Wrecked

by Shiloh Walker

  “I need to apologize to you.”

  A few seconds passed before Keelie blew out a slow, steady breath. “I’m sorry . . . and not just because you walked in while I was kissing Zach. And that’s what it was. It was a shitty thing to do, but it was all on my part. He’d never . . .”

  When Keelie trailed off, Abigale glanced over at Zach. He was staring at his friend with an unreadable face. What the hell? Abigale wondered. Looking back at Keelie, she said, “I know. It was shitty, he’d never, and it’s done. We’re cool.”

  “Just like that?” Keelie crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her, defiance written all over her face.

  “Just like that.” Shaking her head, Abigale said, “I don’t know why you’re so hostile to me, unless it really is all about him, but I just don’t care that much. He loves me . . . and I figure you know that. I love him. There’s no reason for me to get worked up over something that meant nothing to him.”

  Keelie flinched. “Ouch. You know how to twist the knife.” Then, with a short, stiff nod, she turned and headed back down the hall. “It’s over, it was shitty . . . we’re cool. I can live with that, I guess. I’m gone for the night.”

  As she strode down the hall, Zach and Abby looked at each other.

  Javi called out, “Wait a second, kid. I’m walking you to the car, remember?”

  “Home?” Zach murmured, after Javi had slipped out the back with Keelie.

  She went to answer: hell, yes.

  But the weight of the book in her hand reminded her. “Just a minute.” She glanced around, her gaze lingering on the counter. “You got any string?”

  He blinked at her. “String?”

  “Yeah.” She waggled the book at him. “I finished the plan. Well, everything except the photographers, and hey, I did flip off your brother, so maybe that counts. Now I need to do the rest of the stuff in here.”

  “And you need string . . . ?”

  She sighed and opened it to the page where it read:

  Hang the journal in a public place.

  Tapping on that page, she said, “I need to hang it up. Ask people to draw in it.”

  He skimmed it over and then flipped it to the very front where her plan was. “And when they see this?”

  “Welllll . . .” She was blushing as she answered, “It’s not like they know who it belongs to. Let them guess.”

  He sighed and then pushed it back into her hands.

  While he was gone, she scrounged in her purse for a pen. Tugging it out, she added in a sixth item.

  He came just as she was tucking the pen up.

  “You sure you want to leave it lying around here for a day?” he asked, eyeing her skeptically.

  “Zach . . . you worry too much. Besides, who is going to take it? Javi?”

  Javi had just come back into the main room and he looked at them, puzzled. Eyeing the twine, he jerked up his hands. “Hey, I’m not into . . . ah . . . what are you talking about?”

  Abigale flashed the journal at him and he leaned in, studied it. “Nope. I don’t do journals.”

  “It will be fine,” she said, looking back at Zach.

  “Okay.” He pushed a hand through his hair and then reached for it, using the twine he’d dug up and looping it around it, tying it so that the twine kept it open on just that page. Then he rigged it so that it was hanging just off the counter. “We’ll watch it for a few hours tomorrow and then take it down, cool?”

  “Sounds good.” Licking her lips, she pulled out a pen and then shoved it into Javi’s hands. “Hey, why don’t you draw on the page?”

  He shrugged and flipped it open, found the page and doodled for a minute. When he was done, there was a samurai slashing his sword through the air. “Nice,” Zach murmured. “Hey, it was in a public place. We can take it home now.”

  “Relax. There’s nothing in there I’ve got a problem with people seeing.” She flipped to the front and glanced down as though she was reading it for the first time.

  Zach glanced down and then back up at her.

  Javi turned to leave. “I’m heading out, guys. Locking up, right, Zach?”

  “Ah . . .” He cleared his throat, his gaze falling away from her face back to the journal. “Yeah. Yeah, Javi, I got it. Thanks.”

  “Zach . . . ?”

  He stared at the journal, ran his finger over the sixth line she’d added to her plan.

