Morning Star

by S. Massery

  “Charities?”

  Mrs. Paloma grunts.

  “Art,” I guess.

  “She found an impressive Pollock for sale out of Chicago. It was part of a private collection.”

  “Those are worth a pretty penny, eh?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  I find myself nodding. It sounds like my mother.

  “And Richard?” I refrain from calling him Surly Dick around Mrs. Paloma. Or Dick. Or Surly. All of which make me want to belly laugh at the absurdity of such a name, even after all this time. I’m such a fucking child.

  “Well enough,” she murmurs. “You know they don’t talk to me. Your mother leaves lists. Sometimes she’s here when I come by, but it’s rare. Mr. Surly is never around. Always working, those two.”

  I shrug and pick up the plates. Grace had a plateful, and I had two. Mrs. Paloma has been picking at a piece of French toast… and there’s still a lot left.

  “You ordered too much,” she says. She stands, too, her bones creaking. “Let me.”

  I pull the plates away and look at her. “Not on my watch,” I mumble. “Sit.”

  She gives me a smile, lowering herself back into the chair. “You’re too kind.”

  “Yeah, well. Only to you.”

  “How did you meet Grace?”

  I sigh. The conversation was bound to turn to her. So I give Mrs. Paloma the abridged version: I met her at a club—no, not mine—and then I had to go overseas for a little while. Straighten out a mess that Griffin had got himself into. When I got back, she was engaged to an evil man. And I rescued her.

  Mrs. Paloma is sighing like I’m Grace’s knight in shining armor. She grabs my arm as I pass, tugging me to a halt. “Love is tragic,” she tells me.

  I’m surprised to see the tears in her eyes. “My late husband—” Her throat bobs. “He loved me until he died. I’m cursed to love him until I die.”

  I don’t know what the hell love feels like. The closest I’ve been to a girl, emotionally, was before I joined the Marines. Since then, it’s been one-night stands and keeping the hell away from anyone who looks like they may want to stick around for longer than six hours.

  Until Grace, anyway.

  I’m tempted to ask Mrs. Paloma more—what love is really about. But her eyes are filling with tears, and she dabs at her face with a napkin.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  She rises from the table, reaching up and patting my cheek again. “No bother, Dalton. I’ll leave you and Grace alone. If you aren’t here when I return next week… It was good to see you.”

  I offer her a sad smile. “It’s good to see you, too. I’ll try to visit more.”

  She harrumphs, and I laugh. And then she’s out the door, sliding into her car and driving away.

  I turn back and look around, wondering what the hell we’re supposed to do now. Grace has been upstairs for more than an hour.

  A week ago, I would’ve known without a doubt. I probably would’ve lit a cigarette and moped around, because my mindset swings from drastic highs to epic lows.

  Maybe I should look into that.

  The fatigue is creeping up on me. Sleep is rare these days, but every now and again, I crash. From the pull of darkness along the edges of my subconscious, a crash is imminent.

  Once I’m in the house, I’m aware of how silent it is. Grace is asleep upstairs, and I don’t really want to touch that space with a ten-foot pole. I flop onto the couch, pulling a blanket over me, and flip so I’m on my side. I have to face a doorway, and I keep my eyes on it until they drift closed.

  And once I’m asleep, I dream.

  Bomber planes fly overhead. There’s a sharp whistle, then the impact of the missile. Our bodies jerk as the ground rolls beneath us.

  I reach over and hook my arm under Zach’s armpits, dragging him away from the door. Blood pours from his shoulder, and I try not to focus on it. My stomach revolts.

  The smell of death climbs up around us and the earth keeps shaking. There’s so much fucking blood. I’m coated in it, from my fingers to elbows. And Griffin keeps yelling at me, patting me down like it’s me who’s bleeding.

  I throw my elbows, trying to get him off me. It’s not me. It’s Zach, I want to yell. My mouth is filled with blood and bones. I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. I can’t—

  “Dalton!”

