by KaLyn Cooper
“You most certainly can.” She cocked her head. “You have an advantage over me. You know my name but I don’t know yours.” As she scraped her gaze over him, the corner of her mouth twitched up before she controlled it back down. “Calling you Guardian guy, or Quin’s friend just doesn’t seem right. I like to know who I’m talking to.”
“Jonathan O’Neil.” He held out his hand. “And I am Quin’s friend, but I’m also his employee. I’m an assistant manager at this center.”
She took the proffered hand and gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jonathan O’Neil. How would you like that steak cooked? And the eggs?”
She reached down to her waist and confusion was chased by realization that she wasn’t wearing an apron. With a self-deprecating smile, she stood and slid around the corner of the counter. Grabbing an order pad and pen, she looked at him expectantly.
“I like my steak rare and my eggs sunny side up.”
“Home fries, French fries, baked potato, or any of those.” She pointed to list of sides on the board above the kitchen window where a Latino man watched them carefully.
Jonathan didn’t bother looking. This was breakfast for him. “Home fries.”
“Coffee?” Gwen’s raised eyebrow was one of the sexiest things he’d seen.
“Definitely.” He looked around for a coffee cup but they sat ready only on the set tables. She reached under the counter and pulled out a mug.
Leaning back, she reached out to the machine behind her, then turned back to him. “Leaded or unleaded?”
“Fully leaded, please.” He smiled when she grabbed the black-bottomed pot and filled his mug. “Sweetheart, you have just earned my undying gratitude.”
Just as she slid the order under the clip and spun it toward the kitchen, the restaurant phone rang. She snatched the portable handset from beside her computer. Frowning at the display, she said, “Excuse me.” She disappeared into the back, leaving him alone to enjoy his surprisingly delicious coffee.
Jonathan glanced around the nearly empty diner. A middle-aged couple sat in a booth along the back wall, hardly talking, concentrating on their pie. They’d probably been married for years, catching a late supper together after a long day at work, if he had to guess given the man’s suit jacket lying on the seat next to him and her dress pants, flattering blouse, and short heels. He’d been taught to sum people, and situations, quickly. They were no threat.
As he swept his gaze over the restaurant, his eyes fell on Gwen’s computer. Three words jumped out at him. Big like 9/11.
What the fuck?
Put Ams in their place.
Holy shit. What was she into?
The lid suddenly closed and very feminine fingers splayed over the blue case.
“Your order should be up soon.” At Gwen’s terse words, his eyes met hers. Yeah. He’d been snooping, and he needed to dig further.
He hoped his smile put her at ease. “Writing a book?” It was a plausible explanation.
She slid the laptop off the counter, placed it underneath and drew out a mug. She turned her back him and poured a cup of decaf. “I’m no author.” She came around to his side and, once again, took her seat. “I hated writing papers in college.”
“Where did you go to school?”
Any information she was willing to give him would help. She just stared at him for the longest time, as though trying to read his mind or decide if she could trust him.
To start the give and take necessary to build a solid foundation for a friendship, he offered, “I graduated from the University of Florida.”
“You’re a gator.” She smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.” He sipped his coffee. “I wanted to get out of Miami but not too far from my folks.” He shrugged. “Besides, the school had Navy ROTC and I had a scholarship.”
“You were in the Navy?” There was more than a spark of interest in her question.
“Marines.” He was used to women gushing at this point and mentally prepared for the onslaught of military questions.
“I was Army.”
She couldn’t have shocked him more if she’d said she was an alien. He set the cup down and looked at her. Really looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time. It was there. That hard edge that said I’ve seen too much.
Jonathan wanted to take her in his arms and protect her. He’d hold her until all the sharp angles melted into smooth, round curves, erasing the bad things she’d seen, replacing those memories with the sweet life she deserved.
And, maybe she’d do the same for him.
“When did you get out?” He managed to ask.
“Six mon—” Her gaze flew to the door as a bearded man all but fell through. “Kane.” Concern saturated the single word.
