One step up were the Bar Chicks, looking to find some adventure between the sheets for a night or a week. Like the tackiness of bar floor on a boot heel, they always wore off even when he tried to hold onto one. Maybe faster when he did try.
The Show Girls were damn nice to look at and wholly untouchable. Convinced they were out of the league of everyone around them, and probably right about that.
The Nice Ones were hard to find. Girl next door. High school sweetheart. Stacie had been a nice one. She’d ridden as a shooter on his HETS—heavy equipment transport system, basically a damn big truck for hauling tanks around. They’d shared the route and a whole lot more for six months. But her tour had ended while his military career was just gearing up. She’d saved them both the pain and Dear Jim’d him on their last night together in Karachi.
The Pros. Again, not the working girls. These were the ones all bound up in their careers. They stuck, sometimes for a long while like the sultry Margarite. But they were always looking for what was next.
The Keepers…well, they were a myth of the highway. He saw them but, sure as Christmas falling in December, they were already taken.
Reese Carver was none of those. She had the career focus of the Pro, the iron wall and incredible looks of a Show Girl. But she had the feel of a Keeper without also being a Nice One, a combo he’d never thought of before.
One more try, then he was going to give up. Mama always said that taking problems head-on was better than tackling tapioca—not that he ever knew what she meant by that.
“I still don’t know what I did to piss you off.”
Reese’s hands were hurting from how hard she was gripping the steering wheel, which wasn’t a good thing. A light grip was the secret to a good reaction time, but she couldn’t seem to ease up.
“You want a list?”
In her peripheral vision she could see Jim shrug as if he didn’t care.
Why had he really pissed her off? This wasn’t like her.
She knew she was being nasty. It was a defense mechanism that she’d learned the hard way. Enough guys at the track had thought they could get away with grabbing her butt or breast because she was a black woman in a white man’s sport. She’d never really noticed before, but it had made her tough. She learned young to be fast with a lug wrench—all that had saved her from a couple of really bad moments that she didn’t want to remember.
But when had hard become nasty? She was never rude unless it was called for. Silent, yes. Obnoxious…
“You know Dilya?” Reese had found the best way to win was to slip up on someone sideways—though she didn’t know why she’d started there.
“Thought I did. Walked across the Hindu Kush? She was probably at Bati when I was there. Guess I don’t know her so much.”
“She said something,” and Reese couldn’t believe she was about to repeat it, but it seemed she was. “About us being like the couple in Pride and Prejudice.”
“So I’m the prejudiced jerk and something has wounded your pride?”
“You know the story?” She didn’t, but that made sense with the title.
“Sure. Keira Knightley. I’ll watch almost anything with her in it.”
Which might explain his earlier brush-off. Reese couldn’t help glancing down at her own chest. She was no stick-thin, flat-chested white chick. But if that was the way his tastes ran, then why had he been all Mr. Charm and smiles out at the fence?
“Can’t say as it fits me,” Jim continued. “Don’t see myself as much prejudiced against anyone, excepting maybe the folks that tried to kill me overseas. What are you being prideful about?”
Reese sighed. Their stretches of silence had only gotten them through the first hour of the four-hour drive. They’d probably be tied at the hip for several days. Uncomfortable stony silence was still an option…just not a good one.
“Okay,” Reese decided to face the real problem. “This morning, I get a wake-up call from Harvey Lieber that I’m taking over as driver for Stagecoach.”
“Holy shit!” Jim twisted to face her. “You’re the one they tapped to replace Ralph McKenna? The man is a freaking legend. That would scare the crap out of me too.”
“I’m not scared.” She absolutely wasn’t scared, even if she’d been momentarily paralyzed at the fence line this morning. That wasn’t fear, it was…something else. “I fought hard for that job. It’s what happened next that is making me crazy.”
“You’re suddenly driving the First Lady’s Suburban on a New York shopping trip,” he said with an unexpected insightfulness for someone she’d accused of being an idiot.
Reese sighed. That was it.
“So, you’re not only good enough for Stagecoach, but you’re good enough to be bounced into the First Lady’s vehicle on no notice. Strikes me as winning first and second prize at the county fair.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. Now she was feeling foolish that she hadn’t, yet this Okie dog handler did.
Reese actually glanced away from the road for the first time to look at him. Jim was back to watching the road, not her.
He was squinting ahead, but didn’t seem to be looking at the traffic.
“Clarice Carver,” he said her name slowly.
“Reese.”
“Clarice Carver,” he ignored her. “Used to be a NASCAR driver with that name. I seem to recall she was lighting up the track something fierce, then she just disappeared one day.”
That was a past, a moment in time she didn’t want to remember.
“Always figured you’d had kids or something.”
Or something. No way was she going to be telling this guy about the worst day of her life.
“Used to follow NASCAR pretty close, before I went overseas. You did most of your racing while I was out and gone. Heard you were good though.”
“I was the best.”
It was like the woman snapped back into focus in that instant. She didn’t move, frozen hard at the steering wheel, staring out at the traffic, but Jim could suddenly see her clearly.
Maybe it was the pain in her voice.
