by Charles, Eva
Gray rolls on top of me, pinning my hands near my head. “Oh no, you fucking don’t,” he growls. “That was not your fault. None of it.”
“I had a brain and two good working feet. I could have walked away. I wasn’t a prisoner.”
He glowers at me, and I turn my cheek to the mattress so I don’t have to look at him. I don’t need him trying to make excuses for me. It only makes me feel worse. “Get off me.”
He doesn’t budge.
“You were an anxious kid who had never been out of her small Mississippi town. You had stars in your eyes about joining the CIA. He was a grown man, trained in high-stakes mind games. He had a federal badge. It wasn’t a fair fight.”
I’ve never allowed myself to make excuses for my choices. That’s a coward’s game. I take responsibility for every decision, especially for the ones involving Kyle. I am not a helpless victim, and I will not allow Gray to make me one.
He eases off me, onto the mattress, and turns on his side, stroking my arm with his fingertips.
“Don’t touch me.”
He takes a ragged breath, and moves his hand.
“We knew each other three years,” I say with the sharp bite of a woman whose feelings are bruised. “We were friends. We had sex. We were teammates on a mission where trust was everything. But you never thought to tell me that you knew my husband. Not even when I asked.”
“I couldn’t say anything when you worked at Wildflower. It would have blown my cover. After you quit, we didn’t say a civil word to each other.”
“And whose fault was that?” I snap. “There was no reason you had to carry a ruse that far.”
“It wasn’t just subterfuge. I was pissed you went to Smith instead of coming to me after we spent so much time together—after what happened at Christmas. It felt like a betrayal. And then not talking just became what we did.”
I roll onto my side with my back to him. It’s bad enough I have to listen to this, but I don’t need to look at him.
“I didn’t tell you while we were getting ready for the op—there was too damn much going on already, and so little time. And,” he pauses, “I hoped you would tell me about your marriage one day. That you’d trust me enough to show me that part of you.” He sighs. “But I’m tired of waiting. I want us to start—not over…what came before is worth keeping. But I don’t want secrets between us.”
I let my eyelids flutter closed, focusing on the familiar rhythm of his breathing. But it provides no comfort today.
Gray curls behind me so we’re almost touching. He doesn’t lay his hands on my body, and I don’t push him away.
Two things for you to consider. That’s what he said when we started this discussion. I don’t know if I have the energy to deal with any more, but I can’t stand the thought of a landmine still out there waiting to detonate. “You said there were two things.”
He’s so quiet and his breathing is so shallow, for a few moments I think he’s asleep. But he’s not.
“I delivered my father to his death,” he says dispassionately, his tone devoid of any emotion.
I gasp softly. His father was the president.
“I lured him to within easy range of the bullet. I wanted to take the shot myself, but couldn’t get anybody to buy that plan.”
His lack of emotion is chilling.
We’re discussing a presidential assassination like we’d talk about hunting turkey. Even the conversation we had about the archbishop’s death had more verve. “Was it sanctioned?” I ask cautiously. “Because that’s the vibe I’m getting.”
He lays his hand on my hip. “Please don’t ask me to share the details.”
It was sanctioned. Jesus. “Why are you telling me any of it?”
“Because going forward, there are no secrets. Nothing separating us.” I feel his knees dip into the back of mine. “I don’t want there to be any doubt about how much I trust you. I’m going to take a lot from you, Delilah. The little girl inside you—the one who drops her Gs hard, and is proud and resilient—her anxiety will increase and her innocence will disappear in my world. It’s bound to happen.”
“She’s not innocent. That’s the whole point. She’s simple, scrappy and tough, and she knows the streets are dangerous.”
“She’s also forgiving and loyal and much too hard on herself. Whatever you think you’ve done, I’ve done worse.” He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in his body. “I told you about my father because I want you to have serious power—in case you ever need it. My world is dangerous, and the danger often lurks in unexpected places. Think of it as the ultimate safe word, to use if you ever need to save yourself.”
I allow myself to slip into sleep, dragged by the emotional tsunami. I don’t fight it, because I need the escape that even restless sleep provides.
* * *
I wake up a couple of hours before we’re scheduled to touch down. Gray isn’t in the room, and I’m relieved to have a few minutes alone to think.
Last night comes flooding back. He lured his father, the president, to his death. Suddenly, I knew Kyle from the Bureau doesn’t seem like such a big revelation.
Damien Wilder was the monster of all monsters. Molested little girls, and had his wife and daughter killed. There were so many other evil deeds, but selling dangerous compounds to the enemy, compounds that could be lethal to our soldiers on the battlefield—simply to line his pockets—that was a bridge too far even for his most ardent supporters.
There were hushed whispers that the assassination was an inside job, but no evidence ever surfaced. Shortly after the funeral, Americans moved on to other things. All but the most fanatical kooks tire of conspiracy theories eventually. In truth, President Wilder needed to die. Even more than Archbishop Darden.
I shower and compose myself before going out into the cabin. Gray’s there. His dark hair above the leather seat is what I see first. I square my shoulders as I approach. There’s no telling what fresh hell our next conversation might hold. But I’m well-rested and clear-headed. And more than anything, I don’t want to fight with him.
