by Tara Mills
“Yes. This was Jim’s favorite drink.” He laughed, bitterly. “I used to give him grief about it. There are a hell of a lot better, and smoother, whiskeys on the market than this foul crap. But hey, for whatever reason, Jim preferred to feel his booze all the way down. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to do this alone.” Dylan lifted his shot and reached across the table toward her, waiting for Ariela to do the same. He smiled faintly when she tapped her tiny glass against his. “To Jim.”
His sad toast made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
“To Jim,” she repeated. The whiskey scorched its way down her throat. Coughing and sputtering, she stared at Dylan, stunned at how easily he’d downed his. “That stings,” she croaked. “I see you’ve done this before.”
“Many times. Always with Jim.”
“Couldn’t you just keep with that tradition and leave me out of it?” she asked, hoping to forestall what she felt was coming. Dylan met her gaze, and the sadness she saw in him broke her heart. “What happened?” She was afraid to hear the answer, but needed to know just the same.
He shook his head. “We have two more toasts to make first.” After refilling their glasses, Dylan lifted his again and waited for her to join him. “To Ali.”
Ariela reluctantly raised her glass. “To Ali.” As little as she relished this next swallow, she took it. The second was only slightly easier to choke down.
“One more,” he said softly and poured again.
“Who now?” she asked, blinking back tears.
“Hanna.”
“No!”
Dylan began to weep and she reached for his hand, squeezing it.
Ariela raised her glass first, this time, and waited for him to join her. “To Hanna.”
“To Hanna,” he repeated and they threw back their drinks.
Ariela couldn’t stop swallowing, over and over, first the whiskey, then the sobs that threatened to escape. She felt awful. She couldn’t imagine how much worse Dylan must feel.
He sat before her, rolling his shot glass by the bottom rim on the table, making little circles. Brooding, he watched it spin and tip. “Six days ago. All three. I knew about Hanna first. The morning of our interview, Ali was late coming to pick us up because she’d disappeared. He found her in the morgue,” he finally said, without looking up.
Ariela actually felt her heart pick up the pace, like a kettle drum in her chest.
“Ali’s contact, the one we’d been counting on, he disappeared. These things happen. It isn’t a pretty reality, but they do. In order to salvage something of my assignment, we were forced to make alternate plans.”
Dylan went on to explain, in detail, everything that had happened to him while she worried half a world away. When he described the bomb blast, she blanched. Going to her feet, she went and uncorked the bottle of wine on the counter. She poured them each a glass while he continued to describe how he’d administered first aid to Jim with the little that he’d had. He told her how he’d felt, waiting for the shooting to stop. She nearly sobbed when Dylan admitted his terror, when he suddenly woke up and realized that it had. He’d expected to die. His helplessness at not being in a position to save his friends brought fresh tears to her eyes.
He seemed to appreciate her gratitude for the women who’d risked their lives to sneak him out of danger. When she learned they’d risked themselves again to smuggle him to safety, her gratitude tripled.
After Dylan finished his recitation, Ariela reached over and took his hand. “Are you ready for bed?”
He nodded.
***
Ariela worked at Dylan’s buttons herself then helped him out of his shirt.
“You’re so thin,” she murmured with concern.
“It won’t last long. Now that I’m home, I’ll bounce back.” He toyed with her hair while she unfastened his belt. When she drew his zipper down, Dylan caught her wrist and stopped her. “There’s one thing I didn’t mention yet.” His eyes sought hers, and she waited.
He didn’t explain, he just opened his pants and slid them down his legs. She saw the edge of the white bandage on his thigh immediately.
“You were hurt, too,” she whispered, her hands shaking as she reached out to him.
He shrugged. “Just a bullet in my thigh. I was lucky it wasn’t a torso or head shot, or worse, the second bomb could have blown. Had that gone off next to me, like the one under Ali, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Just a bullet,” she whispered and stepped into his arms, pulling his head down to her shoulder. They held each other for a long time, Dylan’s trousers pooled around his ankles, Ariela still completely dressed. She finally stepped away. “Lie down. I’ll be right with you.”
