by Unknown
That’s right. He’d almost forgotten. Phoebe had read his file. “Susan Bergeron wasn’t related. Not by blood,” Ian said, pulling Phoebe close so that she was nestled in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder. He could now see the top of her head, and feel her breasts against his side and chest. God, he didn’t want to stop touching her. Not ever. “She was a friend.” He laughed. “A savior, actually. She let Aaron live with her so I could be a selfish prick and run away and join the Navy.”
For a few years, the arrangement had worked happily. Ian had just gone through BUD/S, the rigorous SEAL training, when he got the call about Susan’s fatal stroke. He took extended leave, both for the funeral and to spend time with Aaron, who’d just lost the closest thing to a mother that either of them had ever known.
“That must’ve been hard, when she died,” Phoebe murmured.
“It was,” Ian said. “Aaron was devastated.”
“I meant, hard for you,” she said, pulling back and pushing herself up so that she could look into his eyes again. “You must’ve been devastated. I mean, to lose someone you thought of as a savior?”
And yes, he had used that word, hadn’t he? “I couldn’t be,” Ian admitted. “Devastated. I had to take care of Aaron.”
“Yeah, but that’s not how it works,” Phoebe told him. “You feel what you feel, whether you want to feel it or not, whether you show it or talk about it or not.”
“Yeah, well, when you don’t show it or talk about it, it’s easier to set aside,” he admitted. “That was a hard year. Maybe the hardest ever.”
“Harder than being in jail?”
Ian laughed. “Oh, yeah. Compared to that, Northport was a cakewalk. This situation was extra bad, because on top of Susan’s dying, which was awful, it also looked like I was going to have to leave the Teams to take care of Aaron,” he told her, then explained, “The SEAL Teams. I’d made it in by then, and it was … an honor that I wanted to keep. It was proof that I was worthy.” Jesus, what was he telling her? He swiftly went on. “Anyway, I was sure I’d have to take at least some kind of temporary leave, but then my CO found this scholarship program. To Brentwood. Aaron said he wanted to go, but I knew he didn’t. It was not the right school for a kid like him.”
“If he hadn’t gone, he wouldn’t have met Sheldon,” Phoebe pointed out.
That was true. But it was long past time to end this conversation.
Except she moved closer, shifting her leg up and across him, all that smooth skin sliding up his thighs and then even higher as she said, “Rewind a sec, back to Berto.” She’d also started tracing the muscles in his chest and abs, and it all felt too freaking great to make her stop. Not yet anyway. “I’m still not sure why he was at fault for believing Francine when she said she’d hooked up with Aaron. I mean, she said it, right? Was he supposed to read her mind and know that she was lying?”
“No,” Ian said. “Yes. Maybe. Okay, I know it sounds crazy, but I’m gonna go with yes. Berto abandoned Francine because he didn’t have faith. She’d told him, repeatedly, that she loved him. Told him and showed him, too. I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to work, right? You let down your guard, you let this one person see you without all the bullshit and the walls and the pretense and …”
He was suddenly hyperaware of the way Phoebe was watching him—the quiet somberness in her eyes, the empathy and understanding on her face. But she didn’t say anything this time—no comments, no questions, no quips. She just watched and waited.
So he kept going, because there was a point here to be made. “Berto knew her. She risked a lot to let him really know her. She’s sweet, she’s funny, she’s smart, and she’s lived most of her life in danger of some kind, so she’s cautious and wary. And it’s insane that she would just suddenly, randomly hook up with some high school kid—some friend of Sheldon’s? Come on. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure that out. But when push came to shove, when it mattered the most, Berto chose to believe this one, single, completely fucking insane thing.” He searched for the exact words to explain this to her. “Look, I know it seems crazy when you define it as his ability to read her mind, and that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that this kid had a ton of data to use when he hit this particular what-the-fuck scenario. And he chose to accept this one jarringly dissonant statement that Francine told his father, even though it clashed with everything else—everything else—he knew about her.