“Good morning, or afternoon,” I say, sitting across from him. “I haven’t slept that long in forever. Did you sleep?”
“Here and there. How are you?” he asks cautiously.
“A good night’s sleep always makes things clearer.”
“Have you decided?” He’s hopeful, and confident that we can make it work—but I’m not sure. I haven’t had as much time to rifle through the layers.
“If I want to be your partner in crime?”
He laughs, and I hope the sparkle in his eyes is a good barometer of his mood.
“No. I haven’t decided.”
“Would it be easier to make a decision if I slipped a ring on your finger?”
What? “No.” I put my hands up to stop any further discussion along those lines. “I need to go back home. To Mississippi.”
“Are there answers there?”
“I’m not sure, but something’s telling me that I need to go and see for myself if the little girl inside—and the woman she’s become—is strong enough to survive in your world without losing herself. Her values. Her very essence.”
He nods, resigned to the necessity of the trip. “Give me a day or two to put out fires at Wildflower, and then we can leave.”
I shake my head. “I need to find those answers alone. If you’re with me, the setting will be different, but it’ll all still be murky.”
Gray leans back and stretches his legs out, tapping his foot against mine. “Take Trippi with you.”
“I need to go alone.”
He gets up and takes the seat near me, arranging the chairs until our knees are practically touching. “We have no idea what we just left behind, or what the next few weeks hold. None. Take Trippi, or don’t go.”
Inky flickers have replaced the sparkle in his eyes. It’s about to storm, and it’s going to be a belly-washer.
“I will not be your prisoner.”
<
br /> “You damn sure will be, if that’s what’s necessary. Your safety, your life, isn’t up for negotiation.” His jaw is so tight, it’s twitching.
“Look,” he adds, with far less harshness. “I fully respect your need to get away from me, but there’s no reason for you to avoid Trippi. He doesn’t talk much. It’ll be like you’re alone.”
He’s cajoling. But it’s true. Trippi’s not a chatterbox. “I’ll think about it,” I mutter, but we both know Trippi’s coming with me.
Neither of us say another word until the wheels hit the tarmac.
Gray’s not happy, but he doesn’t fight me when I insist on going back to my house for the night. I’m sure there will be security all over the place, but I appreciate him not making a big fuss about it.
When it’s time to say good-bye, he cups my face and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is at once a slow burn, filled with pleas and promises, and a mournful dirge.
Before I pull away, I cradle his jaw, enjoying the prick of the stubble on my palm. “Do you know what my favorite quote is?” He tilts his head to the side, waiting for me to tell him. “Some men just need killin’.”
A lazy smile spreads slowly across his face, and embers of hope catch fire in his eyes. He pulls me into his chest. “I love you, Blue Eyes. Pack that away, and keep it with you.”
45
Delilah
I haven’t been home in a while, and there are chores to tend to that can’t wait until I return from the trip. At least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, I haven’t been to Mississippi since we buried Mr. Marshall, and I’m not looking forward to revisiting ghosts from the past.
By the time I work up the courage to go, nearly a week has passed.
I’m in my driveway when Trippi pulls up in a black Mercedes sedan, wearing a somber suit. The poor guy doesn’t have a chance to get out of the car before I start flappin’ my jaw. “We are not taking that thing.”
“Good morning, ma’am. It’s a comfortable ride. What exactly is the problem?”
“We’ll take my car.”
He glances at my soft-sided Jeep. “That would be a resounding no. I’m not driving that thing for fifteen hours through the back roads and across state lines.”
“Who said anything about you driving? You can ride shotgun.”
Poor guy looks like he ate something that didn’t agree with him. He’s right. I love my little Jeep, but it’s not built for a long trip. The bouncing gets old after a while.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do,” I tell him. “You go back to Wildflower, and choose a vehicle from the fleet that doesn’t look so Driving-Miss-Daisy-ish. And while you’re at it, put on a pair of jeans or some shorts, anything that looks less like you’re a pallbearer at my funeral. Makes me nervous.”
Trippi, God love him, is watching me like I’ve lost my mind.
“You can take the first shift behind the wheel,” I offer, as an olive branch.
He turns around and gets into the car, slamming the door so hard it rattles. But he doesn’t say a word, returning an hour later in a shiny black Grand Cherokee with a sunroof, and wearing a pair of faded jeans.
“Good choice.” I toss my bag in the backseat and take the passenger seat up front. I’m sure he’d prefer me in the back with the bag.
“Where we going?” he asks, backing out of the driveway.
“Gray didn’t tell you?”
“All he said was that I’m to escort you to Mississippi, and to pack casually. You’d give me the details.”
“Ever hear of Digger’s Hollow?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s near Vicksburg, in a corner of the state nobody visits.” That doesn’t seem to ring much of a bell for him, either. “It’s fifteen hours to the Mississippi border from here, but Digger’s Hollow is clear across the state. A few hours from Baton Rouge.”
He rubs a thumb along his jaw. “Enter it into the navigation.”
I play with the nav, but I can’t enter a location. “Something’s wrong. It’s not working. I’ll plug the address into my phone.”