  “What’s this?” he whispered, his voice rough.

  “It’s the next step in the plan . . . the one that matters the most, I think.”

  He caught her in his arms and hauled her against him.

  They didn’t make it home for a while.

  Wreck this life: My new plan

  1. Stop worrying so much about the future

  2. Call Roger and tell him off

  3. Flip off the next photographer you see

  4. Get a tattoo

  5. Have a torrid affair with a hot guy

  6. Ask that hot guy if he’d maybe like to marry me . . . up in Alaska

  Turn the page for a preview of Shiloh Walker’s

  THE PROTECTED

  Coming in September 2013 from Berkley Sensation!

  “You want me where?”

  Vaughnne MacMeans stared at the man in front of her and decided she really wished she’d taken more time off.

  Granted, she’d already taken three months of personal time. Then two weeks medical leave after the case to end all cases went to hell in Orlando, Florida. Maybe she should have made it three weeks. Her head was still so not in a good place after that last job.

  She could handle another week off, she thought. Another week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Three months. Three years.

  Because Taylor Jones just had to be shitting her.

  “Orlando,” he said again.

  “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. She didn’t ever want to see that miserable, forsaken, hellhole of a city again. Just thinking about it was enough to give her nightmares. Thinking about what had happened in that dark, squalid miserable building . . . shit, sometimes she woke still feeling the despair of the women around her. She wasn’t even empathic and it had gotten to her.

  Of course, a person didn’t have to be empathic to feel those vibes. That much misery was enough to screw with the head of any psychic, even if it was just to leave that cloying, dark layer of despair. She’d been caught in the middle of it and even though they’d shut that operation down, it wasn’t enough.

  They’d shut down one ring. Just one.

  Who knows how many more were out there?

  “Jones, I don’t know if I can handle going back into that kind of work again,” she said reluctantly. “Not after—”

  “It’s not connected to that. It’s not about Daylin, at all.”

  Pain gripped her heart at the sound of that name. The wounds were still fresh and the pain was just as hot, just as vivid as it had been months ago. Was it ever going to fade?

  Shooting him a narrow look, she took a deep breath and shifted her attention to the wall behind him. “I don’t want to go back there, Taylor,” she said quietly. It hurt to even think about it. It hurt to think about that place, to think about those women. To think about any of it. Most of all, it hurt to think about her sister. The girl she’d failed . . .

  “As I said, it’s not about the last case.”

  She shoved away from her desk and started to pace. An echo of a headache danced in the back of her mind, letting her know that it might not have been a bad idea to take a little more time to recover. Psychics were prone to odd, undetectable injuries sometimes and she’d wrenched the hell out of something, although it wasn’t anything a doctor could diagnose.

  Overuse of their abilities could definitely do damage and these headaches were murder.

  Still, she had bills to pay, an empty refrigerator, and sitting at home had been driving her insane.

  SAC—Special Agent in Charge—Taylor Jones leaned back in his seat
and pinned her with a direct stare. If one was to try and find paper documentation of their unit, they’d be hard-pressed to do it. A lot of the agents knew vaguely of Jones and his odd team, and there were rumors, but if one tried to look up the FBI team of psychics, they weren’t going to have a lot of luck. Technically, they didn’t really exist.

  Vaughnne still wasn’t sure just how Jones managed it, but he did.

  Just then, he was watching her, his blue eyes cool and unreadable, his face expressionless. That blank look didn’t mean anything. He could be madder than hell, he could be amused. Hell, he could have a scorching case of herpes and she wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at his face—she’d seen him facing down drug runners, child rapists, and psychopaths with a taste for human flesh with that exact same expression.

  Inscrutable bastard.

  “It’s got nothing to do with that last case,” he said again. “It’s in Orlando, yes, but it’s an easy job, mostly monitoring. It’s practically nothing more than babysitting. You can handle a babysitting job, Agent MacMeans.”

  Sure she could. The problem was it was in Orlando.