“He didn’t have faith in her,” he said again. “And because of that he lost it all.”
Phoebe nodded. “I get it,” she said softly. “But I also get that it’s really hard not to be stupid when love’s involved.”
“No kidding.”
They lay there in silence for several long moments.
“So what awful thing did Aaron do to Shel?” Phoebe asked. “You said …?”
“Yeah. Okay. Part two of this amazing fuckup,” Ian told her on an exhale. “Aaron got expelled while I was prepping to go to Afghanistan with my team, and suddenly I had forty-eight hours to get to Florida, collect him from school, and figure out what the hell I was gonna do with him. Shelly, meanwhile, was dealing with the aftermath of Berto’s meltdown. See, when Berto finally realized that Francie lied to protect her gay brother—when he realized that he’d majorly fucked things up, his head exploded and he took it out on Shel. So Shel wrote Aarie an email, telling him it was over, breaking things off—in an attempt to keep him safe.”
“Which … you think was somehow, in some way, the equivalent of the lie that Francine told?”
“That email was just as bullshit insane,” Ian told her. “Stay away from me. I wish I’d never met you. It was just as dissonant. So yes. After getting that email, Aaron abandoned Shelly for the exact same reasons that Berto abandoned Francine. Because he didn’t have faith. Well, he did, but I talked him out of it, freaking genius that I am.”
He stopped, suddenly aware that his voice had broken, and that his eyes had filled with tears. You have no idea what it means to be in a relationship, to be part of a real family.… Aaron was right about that. Ian didn’t know—he hadn’t known—and he’d fucked it up for his little brother, big-time.
Here and now, though, he could feel Phoebe listening. Just waiting for him to explain.
Ian swallowed. Cleared his throat. Kept his eyes closed as he tried to push away all of the bullshit emotion that blurred his vision. “They had this plan for their future. Go north together. To Boston. They’d get an apartment, and Aaron would work while Shel went to school. MIT. Shel got a scholarship.”
“That’s kind of amazing,” Phoebe said softly. “That they recognized how well they fit together, that they wanted forever, starting all the way back when they were teenagers.”
“Yup, it was amazing—until I dropped in and saved the day,” Ian said. “Aaron knew that the breakup email Shel sent him was crap. He wanted to go to Massachusetts and wait for Shel to show and … I stopped him. I made him enlist. I made him accept the lie, to admit defeat. I made him join the Marines—because anything else was fucking inconvenient. For me.”
“To be fair to you, he was just a kid, and you were responsible for his safety.”
“He was days from turning eighteen,” Ian countered. “Did you know, Shelly loved Aaron so much, he spent four years searching for him? If I hadn’t butted in and convinced Air that having his heart broken was just another normal part of life, Aaron would’ve been waiting and Sheldon would’ve found him, that very first August. But no, I was an impatient douchebag with places to go.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, but Afghanistan isn’t exactly high on most people’s list of fascinating travel destinations. And I think the phrase you originally used was selfish prick.”
Uh-oh. He had said that, hadn’t he?
“Although, I’m not sure how accurate that is, considering how many years you’d spent raising your brother—back when you were supposed to be a kid yourself.”
Jesus, he di
dn’t want to talk about this. Ian closed his eyes, and they both lay there for several long moments, just breathing.
Phoebe finally laughed—just a little. It was more of a voiced smile than an actual chuckle. “I can tell from your terrified silence,” she said, “that you’ve started praying to whatever God you believe in that I don’t say something like Wow, Eee, with those feelings of intense responsibility, it’s really not that surprising that you would sacrifice your own life and go to jail as part of some Quixotic quest to protect Aaron and Sheldon.”
Ian didn’t open his eyes, because she was right. He really didn’t want to go there.
