that muscle covering his six-foot-whatever frame. He wasn’t eye candy, he was eye crack, if you liked that sort of thing. Which I swore to myself I didn’t.

  The love-struck hostess glanced over her shoulder about eighteen times as she led us to a table. Blaze ignored her and I rolled my eyes. When she stopped at a booth, Blaze held his hand out, gesturing for me to get in.

  “Where else am I going to sit?” Did he think I would flee? Feign a restroom visit and slip out the back?

  “Ladies first,” he said dryly.

  I glared at him for three seconds to show him who’s boss, then I scooted into the booth.

  Fire Boy slid in next to me.

  Seriously? “There’s a perfectly nice seat on the other side.”

  “This is fine.” He picked up his menu.

  Yeah, I’ll bet. Jerk. I tried another tactic. Glancing at the menu, I lied. “I can’t afford these prices. We should leave.”

  “You’re not paying.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Have a salad.” He didn’t even look up from his menu.

  “I want to leave.” But if I was being honest, which I wasn’t, it was a total lie. Every smart-ass answer out of his mouth made me more intrigued. Besides, why make it easy for miss cheery hostess?

  “We will, once you’ve eaten.”

  That did it. Five words and I was pissed. Five bossy, presumptuous, arrogant, words. “Once I’ve eaten? I’m not hungry.” Screw him.

  “I am,” he said calmly.

  This was bullshit. “Feed yourself. Give me my keys.” I held my hand out.

  “Not happening.”

  Asshole. “This is kidnapping.” I managed proper outrage, but he was probably twice my weight. What was I gonna do? Wrestle him?

  He lowered his menu and focused his frosty stare on me. For a full minute, he said nothing. When I began to squirm, he lifted his menu again.

  I huffed and put my menu down. Fine, score one for asshole. “How did you know?” I realized after I asked, it was too vague a question. I wasn’t good at this social interaction thing.

  “It sounded made up at best, Anglicized at worst. You look Eurasian, or maybe part Hispanic. Also, I called your name twice and you didn’t respond.”

  Not for the first time, I cursed my mixed heritage. “They teach you to be observant in the marines?” I asked flippantly.

  “Your life depends on it.”

  “Well that’s a cheerful thought.” Heavy on the sarcasm and way past rational, I was circling over pissed off and tired.

  It was his turn to look at me like I w
as missing all my teeth, but he didn’t have a chance to respond because a waitress showed up. She was a carbon copy of the hostess. Stupid college town. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so bitter if my life had gone differently and I was rushing sororities right alongside these girls—then again, maybe not.

  “Hi! Can I get y’all some drinks?” She smiled at Fire Boy.

  Fire Boy glanced at me questioningly but I was too busy staring daggers at the waitress. In my defense, I couldn’t help it. She was too cheerful. “Two shots of Patrón and a glass of water.” And hurry. My attitude and emotions were all over the place, I needed a buffer.

  The waitress looked at Fire Boy and amped up her smile.

  “Diet Coke,” he said in that quiet voice that was starting to bug me.

  “Would you like an appetizer?” She kept her eyes locked on him.

  He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I gave him my best fuck-off face, perfected over three years to keep people at bay.

  Frowning, he set the menu down. “We’re ready to order.”

  “What would you like, ma’am?” The waitress smiled at me sweetly, either missing my rude behavior or too nice for her own good. I could tell her what too nice would get her in life. She should frown more but it’d probably reflect badly on her tips. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Fire Boy didn’t miss a beat. “Two rib eyes, medium, two baked potatoes with the works, one spinach salad and one Caesar salad.”

  “You got it. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” Off the waitress went.

  “Who’s the Caesar salad for?” I asked.

  “Me. You’re vegetarian, remember?”

  “But you ordered me a steak.”

  “Yep,” he said, unapologetically.

  “Not very considerate, are you?”

  “You’re not a vegetarian.”

  Life without bacon would suck. “You’re right but that still doesn’t make you very accommodating.” I didn’t count knocking Miami’s men unconscious and breaking their bones. I still didn’t know what I’d call that but accommodating wasn’t even close.

  “Never said I was.”

  No kidding. The waitress showed up with our drinks and a loaf of hot bread. She put the shots of tequila between us and left.