  Clenching her jaw, she stared at him. Babysitting. She wanted to tell him to shove it up his ass.

  “Is there a reason why you can’t do this job?” he asked, watching her the way he might study a suspect before he went in to tear them apart in an interrogation.

  Shit.

  She was screwed.

  She could either take the damn assignment. Or resign. He hadn’t said that, and she knew he wouldn’t force that on her, but she also knew she couldn’t avoid one particular area of the country, either. They were spread too thin as it was and she wasn’t much for playing the chickenshit.

  Either she could work and do her damn job, or she would quit and let him make room on the team for somebody who could do the job. He danced on a razor’s edge to keep their unit going, anyway.

  She’d worked too damn hard to get where she was just to walk away.

  She wasn’t a quitter, damn it. Besides, it wasn’t like her particular skill set was in high demand out there, and she rather liked being able to use her abilities to do something worthwhile. Somehow she doubted any local law enforcement agency was likely to welcome a telepath into their midst. Sure. Welcome aboard, and instead of using the police radio, just screech out into our minds like a psycho banshee, MacMeans. Look forward to working with you!

  Since she needed to work to live, she had to suck it up, put on her big-girl panties, and deal with this. Moving back to her desk, she sat down and crossed her legs. Absently, she started to swing her foot, one high-heeled shoe hanging off her toes. She was tempted to take it off and pummel Jones across the side of the head with it.

  Orlando . . . so many nightmares. So many bad dreams. And the bitter knowledge that she hadn’t been able to save the one person who’d always mattered to her.

  “You know avoiding it won’t make it any easier.”

  Jerking her attention back to Jones, she stared at him. “This isn’t supposed to be easy,” she said quietly. “But what in the hell would you know about it?”

  For a second, though, as she stared at him, she thought she saw something in the cool depths of his eyes.

  Then he looked down and it was gone.

  “Just tell me about the job, Jones. Just who am I supposed to be babysitting?”

  * * *

  Gus Hernandez pulled the battered, beat-up truck into the driveway of the little house he was renting. It was falling apart and instead of paying five hundred a month as the landlady had originally requested, he paid three hundred . . . and did repairs. He was good with his hands and always had been. What he didn’t know how to do, he was able to learn and he’d fixed the place up quite a bit over the past few months.

  So far, he’d managed to tear up the rotting boards of the porch and replace those. He’d repainted three of the rooms. He still needed the fix the deck in back and it was an ongoing struggle to keep the yard free of weeds. If he had the money, he’d reseed it, but he didn’t. Most of the work he did was either with scrap he found cheap at his other jobs or clearance stuff at the local hardware or home improvement stores.

  He still needed to get more work done around the little place, although what he wanted to do was go inside the dark, quiet house and just sit. For a few minutes, with a cold beer and do . . . nothing. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to talk. He wanted to do nothing. It was a luxury he hadn’t been able to indulge in for a good, long while, though, and tonight would be no different.

  Although it was a bright, sunny day, he felt like he had a cloud hanging over him.

  Always.

  Pulling the truck into Park, he stared at the old place, studied it, made sure everything looked the way it had this morning when he’d left. He hadn’t had a single phone call. Not one. So that was good.

  It had taken more charm than he generally cared to exert these days, but he’d managed to convince the lady living across the street to give him a call if she saw anything, and that woman? Old Mrs. Werner was nosy. If anybody had been snooping around, more than likely she’d notice something.

  It didn’t let him breathe any easier, though.

  He didn’t think he’d ever breathe easy again.

  Please . . . you must do this for me . . .

  Blocking the echo of a woman’s voice out of his head, he pushed the door open. Before he climbed out, though, he reached below the seat and took out the one thing he never went anywhere without.

  The butt of the Sig Sauer P250 fit solidly in his hand. Slipping the safety off, he looked toward the passenger seat. A solemn pair of eyes looked back at him. “Come on.”

  The boy sighed and slid out of the car. “Do we have to do this every day?”