Trippi is quiet. I am too, but only on the outside. Inside, my mind is hard at work, combing through every word Gray said on the plane. I’ve spent hours and hours this past week examining every side, weighing the evidence for and against. Do I want to be his partner, for life? Ring or no ring, that’s really what he’s asking.
I click through the four distinct parts that I keep coming back to. The part about him knowing Kyle is where I always end up first. I’m still embarrassed, but less so now, and I do understand about protecting one’s cover. I’ve all but forgiven him on that account.
Then there’s the beach house. Sweet Jesus. What else is there to say?
The Parisian Pop-Tart? I’m keeping him forever.
The president? While it does give me pause that the president he conspired to murder was also his father, some men just need killin’. I haven’t changed my mind about that.
Trippi’s phone rings forty-five minutes into the drive. “Yeah. Fine as a fiddle,” he says sarcastically. “She’s sitting right here, waiting for an opportunity to drive.” He scoffs. “Like that’s ever happening.”
I give him the stink-eye as he hands me the phone. “Hello.”
“Hey,” Gray says. “I know I’m supposed to give you some time, but I thought you’d like to know Saher’s plane landed in London overnight. She’s under the protection of the British government.”
“She went.” She went. I can barely form the words. “She got on the plane.” Oh, God. “I can’t believe it. I wasn’t sure she’d take the risk.” If I were in my kitchen right now, I’d be dancing and cheering loudly for her and her sweet little boy.
“She’s not out of the woods.”
The thought is sobering. He’s right. The celebration should wait.
“Neither are you,” he adds, emphatically. “This might be the most dangerous time. Watch yourself.”
“Thanks for letting me know about Saher. I feel like she and Amir have a fighting chance now.” There’s nothing more I want to say, but it pains me to hang up. “I’ll call you when we get back.”
I hand Trippi the phone, and he grunts a few times before ending the call.
* * *
We stop at a small convenience store for drinks, but I stay in the Jeep. When Trippi comes back, I’m in the driver’s seat. He shakes his head, but doesn’t complain.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Try not to kill me.”
“Just think. You could be with Baz right now on vacation, lying on the beach with someone warm and pretty.”
He doesn’t reply.
Trippi is a big, scary-looking dude, who gives off a Southern California vibe unless he’s trying to intimidate you. But he’s from the center of the country, if I remember correctly.
“You’re from Missouri?” I ask. I’m not into idle chitchat, but it’s better if I talk while I’m driving. It’ll keep me from disappearing inside my head. It’s dusk, and we’ve been on the road for more than twelve hours. I need to concentrate. Besides, I’ve already spent too much time in my head this trip.
“Yep. The heartland. Where mom, apple pie, football, and ribs rule.”
“Ribs are Southern food.”
“Pfft.”
“So no girlfriend, huh?”
“I’m gay, Delilah.”
Oh.
“You surprised?”
“With all that mom and apple pie shit, I figured you hooked up with the girl next door. But to be honest, I never gave your love life any thought until now.”
“Once someone knows I’m a SEAL, their mind never goes there. You ever met a gay SEAL?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You should check out some gay SEAL porn. It’s an eye-opener.” His laugh booms through the Jeep.
“I’ll pass. But thanks for the tip.”
“Your loss.” He reclines the seat a bit, and settles in. �
��What the fuck are we doing?”
“Going to Mississippi.”
“I get that part. But why?”
“That’s where I’m from. I need some answers.”
“You got family there?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“No. What got you so chatty all of a sudden?” I’m churlish, which he doesn’t deserve.
“I’m a chatty guy. Not at work. I have a role to play there—serious driver and bodyguard to a mouthy blonde who handles herself pretty well without anyone’s help.” He opens a bag of kettle corn and offers me some. I shake my head. “But we’re on a road trip,” he continues. “To find some answers in bumfuck Mississippi.”
I grab the bag of popcorn out of his hand. “I changed my mind.”
“If you don’t have family or friends there, where are those answers going to come from? Are we going to stake a flag and wait for a sign from God? Maybe a burning bush or a flood?” He snatches the popcorn from my lap.
“I don’t know,” I admit after stewing a bit. “Something’s been pulling me to Digger’s Hollow. Can’t explain it. I think the answers are there—although as we get closer, I’m not as sure anymore.”
Trippi gazes out the window. “I’m no expert. But I suspect the answers you’re lookin’ for are in Charleston, with Gray.”
“What are you, Dear Abby? I talked to Gray. There were no answers. Only more questions.”
“Oh, I get it. You were looking for something easy. I never pegged you for a lazy-ass woman.”
“I’m not,” I snarl.
“Finding answers takes a lot of work and a lifetime of discovery. They unfold one day at a time, one problem at a time. The good times, they don’t provide answers. Only the turbulent times.”
This conversation has me agitated. Of course, there are no answers in Digger’s Hollow. Well, we’ve come this far, and I’m not turning back now.
“Hey,” Trippi shouts. “Lift your foot up off the gas. I want to live to see the Chiefs accept the Lombardi trophy. It’s their year.”