Desperate Girls

by Laura Griffin

  She wouldn’t sit down.

  Two empty chairs right there, but she refused to sit, just kept pacing back and forth between the elevators and the vending machine. Every ten minutes, she walked over to pester the poor guy manning the nurses’ station.

  Erik kept his eyes on her, but she wouldn’t look at him. Which meant she was still pissed off.

  You’re like a robot. He wasn’t sure why her words got to him, but they did.

  Jeremy and Lindsey walked over. Lindsey’s partner, Max Gorman, was talking to several uniformed cops by the door.

  “What’s the update?” Jeremy asked Erik.

  “Still waiting.”

  “They’re working on his kidney?” Lindsey asked.

  “From what I hear, yeah. Think there’s damage to the spleen, too.”

  Jeremy shook his head. They both had seen enough combat to know this was serious.

  “How’s the search coming?” Erik asked.

  “Just talked to the head of the task force,” Jeremy said. “His name’s Art Caldwell. He’s with the local marshal’s office.”

  “He any good?” Erik asked, although he’d already drawn his own conclusions based on the shitty job they’d done locating Corby over the past nine days.

  “Former Navy.” He shrugged. “He’s okay.”

  “They’ve got two canine teams combing the area between the apartment and the courthouse,” Lindsey said. “And a FLIR helo just went up.”

  A helo equipped with forward-looking infrared radar could detect someone hiding in a bush or a ditch from five thousand feet in the air, which might have been useful if they were in a rural area. In an area like this, Erik figured it was a waste of time.

  “You know, his description is a pretty close match with one of the digital pictures we’ve been circulating,” Erik told Lindsey.

  “Which one?”

  “Shaved head, goatee.”

  “That should help.”

  He blew out a breath, frustrated beyond words at how close he’d been to grabbing the guy. If only he’d gone after him in those first seconds, before he even called Skyler. If only he’d been faster, Corby would be behind bars right now. Ross would be unharmed. And Brynn would be tucked safely in bed at home.

  He glanced across the waiting room to see her once again badgering the nurse for updates.

  The elevator doors opened, and a flush-faced Reggie got off. He went for the nearest huddle of cops, but Brynn intercepted him. Liam stepped away from the marshals to approach him.

  “I want someone’s head on a platter!” Reggie jabbed his finger at Liam’s chest. “I want to know how this happened! What the hell am I paying for?”

  Liam towered over the angry lawyer, absorbing the jabs. When Reggie finished his attack, Liam calmly started talking.

  “Heads up,” Jeremy said, and Erik turned around to see a man approaching him. Tall. Thin. He had a Glock on his hip and a U.S. marshal’s badge on a lanyard around his neck.

  “Erik Morgan? I’m Art Caldwell.”

  They shook hands, and Erik glanced past him to see Skyler coming out of what looked to be a private office or a staff room. She’d changed into a Dallas County EMT shirt but still wore her bloodstained jeans.

  “I know you filled out a report,” Caldwell said, “but I wanted to talk to you in person, get your impressions.”

  Erik gave Jeremy a questioning look.

  “I got her,” Jeremy assured him, meaning Brynn.

  Erik walked with Caldwell to the room Skyler had just come from, catching her eye in the hallway. She looked stressed. Having a protectee injured on your watch was hell.

  It was a small conference room with a sofa along one wall, probably so interns could collapse between shifts. Erik took a chair and checked his watch. Ross had been in surgery for nearly three hours.

  “I put everything in my report,” Erik told the marshal.

  He opened a file and pulled out a mug shot of Corby. As he slid it across the table, Erik realized it wasn’t a photo but a computer-generated sketch. Erik hadn’t seen this version, and it looked like it had been created based on the description he had given.

  “Our artist came up with that after talking to you and Vera Gomez.”

  “Who’s that?” Erik looked up.

  “The waitress at Mulligan’s Pub. She got a pretty good look at him when he smacked into her.”

  Erik studied the picture, noting the blue eyes and the neck tattoo of an eagle. He’d altered his appearance since his escape by shaving his head, growing the goatee, and getting a tattoo, but he wasn’t wearing colored contacts.

  “That could be a fake tat,” Erik said. “Prison doesn’t have a record of it.”

  “Could be.” Caldwell nodded. “Or maybe it’s recent. We didn’t see it in the surveillance footage from the prison. Then again, stopping to get inked up when you’ve got every badge in the state after you is a pretty bold move.”

  “So is stabbing a man in broad daylight. And taking potshots at a woman’s car.”

  Caldwell frowned. “You’re sure it was a gunshot the other day?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem confident in that assessment.”

  “I am.”

  Caldwell held his stare. Erik had no doubt the guy had checked his background and knew he’d served two tours in Afghanistan before joining the Secret Service.

  “He’s got a Remington seven hundred,” Erik said.

  “From McGowan’s gun cabinet.”

  Erik nodded. “That’s consistent with the weapon I heard. We believe he took the shot from the parking garage beside the Ames Theater. This evening, I was on my way over there to interview a possible eyewitness.”

  “Eyewitness?”