Jim needed to call his sister. Sissy was always the red-hot NASCAR fan and could give him chapter and verse on every driver better than Pastor Daniels of Purcell, Oklahoma, First Baptist could quote from his Bible.
Didn’t matter though.
“NASCAR to driving the President’s limousine. I am sittin’ here in the presence of greatness.” What the hell kind of internal drive had it taken to do that? The kind that Margarite of the long red hair had always accused him of lacking.
No wonder Reese didn’t have time for someone like him. She’d seen right through him and had practically been screaming to be left alone the whole morning. He hadn’t done that real well either. He supposed now was as good a time to start as ever.
He glanced into the back of the Suburban.
Malcolm was snoozing and shedding in the First Lady’s seat. He’d have to remember to wipe that down before they met the flight tomorrow morning.
Jim turned back to the road and flexed his hands. Even though he was a dog handler now, he’d spent so many years as a truck driver that sitting in the passenger seat felt completely useless.
He didn’t even have road munchies to keep his hands busy at something.
Chapter Three
Reese was exhausted.
Wake-up call at six—with all of the emotional charge of being named to take over Stagecoach. Then the crash of thinking she was being bounced back out. On the road by eight, and hitting New York City by noon.
Harvey had sent a list of five stores, two restaurants, and a Broadway theater right on Times Square.
She’d dropped Jim at each place, where he and Malcolm had been met by an agent from the New York office familiar with the locale. While he’d been doing site familiarization, she’d scouted approach and getaway routes, driven in and out of garages until she knew the best access to each exit, including where to go to ground if they had to abandon
the vehicle.
There was an odd congruency of knowing that Jim and Malcolm were doing exactly the same thing on the other side of the walls. Now that they were separated, they finally made sense together—working as a team to ensure their protectees’ safety.
They certainly hadn’t made any sense on the drive up. She supposed she’d gotten what she’d asked for. After unearthing her past, he’d been kind enough to finally leave her alone. Leave her alone to wallow in the pain of events she’d spent the last two years trying to forget.
At the end of the evening, they’d sat together in the car watching the patterns of movement as the Broadway show let out. How the crowd dispersed under normal conditions. Where the limos lined up. How many cabs sat in the queue.
Just on spec, they poked through the local bars and found one that seemed likely if the ladies wanted a drink afterward. The Rum House was a few blocks back from Times Square and didn’t have the hard-packed, post-theater draw of Sardi’s or Carmine’s right on the Square.
“Can I buy you a round?” It was the first non-business thing Jim had said since Wilmington, Delaware.
“As long as the place has food,” she’d had a knockwurst with sauerkraut from a street vendor about a thousand hours ago. The only one who’d eaten regularly had been Malcolm. It was nice watching how thoroughly Jim took care of his dog.
“Actually,” he was studying the menu mounted by the door, “it does. Not much, but I’m past caring.” It was the first hint he’d given that he wasn’t utterly tireless in the pursuit of his duty.
He held the door for her, an unexpected politeness, then whispered as she passed close beside him.
“Watch this. It’s always fun how these crowds react.”
So Reese stepped in and waited. Jim indicated a small table by the window that would let them both sit with their backs to the wall: one facing into the bar, the other facing the window where they could keep an eye on the street.
He nodded for her to go grab the table. Only when she was seated and watching him did he start moving. But he didn’t head straight for her. Instead, he guided Malcolm on a curving route that took him much more deeply into the crowded bar. It was quiet with the warm buzz of friendly conversations over soft, piped-in jazz.
While she watched, she decided that this place was a good choice. The Rum House felt upscale Old West. Worn hardwood flooring, heavy on the walnut and mahogany woods for décor, along with benches covered in dark leather and comfortable seats. The old-timey feel was achieved without being all phony about it. Hurricane-style lamps and circular styling of the woodwork simply evoked the era without getting cliché.
It took her a moment to see what was happening with Jim and Malcolm. Urban hipster couples would glance at the dog. Then look away. Then look back and up to see the tall, broad-chested handler. Some would go back to their meals. If it was a group of women however, their gaze intently followed Jim.
Had she really not noticed how handsome he was? And in this crowd, his good-old-boy attitude really stood out. Mr. Tall and Easy-going in his dark blue jacket with USSS emblazoned across its back in six-inch yellow letters. She’d never managed easy-going for a single second of her life, yet he looked as if he’d never been anything else. She could almost admire that.
Reese recalled their one actual contact, when she’d run into his back outside the West Wing Secret Service Ready Room. When he’d felt so impossibly solid and real. His long silences on the drive up had been uncomfortable at first, but by the end of it, she’d started to take on a little of his silence as her own. She wasn’t used to that and couldn’t decide if it was all bad or not.
Was the reaction of the women what Jim wanted her to see? Mr. Guy showing off how male he was?
Then he got a new reaction from a couple laughing over drinks.
Dog—turn away—Jim—turn away…
Then a double take so hard that the couple almost fell out of their chairs. The instant Jim was past them, they jolted to their feet without finishing their drinks. The man threw some bills on the table as if they burned him and then the couple raced for the door.