He did as she’d ordered. Stepping free of his pants, he slipped between the sheets and watched her undress. Dylan opened the blankets and she moved into his arms and snuggled close. Without speaking of it, they both seemed to feel this wasn’t the time for a passionate reunion. Instead, they fell asleep, comforted by the arms that held them.
***
Dylan gasped aloud, waking them both sometime after two a.m. Ariela stroked his chest and kissed his cheek, murmuring softly to reassure him she was there. He ran his hand down her arm and over her breast, scooping the weight into his hand. Ariela didn’t know whether to discourage him, or let him carry her where he needed to go, where she needed to go. When Dylan slipped down to draw on her breast with his lips, his tongue, suckling rhythmically, she gave up debating with herself.
They let all the tenderness, all their love, flow freely between them. Their grateful hands explored each other. She was careful to keep her right leg from touching his wound as he moved up over her and buried himself inside her, one heady inch at a time. He stilled, holding her in his arms, their loins locked just as tight as their embrace.
His lashes were wet when he whispered, “I never expected to see you, or hold you, again.”
Ariela cried at that herself and pulled Dylan’s face down so she could cover him with kisses. “I was afraid I’d lost you too. My world was crumbling around me with you gone. I wanted to help, but I didn’t even know how.”
“I know.” He kissed her tenderly. “I’m so sorry that I put you through that.”
Dylan gave himself to her, body and soul. Ariela’s heart absorbed it all and transmitted it right back to him, the love they felt coiling around their hearts like a bandage of security. Every thrust went worlds beyond the physical pleasure they felt. There was no Ariela, no Dylan. There was simply this—the absolute perfection of being together.
They loved as if they had all the time in the world. Neither understood exactly where this patience came from, nor was there any urgency to move things along. Ariela seemed genuinely startled when she suddenly seized in Dylan’s arms. He held on as she took flight and finally surrendered himself.
***
When Ariela peeled open her eyelids the next morning, she found Dylan sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding a glass of orange juice for her.
“You’re up already?”
“What can I say? I think just being here with you is what helped me finally get the rest I needed.”
She sat up. “I’m glad. Is that for me?”
“It is.” He handed her the juice.
She was right in the middle of drinking when he caressed her breast, startling her so badly she inhaled some pulp.
“Dylan! I was drinking. God, give a girl some warning.”
“Sorry about that—impulse.” His smile was fleeting. “Come on. I made breakfast.”
“You did? That’s a first.”
“I decided I didn’t want to send the woman I love off to work without a hot meal.”
She groaned. “Work. That’s right. I have to go to work.”
“And so do I.” He lifted the glass out of her hand.
Then it hit her. Ariela caught him by the arm and yanked him back. “You just said you love me.”
Dylan gav
e her a strange look. “Yes,” he said slowly.
“That’s the first time you’ve said that to me.”
He pondered a moment, chuckling to himself. “You’re right.” Then he dipped his chin and stared her straight in the eyes.
She gave him an innocent smile. “Waiting for something?”
“Coward.”
“I love you too.” Once it was out, she felt a little shy with him.
“There it is.” He caressed her cheek, a tender look in his eyes. “Now if you don’t get your pretty little bottom out of bed, I’m going to climb back in with you, and we’ll never leave the house today.”
“Promise?”
“Ariela.”
“Okay, I’m getting up,” she grumbled.
“I’ll go pour you a cup of coffee, after I get one of these.” He bent down and kissed her good morning.
***
The table was set when Ariela joined Dylan in the kitchen. He removed the covers he’d set over both plates and put them in the sink. “Dig in.”
“Aw, scrambled eggs and toast.” Thinking back, she realized he might very well be the first man to ever fix her breakfast. It made the morning, and her lover, all the more special to her.