  He’d asked the same question yesterday. He’d asked it the day before. He’d keep asking it, Gus knew. It would only get worse, because the boy wasn’t exactly a child anymore, and that rebelliousness that always crept out during those years between child and adult was getting ever closer.

  Still, there were things in life that didn’t care that Alex wanted some freedom. Things that didn’t care that the boy just wanted to live a normal life.

  Gus’s job was to make sure the boy lived. Period. Staring into a pair of eyes eerily like his own, he said quietly, “Alex.”

  That was all he said. Alex’s lids drooped and his skinny shoulders slumped, but he climbed out of the truck, plodding around to stand next to Gus and stare up at the old house.

  Alex grumbled under his breath. Gus ignored him as he looked around, eyes never resting in one place. Before he shut the door, he grabbed a bag from the back and slung it over his left shoulder and then pulled out his denim jacket, draped it over his arm and hand to hide the Sig Sauer.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Nope.”

  “There’s nobody here,” Alex said, his voice sullen, bordering on rude. He mumbled something else and Gus stopped, looked back at him. The anger in the boy was getting worse, flaring closer to the surface today than it ever had.

  “We’ve talked about this, Alex,” he said quietly. “You want to be angry with me, you got a right. But remember what we talked about.”

  Gus didn’t blame him. The kid had every right to be pissed. Gus wasn’t a twelve-year-old kid who’d had his entire life uprooted and he was pissed.

  “This is so fucking stupid,” Alex snapped.

  Stopping in his tracks, Gus turned around and stared at Alex. “Watch your mouth,” he said quietly. “Your mother raised you better than that.”

  Alex sneered. “Yeah, she raised me better but she’s dead—”

  The boy’s voice cracked. And as the anger faded away into agony, Gus reached out, hooked his hand over Alex’s neck. “Yeah. She’s dead. But she wanted you safe. And you’ll be safe, Alex. Now come on . . .”

  You must promise me . . .

  A hard, shuddering breath escaped Alex but then he pulled away, loo
king at Gus with glittering eyes. The tears he wouldn’t shed still shone in his eyes until he blinked them away. “I told you, there’s nobody here.”

  “Yeah. I heard you. We’re checking anyway.”

  Twenty minutes later, while Alex oversaw the dinner of macaroni and hot dogs, Gus stood at the sink, trying unsuccessfully to scrub the engine grease from his hands. He’d worked eight hours at the construction site, then picked up a hundred bucks helping one of the guys from the site do some work on his car. He was filthy, he was tired, and he was hot. He wanted to plunge his head under the cool stream of water coming from the faucet, but he just kept scrubbing at the grease on his hands.

  The phone rang just when he’d decided to give up. Hurriedly rinsing his hands, he grabbed it, spying Elsie Werner’s number. The sweet, incorrigibly nosy lady from across the street. “Hello, Elsie . . . need me to come clean out the pipes again?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, the one in the bathroom is running rather slow,” she said.

  Gus would swear she clogged them up just so he could come over so she could ogle his ass. He’d had plenty of women ogling his ass in his lifetime. It wasn’t a new experience. But to his knowledge, most of them weren’t old enough to be his great-grandmother.

  Still, the lady was kind. She’d made more than a few meals for him and Alex once she figured out neither of them could do anything more complicated than pizza, burgers and fries, or macaroni and cheese or hot dogs. If she had her way, she would have taught them both to cook.

  But Gus was intent on keeping his distance. Very intent. Letting a sweet old lady teach him or the kid how to cook wasn’t the way to keep a cool distance. It wouldn’t help either him or the kid, and, in the long run, it could harm her. He had enough blood on his hands.

  “I’ll come by later tonight,” he said. “Although I don’t know if I can fix it tonight. I may need to go to the store for the drain cleaner.”

  “Well, that can wait. I wasn’t calling about that, Gus. We have a new neighbor moving in . . . did you see?”