Jim didn’t turn to follow their hurried exit; instead he shot her a big smile with a silent laugh behind it. At the far end of his wandering loop, he turned for her, continuing his wandering way through the crowded tables.
A group of three guys at a nearby table had the same massive double take-and-bolt reaction the moment they spotted Jim. No, the moment they spotted Malcolm.
This time they were close enough that she could see their faces go sheet white before they ran. One of them, while dumping bills on the table, accidentally tossed down a baggie of white powder. He looked at it in horror, then at Jim’s back. He almost snatched it up, then, thinking again, he left the baggie on the table and ran out the door as if all the hounds of hell were after him rather than a sweet little springer spaniel who hadn’t even looked at him twice.
Jim dropped into the chair beside her and Malcolm sat by his side. Jim wasn’t laughing out loud, but he looked awfully pleased with himself.
Reese couldn’t help herself and let the laugh out. After all the craziness and stress of the day, it was great watching people who didn’t know that an explosives-sniffing dog wasn’t trained to react to illegal drugs.
She laughed until it grew all out of proportion. It was like a release of so much she’d been keeping under hard control. She was going to be chauffeuring the three leading ladies of the current administration, and these people were freaking out about whether they’d be caught for having a couple hundred bucks of cocaine in their pockets.
Jim didn’t look worried, he just waited her out until she could catch her breath.
Jim couldn’t catch his own breath. He’d never imagined that the impossibly serious Reese Carver of the Presidential Protection Detail could laugh—and definitely not like that.
She was undone, and a shockingly beautiful woman emerged into clear view, no longer hidden by the serious, kick-ass heroine that would do just fine facing down Batman or Superman…or both at once. A stunning, black Wonder Woman in US Secret Service armor. All she needed was a sword and golden lasso of truth to complete the image.
Had he, with his little dance about the room, made her laugh like that? It did sound as if she was laughing with him and not at him, which struck him as encouraging—even if it was all out of proportion with the joke. He rubbed Malcolm’s head to give her a moment.
Reese wiped at her eyes with a napkin and took quick sips from a glass of water that a waiter had rushed over.
Good service, another important aspect of choosing a locale to bring the First Lady’s party tomorrow night. He’d also liked that the bartender working nearest the door was built like a bouncer and had traded a quiet nod of acknowledgement with Jim when he’d spotted the USSS on Jim’s jacket. Subtle but watchful. Jim looked over at him while Reese finished her recovery. The bartender offered him a quick smile, clearly appreciating the joke as well.
A waitress cleared the abandoned tables, looking pleased at the generous payments dumped on each table. She delivered the baggie of powder to the bartender to deal with. The man grimaced, glanced one last time at Jim for saddling him with how to explain it to the police, then turned back to his other business.
“Thanks,” Reese’s voice was rough with the laughter, as if there had been pain behind it as well. “I guess I needed that.”
“If you had told me before that you could laugh like that, I’d have no more believed you than a bright purple pinto horse.”
“If I had told me I could laugh like that, I’d have called me a liar. Been a long time.”
“Want to talk some about it?”
“Definitely not.”
He ordered an Oklahoma Tropical Twister and she ordered a North Carolina Rum Cherry Bounce. The waitress was good; she didn’t blink once at the two strange requests that had nothing to do with the big bad city. A pair of grilled Gruyère cheese sandwiches and a couple of sliders for
Malcolm, without the buns or condiments, completed their order, and then they were alone again.
Still she wasn’t talking, but he didn’t want to let the moment go. It had been the first crack in the ice wall.
“Strange day,” he started.
Reese offered a shrug of agreement.
He needed a new topic, without sounding like he was fishing. But he wasn’t having much luck finding it.
“How did you get into dogs?” Jim could only blink in surprise at the sudden opening. All day, dark shades had hidden her eyes and her thoughts. Now the dim lighting of the bar seemed to do the same. Unable to read why she’d asked, he was still glad for the opening—surprisingly glad for it. It was clear that she was something special and, without him noticing, the brush-off had hurt. He knew he was good at what he did, but not being good enough for Reese Carver hurt.
“Mom gave me a German shepherd pup for my tenth birthday. I had to train him fast if I wanted to ride with Dad during the summers.” He scratched Malcolm’s head where it rested on Jim’s knee.
“Ride with Dad?” Reese’s tone could have been for a job interview. Very matter-of-fact and to the point. Maybe that was just the way she rode.
“He’s an over-the-road owner-operator.”
“You say those words as if they mean something,” Reese said it deadpan with neither tease nor irritation. She was so neutral that she almost disappeared back behind her hard shell again.
“Long-haul trucker, which they call over-the-road. Owner-operator means that he’s an independent who owns his own rig. Actually he owns nine of them. Now that us kids are all grown, Mom runs the business from the passenger seat—though she drives some too. My brother, sister, and two first cousins all drive for him.”
“But not you?”
“Did local delivery during high school summers and long-haul a couple years after, once I was old enough to get my commercial ticket.” Those had been good years. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t gone back to them. Mom and Dad had found a lifestyle on the road that fit them, but he hadn’t.
On Your Mark Page 4