She jumped up and grabbed the man around the waist and one hand under a bent elbow. Half-carrying, guiding him to the back, the two spoke so low Jonathan couldn’t hear.
But he could smell, and the stench was revolting. Jonathan’s Spec Ops team had spent two weeks without a shower in the Afghani desert hunting an al Qaida leader and he was sure none of them smelled that bad when they returned to Camp Leatherneck. He pegged the man close to his age, maybe older. It was hard to tell with most of his face covered in hair and lined eyes that had been exposed to too much sun and heat.
Through the open window to the kitchen, he watched Gwen and…Kane, that’s what she’d called him. Most of their movements took place out of Jonathan’s sight but when she’d checked Kane’s eyes, the scowl on her face said everything.
Her friend was a junkie in need of a fix.
She retrieved a very small bottle from the frig door and the man rolled up the sleeve of the plaid shirt that hung loosely over broad shoulders.
Jonathan sat frozen on the round stool as Gwen tipped the bottle upside down and filled a syringe. She pushed the plunger until a drop ran down the needle. Kane had already opened an alcohol packet enough for her to extract the soaked square.
The rest was hidden by the four-foot wall between the dining area and the kitchen but Jonathan knew what was happening by their facial expressions. Almost instantly, the pain that had creased the vagrant’s face eased as he inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled through lips shaped like an O.
“Go sit at the counter.” Gwen’s order was reinforced by the stern look on her pretty face. She glanced at the cook.
“Already on it,” Luis said and Jonathan heard something hit the grill and sizzle. “Your order is up, Gwen.”
“Oh, thanks.” In seconds she appeared on the service side of the counter and slid the dish in front of him.
The huge steak was flawlessly cooked with red juices pooling on the bottom of the plate. Half-inch slices of green pepper and browned onions dotted the pile of golden cubes of potatoes. Jonathan scooped up the egg, it’s bright yellow center jiggling as he laid it on top of the home fries.
Damn he loved this kind of food. He peered up at Gwen. “This is perfect.”
“Luis is an awesome cook,” she said loudly and flashed the man in the kitchen a smile.
Gwen refilled Jonathan’s coffee and handed a full cup to Kane, three seats down. Minutes later, she served the disheveled man a repeat of Jonathan’s meal.
“Where are you sleeping tonight? The mission has already closed its doors.” Although her voice was quiet, Jonathan heard.
Kane shrugged. “Nice night.” He forked a gigantic piece of steak and dragged it through the gooey egg center before stuffing it into his mouth. “Under the stars.”
The other man finished his food first, even though Jonathan had been served several minutes before Kane. Taking his dishes to the kitchen, as though this was a common occurrence, he disappeared into the back.
Jonathan surveyed his empty plate and blew out a long breath. As if Gwen had been watching, waiting for him to finish, she appeared with his ticket.
Gesturing to the coffee pot, she asked, “More?”
He shook his head. “I need to
get to work.”
When she laid his bill on the counter, he placed his hand over hers. “What was that about?” He tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Because if you’re dealing drugs out of here, I’ll have to report you.”
Gwen glanced toward the pass-through window then faced him and glared. “How dare you accuse me of selling drugs? You don’t know anything about me, or Kane.” She whipped her hand away and called to one of the waitresses, “Please check Mr. O’Neil out.”
As Jonathan stood, Kane suddenly appeared at his side. In a move so fast Jonathan didn’t have time to counter, Kane grabbed his wrist and bent it back while twisting. Pain shot all the way up Jonathan’s arm as his knees automatically bent. He found himself in a hold used primarily by police and special operators.
“What Gwen and I do is none of your fucking business.” Kane pushed the hand a little more, increasing the agony. “She’s one of the best people I know. She’d never do anything illegal.”
Jonathan grabbed the other man’s arm as he stepped back, releasing the hold and spun Kane around, pushing his bare forearm to his spine.
That’s when Jonathan saw them. Frog tracks. A tattooed path led under the blue plaid sleeve. He’d seen those webbed, three-toed footprints on SEALs in the secret Afghani USSOCOM camp where he’d lived for nearly a year. “Where did you get these?”