  I jerk upright, coming face to face with Grace.

  She reaches out and cups my cheek, staring at me in the eyes.

  Most people flinch at the thought of a nightmare.

  “You were yelling Zach’s name,” she says in a low voice.

  Her palm on my skin makes me feel normal. When she starts to pull away, I raise my hand and trap hers against me. Her lips part, and I swallow. There’s a copper taste in my mouth. I must’ve bit my tongue.

  “I have nightmares,” I admit.

  “Well, you’re sleeping on a couch,” she says. “That’s probably part of the reason.”

  I crack a smile and battle off the urge to scrub my arms until they sting. “Maybe. Did you sleep?”

  “Until you woke me up, yes.”

  I look at my watch. “It’s almost noon.”

  “I think that means we can sleep for another few hours,” she reasons. “But… Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shrug. “Do you even want to hear about it?”

  “I’m curious,” she admits. “Something that can make you toss and turn must be the worst thing I can imagine.”

  I could talk about it. That might make it go away, at least for a little while.

  “I’m back in the middle of a warzone,” I admit in a low voice. “Bombs dropping all around us, Zach is hit—” I shake my head. “It’s a warped version of the truth. That’s the problem.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We were in Syria,” I start. If I close my eyes, I can picture the building we were in. “We were only there for a grab-and-go.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “An intelligence officer was selling information to the Syrian president. Since the officer knew CIA protocol and how to avoid capture, we were sent in to do things in a more unusual way.” I grimace. “It was a shitshow from the start.”

  The translator and driver who was supposed to meet us at the airport didn’t show, so SI sent a fucking tank to collect us.

  Wyatt was the only one who kept his cool. Going straight to the US base was the last thing we wanted, but we couldn’t exactly have them drop us off downtown. Jackson kept swearing under his breath. Mason was silent. Griffin snapped at us. And Zach, well, he was a hair’s breadth from flying off the rails.

  The ride to the base was tense. Our driver was chatty, on his second deployment. He was originally from Des Moines, Iowa, and eagerly awaiting leave time. His wife just had a baby. Their third together. He kept repeating how he would just love to hold them. New baby smell, man. Nothing like it.

  And then…

  I guess we hit an IED, because suddenly we were flipping.

  Cue the chaos.

  Zach, sitting across from me, reached out and grabbed me on instinct. We flew against our harnesses, metal screeching across the road. We slammed into a building, and everyone lay still for a second. And then Wyatt was unclipping himself, climbing over Jackson to reach the driver.

  “Dead,” he called. “Fuck. Skye, Laurent, with me. Anders and Kav, round the other side. Quick, before they pin us down. Dobbs, get us a fucking evac route. Everyone move.”

  Grace is squeezing my hand, and I blink down at her. “We got out of the vehicle and took turns getting into the building. Zach was the last one up—he needed an extra second to rig the door. And then…”

  I shift.

  Snipers.

  They were on the rooftops surrounding us, uncaring that we weren’t the US Army. They only knew that we were American, and we should die.

  “In my dream, Zach gets shot, and Griff thinks the blood on me is mine. He won’t listen whe
n I tell him that Zach is bleeding out in my arms.”

  “He didn’t really get shot?”

  I shake my head. “No. Well, not then.” He was hit only a few months later by a ghost we were chasing through the Middle East. A ghost that Griffin had killed a few weeks ago.

  “So…”

  “Mason radioed… I don’t know, someone who was able to send reinforcements. We were evacuated out and delivered to base.” I wasn’t used to being in so much direct action. I liked—I had been trained—to be apart from it all. “Our cover was blown, so we were redirected the next day. New mission. New orders. We returned to that same city weeks later to find the intelligence officer hanging by his ankles outside the presidential palace.”

  Grace winces, and I instantly regret adding that last part. But it’s the truth. It’s what happens to traitors.