“Since I don’t know how you like your eggs, I thought this was the safest bet.”
“As long as I don’t have to cook them myself, I’m not picky. How do you like your eggs?” She took her first bite and sighed. They were perfect, light and buttery with just a dash of salt and pepper.
“Anyway I can get ’em.” He winked at her. “I make a mean deviled egg.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? You’re a man of many talents.”
After breakfast, Ariela still felt uneasy about leaving him alone his first day back, but when she offered to call Jean and make an excuse, he was firm.
“No. I really do have things to take care of myself. I’d like to bring you to work, though. It’ll give me an excuse to pick you up later.”
“Okay,” Ariela said slowly. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end again. Why did she doubt him all of a sudden? What else was he keeping from her? Did she have to put a suicide watch on him? People did not simply bounce back after an ordeal like his, not to mention losing three of his friends in the bargain. The last thing she wanted to do was leave him alone now.
Unaware of her thoughts, Dylan picked the keys off the counter. “All set?”
She went, but not willingly.
Chapter 18
When Dylan got back to the house after dropping Ariela at work, he poured himself one more cup of coffee then shut off the machine. Nothing in life was easy, especially the most important things. He glared at the condolence card he’d just tossed on the counter. There was no way that piece of shit was gonna cut it. It was pathetically inadequate.
He turned to the window and watched the preschoolers playing in the fenced yard across the street. They were loud and rambunctious today. Not a job he’d ever choose. The thought made him smile, briefly, before he picked up his phone and made a call to his resource connection at the paper.
“Hey Dana,” he said, relieved when he got through. “It’s Dylan Bond…Yeah, I made it back. Say, can you find an address for an Abdulla Ali Hadad? He’s somewhere in Canada, maybe Toronto. I can’t be sure…Mm-hmm. You have my number, right? ...Okay, I’ll let you get to it... No, he left Iraq in two-thousand four. I’m not sure if he took a direct route there…Mm-hmm. He’s an academic. He could be connected with one of the universities…Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.”
Dylan was typing out his notes twenty minutes later when the phone rang.
“Yeah, this is Dylan…Right. That was fast…No kidding, a fellowship? …Great, I’m writing it down…Thanks, Dana, you’re amazing. I appreciate it. Bye.”
He rubbed his eyes long and hard, pushing deep into the corners with his fingers. He wasn’t ready to make that condolence call, but it had to be done.
Looking at the number he’d taken down, he dialed Ali’s father. He was sent to voice mail. Taking a deep breath, he waited for the beep. “Dr. Hadad. My name is Dylan Bond. I was working with your son when he was killed. I’m very sorry. If you’d like to talk more with me, here’s my number.” He rattled it off then hung up, feeling empty and responsible.
Anger welled up inside of him. He needed to lash out. It was time to make things uncomfortable for one of the men pulling strings from a comfortable distance while making sizable profits from the sacrifice of others. No one should be getting rich off this godforsaken mess. Dylan wasn’t ready to release the evidence on profiteering yet, but he had something else. Something guaranteed to make the bastard sweat.
Energized at the thought of the confrontation to come, Dylan made one more call, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk. Max jumped up when Dylan did, eager to go along.
“Sorry pal. I’ve got an errand to run.”
He shut down his work and pushed back from the desk. Snatching his keys off the counter, Dylan ran to intercept Max before he blocked the door. The dog beat him anyway, and he had to wrestle the golden retriever back.
“Sorry, boy. Just me this time. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Dylan slipped out, with a very disappointed animal staring at him through the window as he left.
***
Once you start antagonizing a U.S. senator, there’s going to be a response. Dylan expected it. It didn’t worry him. He had other avenues up his sleeve now that he was banned from the senator’s offices. One phone call to his old source and he knew where the politician would be eating lunch today. He had access to the senator’s itinerary too, if he was interested.
Not today.