Kane’s sneer would have stopped a lesser man. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but to let you know who you’re dealing with, I’ll share. A hole-in-wall just outside the back gate in Virginia Beach.” The man jerked his arm away and shoved his sleeve down.
Jonathan took in the man, from his greasy hair, long beard, dirty shirt, thread-bare jeans and duck taped boots. “If you really were a SEAL, what happened to you, man?” Jonathan needed to know. How could one of America’s best warriors end up on the street? A junkie?
“Afghanistan.”
Jonathan had spent enough time in the Middle East to know how badly someone could get hurt, but the man seemed uninjured, at least on the outside. Maybe he suffered from PTSD. Or maybe he’d jumped off the deep end and the Navy had booted his butt out.
At the rattle of wheels over tile, both men’s attention locked on Gwen.
Kane looked apologetically at her, and the mop she held in the bucket of soapy water. “I’ll be back to finish up after the Army stink is gone.”
“Hey, squid, don’t poke at the Army. Not all of us are dickwads,” Gwen chastised. “Besides, he was a Marine.”
“Fucking jarheads.” Kane flashed a smile at Gwen. “I’ll see you later, angel.” He stalked out of the diner and disappeared into the night.
Jonathan stepped up to the young woman waiting behind the cash register and handed her the bill as Gwen pushed the bucket back into the kitchen.
He needed to talk with her. He wanted answers. “Gwen.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “It’s not what you think.”
Chapter 6
Gwen twisted off the top to the salt shaker and refilled it without a thought to the task. Her mind was consumed with the fight last week between Jonathan and Kane. It wasn’t really a fight, more like an altercation. One minute she was so mad at them both she could spit nails, and the next she understood how it must have looked to Jonathan when she gave Kane the insulin shot.
Dealing drugs. No way in hell would she ever participate in or condone such actions. She’d taken an oath to save lives. Even though she was no longer actively nursing, she was able to give a friend a shot when he needed it. He’d entrusted her with the medicine he needed to stay alive and she’d do anything she could to help Kane.
He’d come to the diner in bad shape that night. Some kid on a skateboard had mistaken his insulin pump for a pager and yanked it away from him while he was checking his levels. The VA hospital had been too far away. The stupid man had walked over three miles to get to her. And she’d taken care of him.
After she closed that night, she’d taken Kane to the Veteran’s hospital in downtown Dallas, almost twenty miles away. They’d kept him overnight to stabilize and reset his Basal rates, establishing a baseline for the constant feed into his body. He was an old hand at the Bolus doses used to cover the carbohydrates consumed during meals. Type 1 diabetes was a bitch, especially for man living on the streets.
Kane was such a good man. He’d just been handed one bad piece of luck after another for over a year. She’d first met the SEAL in Afghanistan when his whole team had been brought into the secret USSOCOM base, seriously ill with some unknown disease. Sick as a dog, he’d been a true gentleman and a really good patient, not like some who passed through her emergency room. Men could be such needy babies.
Gwen moved on to the pepper shakers, needing to keep her hands busy. She only wished she could keep her mind off Jonathan. He’d seen the notes she was transcribing from the Middle Eastern boys’ conversations. They’d shown up several times a week, almost claiming the small diner as their place to get away from their parents and families. Although she’d proudly worn the uniform of this country, she worried about telling anyone what she’d overheard. Would they believe her? Or think she was a kook?
Then there was the question of who to tell. She hadn’t seen the police chief since the day Bitsy showed her ass, verbally attacking Jonathan and Quin. She hoped that terrible display of bad judgement hadn’t put the chief off eating there ever again. Maybe she could go to police headquarters and meet with him. If she showed him her translations…but what if she was wrong. It’d been months since she was over there, and although she considered her Arabic good, she’d be the first to admit it wasn’t great.
Who knew? Maybe it was simply teenage boys boasting to make themselves bigger and more important the others.