  She stands, pulling at my hand. “Come with me.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but I’m not about to argue with her. I’m still exhausted, emotionally worn out from the dream, and now… Hell. Grace is too fucking pretty for my current state of mind. Devious and beautiful—a lethal combination.

  Against my better judgement, I follow her up the stairs.

  “One kiss, and she’s taking me to bed,” I mutter.

  “I heard that.” She shoots me a smirk. “And I’m not. Well, not really.”

  I pause in the doorway. The comforter is thrown back on one side, a dent in the pillow where her head was. “I don’t share a bed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” I cross my arms. I’ve heard too many horror stories about guys who wake up from nightmares strangling their wives, holding them down. Or they come to and have their firearm in their hands, trying to shoot off demons that don’t exist.

  “I do not accept your reasoning.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say.

  She just raises her eyebrows. “Look, you’re supposed to be protecting me, right? That’s your big thing?”

  I grunt. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, well, how are you supposed to do that on no sleep? You didn’t sleep at Colin’s. You probably didn’t sleep the night before, since you were too busy shooting up Javier’s house…”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So you’re going to lie down and sleep, and I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you.”

  I’m struck by how weird and nice of an offer that is. And really, I’m fucking tired. I stop putting up a fight and just go with it, lying down in the spot she was just in a few minutes ago. The mattress is still warm from her body.

  I tense when she climbs onto the bed next to me. But instead of getting close, she adjusts her pillows and sits cross-legged beside me.

  “Sleep,” she says. She tips her head back against the headboard.

  I turn away from her. My gaze latches on to the door.

  Surprisingly enough, I sleep.

  There are no dreams. No blood or bombs. It feels like I’m floating down a river, warm water caressing my body. I twist, reaching for something I can’t understand. And then I sink deeper.

  17

  GRACE

  I wake slowly. It takes me a minute to realize that I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I told Dalton I was going to look out for him, give him the chance to catch up on rest. Seeing him on the couch, moaning like someone had stabbed him, sent ice straight through my chest. And when he woke, his body jack-knifing up and almost smashing into mine, I just wanted to comfort him.

  There was true torment in his eyes, unveiled for a split second before his guard slammed back down. Honestly, I didn’t even realize there was a guard—or anything behind his glares and scowls—to make me want to dig deeper.

  Sure, there were some nice moments. The kiss. The whole saving thing. But those had twisted around in my mind. I’m not sure if I trust those moments.

  I realize that my cheek is plastered against something firm. Harder than a pillow. I open my eyes to find that I’ve glued myself to Dalton’s side. My head rests on the crook of his shoulder, way too close to his face. His arm is wrapped around me, his hand hot on my hip.

  The last time I was this close to a boy, he disappeared.

  I tilt my head up and look at Dalton’s face. He’s peaceful, his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. But when I try to roll away, his fingers grip my skin. He moves with me, throwing his leg over mine, and suddenly we’re… spooning.

  “Stay,” he whispers in my ear.

  I wriggle a little, my cheeks flaming. This is my fault. I just had to close my eyes for a second. To put my legs under the covers once he started breathing deeply. And then we just gravitated toward each other.

  “Grace.”

  “I just—”

  “Don’t ruin this moment. Sleep.”

  I exhale. I wonder if he can feel how rapidly my heart is beating. If he knows that being this close to him doubles my worry—no, triples.

  If I start caring about him, then something may happen. And I’d care about the end result. Would he live through this? Would I?

  “You’re overthinking,” he groans.

  His lips press into my neck, and I can’t control my shiver.

  “You’re bad,” I say. This is almost too intimate to handle. “What if—”

  “Grace.”

  I turn back and find his eyes on me. His lips crash down on mine, and sparks fly through me. I press into him, our mouths parting and tongues fighting. He nips my lower lip, raking it with his teeth, and I grab the back of his head.

  No one’s ever kissed me quite like this.