Dylan loitered for ten minutes outside the Ambassador Hotel, waiting while the senator dined inside. When the man’s car pulled up to the curb out front, he straightened and headed over to the double doors. The youngest man in the politician’s entourage, dressed like one of the big boys but clearly not one of them yet, pushed through the door first, holding it wide for the senator and his party to pass through. This was it. Dylan moved to intercept him.
“Hey, Roger!” he called out.
The senator stopped short, his smile crumbling away in icy shards when he saw who it was. His beady stare was hostile as hell, and quite impressive. “That’s Senator Norton to you, Bond, if you have any respect for the office.”
Dylan gave him a charming smile. “Oh, I have plenty of respect for the office…” He let his words trail off, leaving the implied cut unspoken. One of the senator’s lackeys shoved Dylan back. He gave the man a cool, speculative look. “Do you really want to face assault charges?”
The man sneered. “Do you want to face harassment?”
“Last I checked we still had freedom of the press in this country. Someone has to keep our representatives in line.”
The senator snapped around and faced him. “Keep away from me, Bond, or I’ll see that you’re covering bake sales next.”
Dylan felt himself grow before their eyes, his small recorder extended toward the blustering man. “Care to clarify your Hardiman connections senator?” Norton blanched and Dylan pressed his advantage while he had it. “Maybe you could explain why you railroaded a no-bid contract through committee, without disclosing that a certain Mildred A. Copefield, who upped her six-hundred and fifty shares of Hardiman stock to twelve hundred just before the deal went through, is your mother-in-law, and your lovely wife, Beatrice is overseeing her affairs as power-of-attorney? This has turned into a pretty sweet deal for Mildred or, should I say, you? Poor Mildred’s been in a nursing home for over three years because of Alzheimer’s. I understand she can’t even recognize herself in a mirror. Would you care to comment?”
“Go to hell, Bond!” The senator’s face had gone from paper white to tomato red in a heartbeat.
His aides hustled him into the limo and climbed in after him. Abandoned on the sidewalk as the car pulled away, Dylan cracked a smile when one of the men in th
e back thrust his hand up against the rear window—the gesture violent, the finger unmistakable. Chuckling to himself, he turned and headed in the opposite direction. It was a good day when he got to scare a corrupt politician into watching his back, at least for the short term.
***
It was just before noon when Ariela walked back into the office. She headed right for Jean, holding out a set of car keys. “Thanks for the loan.”
Jean looked up with raised eyebrows. “You’re back already?”
Flopping into her chair, Ariela stared at her in disbelief. “He wasn’t there. When I snuck over to check on him, I half expected Dylan would be spiking his coffee with whiskey by now— or worse.”
“I’d be drunk as a skunk if I went through the hell he did.”
“I guess he was serious when he said he had things to do today.”
Jean rapped her pen on her desk. “Any idea where he is?”
Ariela’s laugh fell flat. “DC.”
“He drove to Washington, DC?”
She threw up her hands. “Apparently, his method of coping is to throw himself into his work.”
“So what now?”
“I’m here. I might as well get some work done myself.”
Kicking out of her shoes, Ariela turned to her computer.
Jean drifted over a little later as Ariela’s printer was feeding out a diorama of a kitchen with breakfast nook. She looked at the page kicking out of the slot.
“Can you print up the virtual view next?” she asked, tilting her head to see the layout.
“Already on its way.”
Jean picked up the printout and studied it. “Is this Beverly Campbell’s job?”
“Yep.”
Jean frowned as she tried to figure it out. “Where am I standing here? I’m all turned around.”
Ariela grinned. “You’re not. The whole kitchen is.”
Jean looked at her. “Say again?”
“Let me show you.”
Ariela pulled the current floor plan, along with the accompanying photos, from her file and laid them out on the desk for Jean to compare. As understanding began to dawn on Jean’s face, a growing smile of wonder and delight replaced it. Ariela kicked back and crossed her ankles, lazily bouncing her pretty little pump off the ends of her toes while she basked in her own brilliance.