  “A janitor who might have seen him there Tuesday morning in a black Honda with a dented bumper, which is the same make I saw today. But then all this shit went down, so I had to cancel the interview. I rescheduled him for tomorrow.”

  “We’ll talk to him.”

  “Good. So will I.”

  Caldwell gave him a long, assessing look. “Listen, I won’t bullshit you. I don’t like you guys mucking around my case.”

  “Mucking?”

  “You guys want to take money to protect these people? Fine, take their money. Makes the locals’ job easier, so have at it. But as for investigating Corby? Don’t. He’s ours.”

  “Does he know that?”

  Caldwell’s expression hardened. “We’re bringing him in. And if any of you hired guns gets in the way, you’re going to find yourself in jail and facing federal obstruction charges.”

  Erik checked his watch. “Anything else you want to ask me about your fugitive?”

  “Don’t fuck with us, Morgan. Trust me, you do not want to be in the way when we take this guy down.”

  “When, not if?”

  “That’s right.”

  Erik nodded and stood up. “Looking forward to seeing that.”

  It was after eleven when Brynn finally left the hospital. Hayes drove her back to her apartment, and they rode the elevator up in silence. Brynn watched the digital numbers blearily, and the events of the past few hours tumbled through her mind.

  The door dinged open at the same moment her phone chimed with a text. It was Liz, wanting another update. She’d called her after Ross got out of surgery, but that was nearly an hour ago. Trailing behind Hayes, she scrolled through her other messages and saw that she’d missed one from her mom, one from Faith, and three from Emilio’s Café. The dinner order she’d placed earlier had completely vanished from her head.

  Hayes took out his key and let her into the apartment. Brynn glanced up and for some reason was surprised to see it looked exactly the same as when she’d rushed out of here hours ago.

  “Did you get dinner?” she asked Hayes.

  “No, ma’am.”

  She gritted her teeth at the “ma’am” but didn’t comment. “Who else is on tonight?”

  “Trent.”


  Disappointment welled inside her as she remembered Erik was off. He always seemed to give the late-night shifts to everyone else.

  Brynn dropped her purse on the coffee table. “Help yourself to whatever,” she told him. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Good night.”

  Brynn swallowed a bitchy comment as she walked to her bedroom.

  You get snippy when you’re upset.

  Erik was right. And she was feeling snippy in the extreme as she closed herself in her room and kicked off her sandals. Not bothering to turn on a light, she sank onto her bed and stared at the glowing phone in her hand. She debated calling Faith back. Reggie’s assistant was keeping the rest of the firm updated on Ross’s condition. Brynn had told Faith that Ross had pulled through the surgery. But she hadn’t told her about the grave look on the surgeon’s face when he’d finally emerged from the OR and given his prognosis to Ross’s sister, who’d driven up from Austin.

  “The next twelve hours are critical,” the doctor had informed her. “We’ll know more in the morning.”

  Brynn put her phone on the nightstand. She didn’t have the heart to talk to Faith right now. She’d already spent an hour on the phone with Liz from the hospital. The conversation had felt cathartic at the time. But now the same storm of emotions that had churned through her in the waiting room was back again. Brynn closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

  Her phone pinged. Cursing, she grabbed it off the nightstand and read yet another message from her sister: You okay? You want to talk?

  No, she wasn’t okay, and no, she didn’t want to talk. Home now and going 2 bed, she replied. Call u tomorrow.

  She stared down at her phone, and a dull ache expanded in her chest. She hated when she got this way—lonely but antisocial. She needed to talk to someone, but she wanted everyone to leave her alone. She’d been this way since she could remember, and it didn’t make any sense. And the worst part was that her sister understood and no doubt knew that she was sitting here staring at her phone on the verge of tears.

  She crossed the darkened room and flipped on the bathroom light. After splashing water on her face, she glanced in the mirror and was annoyed to discover she looked every bit as stressed and sleep-deprived as she felt. She patted her face dry with a towel, then traded the jeans and sweatshirt she’d worn to the hospital for her silky black PJs.

  The door to the apartment opened and closed, and voices sounded in the hallway. Brynn went still.

  Erik?

  She listened intently. It was definitely Erik out there talking to Hayes. Had he stopped by to check on her? Anxiety filled her at the thought of seeing him right now. Her nerves were raw, her emotions right on the surface.

  The front door opened and closed again.

  Brynn stood there a full two minutes debating what to do. Her stomach growled at her, reminding her she hadn’t eaten, and the tray of sandwiches she’d passed up at the courthouse was a distant memory.

  “Screw it,” she muttered.

  She crept into the hallway. The living room was dark except for the flicker of the television. Someone was here, but was it Erik or Hayes?

  She ventured into the living room and found Erik in front of the TV, his arm stretched over the back of the sofa. Instead of the bloodstained clothes he’d had on at the hospital, he now wore a gray T-shirt and jeans.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  She walked into the kitchen.

  “Thought you went to bed,” he said.

  She didn’t answer. He was watching her, but she couldn’t read the look on his face.

  She opened the fridge. “I thought you were off now.”

  “I traded shifts with Trent.”

  “Why?” She turned to look at him.

  “He needed a break.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned and surveyed the contents of the fridge. Her stomach started to flutter, and suddenly food was the last thing she wanted.