Deep in her heart, though, she knew someone was planning something big and it could—no would—hurt or even worse, kill, dozens of people. Maybe more. She might be able to stop it. But how?
Maybe she should just call the local FBI office, she considered as she topped off the last pepper shaker and screwed on the cap. She glanced around the table for the large sugar container. It must still be on the shelf.
Two minutes later, while searching deep in the closet-sized room for the sugar, a deep voice sliced through her.
“Evening, Jacki.” Jonathan’s baritone had snaked its way into her very being.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Neil.” Gwen could hear the smile in her waitress’s voice and the sound of a coffee cup hitting the counter. “Is this breakfast for you?”
“Yup.”
When he chuckled, Gwen almost fell over. It was the sexiest sound she’d heard in days. No months. Okay, years. She mentally shook her head. Since when did a chuckle sound sexy? Since Jonathan O’Neil did it. Well, damn it.
“Guess I’m becoming a regular.” True. The man had shown up at least every other evening. And she’d hidden in her office, out of sight, each time. Acting like a silly teenager. She was no better than the girls from the Catholic school that sat at the big round table in the corner and stole glances at the boys a few tables away.
Enough.
She was an adult and he was just a man. One who made her insides quiver and her brain wonder what that impressively muscled body would look like hovering over hers seconds before he pushed into her slick heat. More than once she’d wondered what kind of lover he’d be. Would he be a quick bang and go? Or take it slow and gentle? It didn’t really matter. It had been so long since she’d shared her body with a man, she’d probably explode the minute his fingertips found her clit.
With the thought of an orgasm screaming through her brain, Gwen stood up straight, pulled her shoulders back, and headed out to face Jonathan.
Oh, shit.
She did an about face and scanned the shelves once more for the sugar. It’d been right there in front of her the whole time. She grabbed the heavy plastic jug and determinedly walked to the seat at the counter where she’d been refilling condiments.
/> Damn, he looked good. She hadn’t been raised in Texas but cowboys had been a fantasy of hers since puberty. His black Stetson with the gray band sat on the counter at his elbow as he sipped coffee. She loved the way the gray Guardian polo shirt hugged his biceps and stretched over large pecs. Gwen knew there would be at least six, well-defined ab muscles under the shirt that tucked into black cargo pants at his small waist. He wore his gun comfortably on the right side, secured in a hard plastic holster.
For a fleeting moment, she missed carrying her weapon. Overseas, she wouldn’t leave her tent without it secured to her duty belt. Once home, it had taken months for her to feel safe without her .45 at her side. That might be why she liked Texas so much. Many who ate at her restaurant were armed, not just because it was a favorite of first responders, but so many people openly carried. Guns were sexy.
Her brain was focused on sex, so she found everything sexy. Especially the man in the third seat from the end at the counter.
Gwen dialed back her excited smile and managed to say, “Jonathan, nice to see you again.” She sat down and resumed her duties.
“You’re not going to run and hide from me, again, are you?” His intense gaze bore through her defenses.
She turned her head to look at him. “No.” She fought a smile. “Running away is the last thing I want to do.” She wanted to jump out of her seat and dive into his arms, kiss him until she forgot where she was. Then, she’d drag that perfect tight ass of his up to her third floor apartment and strip off his shirt so she could count those ab muscles.
He nodded and she almost leaped off the stool before she forgot. He might not be having the same fantasy. From the look in his eyes, sex wasn’t his priority at the moment. Damn it.
“Look, Gwen, I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions with that Kane guy the other night.” He ran his hand over his face. “From my perspective, it looked like a drug deal going down. But he recovered way too fast for that and didn’t act high afterward. What’s his deal?”
Gwen concentrated on opening the sugar jars as she debated telling Jonathan about Kane. But maybe he could help convince her friend to take advantage of some of VA programs available to get Kane back on his feet. She finally explained, “He’s a type 1 diabetic and needs insulin at least five times a day. Kane can’t risk carrying needles on the street. Besides, the insulin needs to be refrigerated. He usually wears a pump but some punk kid stole his.”