  I bite him back, eager to inflict a fraction of the pain he’s caused me. I don’t know if I love him or hate him. My world keeps flipping upside down.

  After what feels like an initial battle—not quite as angry as our first kiss—things slow down. Our lips slide against each other. I don’t want it to end, but eventually, all good things must. He leans back slightly, meeting my eyes, and gives me a grin.

  I swallow. He’s back to his cocky self, it would appear. There’s no trace of the broken man I saw earlier.

  “When’s the last time you were back here?” I ask.

  He shrugs and pushes up on one arm, hovering over me. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  His hand trails from my hip up my side, skating over the edge of my bra and back down. I shouldn’t like that he’s touching me, but I do.

  “You’re really fucking beautiful,” he says. “You want to know about my childhood? More of it, anyway?”

  I bite my lip. “I don’t know.”

  “What about your family?” he asks. “Your mom?”

  “Gone,” I mutter. “She ran off when I was a pre-teen. Used the cliché excuse, ‘Going to get groceries, honey!’” I take on a fake, a high-pitched voice to depict my mother. “Never came back.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  I scowl. “You trying to be my therapist?”

  He winks, ducking down and pecking a quick kiss on my lips. I like that almost as much as the longer ones, because my heart gives a little flutter. Like butterflies shaking out their wings before they fly away.

  “I saw various therapists for most of my life,” he says. “They must’ve rubbed off on me.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Great.”

  “So, your dad never started dating again?”

  “Nope.” I pause. “Well, he started a love affair with alcohol. That’s fun.”

  He winces. “Yikes.”

  I hesitate. “I have a confession.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I called him,” I whisper. I look at his chest instead of his face. There’s a scorpion tattoo on his rib cage, and I stare at it while he stares at me. “When Isabella and Antoni first arrived, and Colin left me in his office.”

  He closes his eyes, leaning down and resting his forehead against my shoulder. “You called your dad from a landline.”

  “I just wanted to see that he was okay,” I say
, grabbing his shoulders. “I didn’t realize that he’d tell—”

  “His boss?” Dalton snorts. “No fucking shit.”

  “No need to be rude about it,” I mutter.

  “And was he?” Dalton asks. “Okay, I mean.”

  “Yeah. Worried, but—” I recall how he’d sounded. How his words slurred just a bit, and he’d stumbled around the conversation. He’d asked where I was on repeat, but I never answered. It didn’t even occur to me that he would check the caller ID, either at the time or when he was sober. “He was drunk.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dalton says. He lifts himself off me, up and away.

  I glance at the clock, then toward the window. The sun is low.

  “You calling him risked everything.”

  I focus back on Dalton, and I realize that he’s irritated. He pulls on a new shirt and rummages for clean pants. He has an erection that strains against his boxers, but I only catch a glimpse of it, and then he turns away.

  “I can’t apologize.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Maybe I should apologize. It wasn’t just me that I endangered—it was Dalton and his friend and two innocent people searching for shelter.

  He shakes his head. “Right. Didn’t expect you to, love.”

  I flinch. “Don’t call me that.”

  It’s Marco’s go-to pet name. My skin crawls at the word leaving Dalton’s lips. I rub my arms, trying to rid myself of the feeling—and avoid hitting my wound—when Dalton comes back.

  He touches my chin with one finger, lifting my head so I look up at him.

  “What did that bastard do to you?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “Clearly not.”

  “Anything but ‘love’, please,” I murmur. “He—”

  I press my lips together. Nope. Pieces of memory flash through my mind. I would’ve done anything to escape Marco’s gaze. I was the opposite of what I thought he wanted: loud, brazen, secretive. In the end, it just made him want to control me.

  “He’s going to come after me.” I clear my throat. “I don’t think he knows how to let anything go, and he thinks…”

  “He thinks you’re his,” Dalton finishes. “But you’re not. Okay? I’ve got you. Marco can go to fucking Hell.”