  “You sure?” she asked.

  Erik walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter beside her. Up close, she saw that his hair was damp, so evidently he’d showered when he stopped by his hotel. “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She took out a bottle of wine. “I saw him at the hospital, and he looked sort of shell-shocked.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and gazed down at her. “How are you?”

  “Me? Fine.”

  But she got a hot, tight feeling in the back of her throat. She took a glass from the cabinet and poured some wine.

  “Brynn.”

  “What?”

  He stepped closer. “How are you, really?”

  “Fine. I told you.” She plunked the bottle on the counter. “Want a glass?”

  “No.”

  Of course not. No alcohol. No caffeine. He was such a Boy Scout all the time—no temptations, no cravings, no distractions.

  Including her.

  He stared down at her, and the intensity in his eyes made her pulse pick up. He looked edgy. Not nearly as calm as he’d been any of the other nights when they’d stood in this same kitchen.

  She dropped her gaze to his broad chest and folded arms. She noticed the angry red scratch peeking out from his sleeve. Tracing her fingertip over his skin near the cut, she felt his body tense.

  Just a few short hours ago, he’d been chasing a vicious killer who’d already left a trail of bodies in his wake. Erik had gone after him, without regard for the danger to himself and all the things that could have gone horribly wrong.

  She glanced up at him. “You never told me what happened.”

  “Scratched it on some fencing.”

  “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, she lifted his sleeve to examine the cut. It was long but shallow, and she slowly ran her finger down the taut skin of his shoulder where the cut started.

  His hand settled on her hip, drawing her closer, and Brynn’s heart started to thrum.

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  He kissed her.

  It was soft at first but quickly grew deep and hungry, and she felt a wave of relief that that last searing kiss hadn’t been a one-off, because she’d convinced herself that maybe it was, that maybe she’d built it up too much in her mind.

  But she hadn’t built up anything. He really kissed this way, like he couldn’t get enough of her.

  Brynn slid her hands behind his neck and pulled him closer. She loved the way he held her. The way he took control. He shifted her so she was backed against the counter, and excitement shuddered through her.

  He gripped her around her waist and lifted her onto the granite, and she gave a startled gasp as she clutched his neck. Their gazes locked. They were at eye level now, and she saw that intent look on his face again.

  He slid his hands under her silky top, and she twined her legs around him, pulling him close. He bent forward to go after her neck.

  “You taste good.” His breath was hot against her throat, and lust shot through her as his fingers traced over her nipple. He pushed the fabric up and bent down, and the warm pull of his mouth made her moan softly.

  He stopped what he was doing to look at her. “If you want me to leave you alone, tell me now.”

  She tightened her legs around him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone.”

  Heat simmered in his eyes. He kissed her mouth again, dipping his hands below the waist of her pants. He lifted her up and slid them off her legs, setting her down on the cool granite. She watched the desire in his eyes as she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him close to kiss him. His hands slid over her bare thighs, and she ran her fingers through his hair, as she’d wanted to do since she’d first met him. She felt giddy finally getting her chance. She loved the way he tasted, the way he kissed her, the way his capable hands moved over her skin. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, and she tipped her head back to enjoy it.

  His guard was down.
She wasn’t sure what had changed, but he was acting on all those pent-up urges she’d seen in his eyes since their first meeting. She soaked it all in—the heat, the anticipation, the rasp of his stubble against her tender skin. Everything he was doing made her feel drunk and needy.

  “Brynn?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Hold on to me.”

  She clutched the back of his neck as he lifted her off the counter and walked her out of the kitchen. She buried her face against his shoulder, squeaking as they passed through the foyer.

  “What?” he asked gruffly.

  “I hope Hayes doesn’t walk in.”

  “He’s watching the cameras.”

  He carried her into her room, kicked the door shut, and lowered her onto the bed, and her heart lurched at the sight of his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the faint glow from the bathroom. Her room was dim, but she had no trouble seeing the determined look on his face, and she felt a rush of excitement to have him here alone.

  He watched her as he unbuckled his belt. He took off his holster and put it on the nightstand, then reached into his back pocket and added his wallet to the pile of leather and metal.

  He rested a knee between her legs, and the mattress creaked under his weight as he leaned over her.

  “I’m on the pill,” she whispered.

  Heat sparked in his eyes, and she felt another rush of anticipation.

  “Good to know.”

  He kissed her as he parted her legs and settled his weight on her, and every nerve in her body seemed to fire to life. Everything about him was intoxicating—his mouth and his hands and the musky scent of his skin—and she felt wonderfully dizzy as he kissed her and pressed himself against her core.

  Sliding her fingers under his shirt, she felt the smooth muscles of his back. His hand glided up her thigh, and she arched against him.

  He pulled back, resting his weight on his elbow as he gazed down at her, his look unreadable. Was he having doubts? Now?

  She pulled him down to kiss her, wrapping her legs around him again. She combed her fingers through his short hair, and his tongue tangled with hers as he moved against her, making her entire body ache and throb until all she could feel was a blinding need. She reached her hand between them and unsnapped his jeans. She got his zipper down and pushed at his clothes, but he caught her hand.