“There are some mistakes you can’t fix. I think I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of what you said, isn’t it? About Berto. But it applies to you, too. Right? And since you can’t fix four lost years, you, what? Try, instead, to get redemption some other, only nearly impossible way?” She shifted then, and kissed him. “Don’t panic. I know this thing we’re doing here is temporary, and that your craziness about me is going to pass. Maybe it already has.” She laughed lightly. “I suspect I’m helping it along. But you’re a smart guy with a really big brain, and it seems silly to take me as a temporary girlfriend, and then only use me for sex.”
As Phoebe spoke, her hand—the one she’d been using to trace circles on his chest and stomach—moved lower. She shifted her leg, too, found his semi-erection, and stroked him, her fingers soft and warm.
“It’s nice to have someone to talk to,” she murmured. “Every now and then. You know, you asked me, a couple days ago, about why I carry a gun.”
Ian opened his eyes at that. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she interrupted, smiling at him. “But at this point, I’m pretty sure you won’t judge me—certainly not as much as I judge myself. See, I had a roommate in college—a really good friend—Emma. Junior year, she was sexually assaulted. Without going into much detail: it was bad, and it really changed her. She became so fearful—I’m not blaming her, of course, but her fear ruled her. It overwhelmed her. I went with her to all these support groups, hoping she’d find some relief, but …” She shook her head. “Nothing helped. I finally signed us up for a class at a firing range. I thought maybe that would empower her, but it didn’t help, either. She dropped out of the class after the second week. She ended up leaving college—she just went home and hid. I think she’s still hiding. I don’t know—we lost touch.”
“And I would judge you because … you knew when it was time to let her go?” Ian asked.
“Being her friend got really hard,” Phoebe admitted. “And yes, I let her go, but I stayed with the class at the firing range. I was good at it—I’m not a great marksperson, but I’m pretty good, and … I liked it. I took more classes, learned all about gun safety, got licensed.… I did it to help her, but I benefited.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Ian told her.
“I feel as if I should’ve done more,” she said.
“I know that feeling well,” he said, but of course she already knew that—as perceptive as she was.
“Thank you for letting me talk,” she said with a smile that was pure innocence.
Ian smiled back at her, because they both knew damn well that he would be willing to “talk” to her for hours, provided she kept touching him like that.
“Of course, if you don’t want to have a conversation,” Phoebe added, “you know how to shut me up.”
Ian laughed and shifted slightly in an attempt to see her face. “Tragically, I’m out of condoms,” he said, losing himself a little in her eyes and her touch.
“Do you think Yashi would say anything if we put them on the list? Or would they just appear?”
“I’m betting they’ll just appear,” Ian said.
“Hmm,” she said. “Future tense. I approve that message. Present tense—we’re both extremely creative. Of course, we could always talk more—”
Ian felt her smile as he kissed her and swept his hands down her incredible body. And then, as he waited for Francine to call and Berto to arrive, he did his best to limit Phoebe’s talking to exclamations of the affirmative, and whispers of his name, while he ignored the echo of Aaron’s voice that resounded over and over in his head.
You fucking coward.
He didn’t have to worry about pushing Phoebe away.
Life was going to do that for him.
“Wait until I give the signal that we’re clear before you let anyone take Berto out of the trunk,” Francine told Martell as he pulled his car into the FBI safe house garage.
He nodded, his eyes kind as he glanced over at her. “I got it. Take your time.”
Fahking great. Confirmation of her worst fears—that she still looked like shit on a stick. Francine did not cry beautifully. She knew that. Her nose got red and her eyes got puffy. And the whole mess took way too long to fade.
And Martell understood that Francine did not want Berto seeing her like this.
The surveillance van pulled in alongside them, and the nanosecond that the garage doors closed behind both vehicles, Francine got out of the car and headed quickly for the door into the house, hoping to make it into the privacy of the bathroom before having to talk to anyone.
She’d purposely waited to send Ian a text saying 10 until they were only two minutes away so that she’d have the chance to splash cool water on her face before seeing him.
But he’d apparently heard the mechanism for the automatic doors going up and then down, and had leapt into action. He was waiting just inside the door.
He’d obviously been resting while they were out. His feet were bare and his hair was messy, but his gaze was sharp, and he was immediately alert to the fact that she’d been crying.
“Fuck you,” she told him—a preemptive strike, when he started to open his mouth to comment as she pushed past him.
Martell was right behind her, and she heard him tell Ian in a low voice, “She needs a couple minutes. That was harder for all of us than we thought it would be.”
And great, the door to the first floor half bath was closed. Francine headed for it anyway, even as she sharply told Martell, “Why don’t you do something useful instead of speaking for me? Like move our stuff into that empty bedroom.”
“It’s not empty anymore,” Ian said. “Phoebe’s in there.”
Of course she was. “Well, she’ll have to get her big ass out.” As Francie tried the knob anyway, it turned beneath her hand and the door opened to reveal who else but the owner of the big ass of which Francine had just loudly spoken. Loudly enough for Phoebe to have heard her through the door.
But the look of annoyance that the taller woman wore morphed into one of sisterhood and sympathy as she saw Francie’s mottled face.
But Francine had time for neither, even as Phoebe quickly surrendered the bathroom.
“You’re going to have to move your things out of that bedroom,” she told Phoebe as she went inside and started to close the door.
“No,” Ian said from across the room. “She won’t.”
“Berto’s really not going to believe—” Francine started to argue, but then she stopped as she looked from Ian to Phoebe and back. Ian’s T-shirt was on inside out, and Phoebe was also barefoot and disheveled, as if she’d dressed hurriedly, too. She was also actually blushing, a faint line of pink beneath those smart-girl glasses. It wasn’t hard to do the math. Especially since anyone with eyes had seen it coming from miles away. “Oh, how cute. An op romance. That’ll last.”
“It’s not …” Phoebe trailed off, probably because she wasn’t quite sure yet what it was, let alone what it was not. Ian had that kind of power over women. All that charm, focused in a deadly beam, could leave a path of pure and total destruction. She cleared her throat as she lowered her voice and told Francine, “If we’re going to make the Dutchman believe we’re together, we need to, um …”
Now it was Francine shooting a look of pity at Phoebe. “Is that what Ian said?
Oh, honey. And you fell for his bullshit?”
“No,” she said. “That’s not what he … He didn’t—” But she cut herself off, because across the room, Ian was talking to Yashi, who’d come in from the surveillance van.
“No, you know, I think I’m going to talk to him out in the garage first,” Ian was saying, about Berto. “Just the two of us.”
“That’s not okay,” Francine said, even as Phoebe asked, “Is that really a good idea?” Phoebe headed for Ian’s side—caught once again in his charismatic tractor beam.
“Yeah, I’m not comfortable with that either,” Martell chimed in, even as he came toward Francie, clearly wondering why she was still standing there, letting everyone see her shame. “You okay?”
He was serious. His concern was sincere.
It was possible she’d misjudged him on her first impression, and he really was that rare breed of men—a truly nice guy. Yes, he had a certain arrogance and male-know-it-all-ness that came, in part, from being good-looking and having access to a mirror. But maybe what she’d seen as him working hard to get into her pants had merely been an attempt to be a team player. He used we and us all the time, when he was talking to Ian and Yashi, too. He’d used it again when he’d first come into the house tonight—That was harder for all of us than we thought it would be—sharing in the distress instead of throwing it all on her.
Even though it was hers to own.
Ever since Martell had picked Francine up at the coffee shop, he’d been nothing but respectful and kind.
He could’ve taken advantage in the car, when she’d started to cry.
She’d expected him to.
But he hadn’t.
Across the room, Francine could see that Little Debbie FBI had come into the kitchen and was watching them. But she quickly looked away when she caught Francine’s eye.