Darkest Night

by Megan Erickson

  She untucked her knees, dropped her feet to the floor, and pressed a kiss to his hand, the one they’d stabbed, right below his bandage so her lips touched skin.

  When she lifted her head his eyes were open. His one cheek was covered in a bandage where that freak had cut him, but his eyes were uncovered and open, just slightly swollen. His gaze roamed her face, and as he tracked her body, squeezing her fingers as he did so, his eyes warmed, that peace returning, the one they’d had for a brief moment the night before, before everything had gone to hell.

  “Baby,” he murmured.

  She’d told herself she wouldn’t cry, that she’d done enough, that she was tired of hysterical Fiona, but damn, the tears burned in the back of her eyes and she couldn’t help it. At least they rolled down her cheeks silently and she wasn’t sobbing.

  He tugged on her hand and winced.

  “Don’t,” she said, sliding her chair closer. “Don’t move. You have…lots of bandages, and stitches.” She reached out to touch his face but drew her hand back.

  Something flickered in his eyes, a wave of uncertainty. “Not gonna be pretty anymore.”

  Seriously? He was worried about that? She narrowed her eyes. “You were never pretty and I still fell in love with you,” she shot back.

  He tried to grin despite the bandage on his face. “There’s the fire.”

  “Damn right, saying stupid shit like that. You took stab wounds for me, you dumbass. You’re never getting rid of me now. Not ever.”

  “Don’t wanna get rid of you.”

  Then the tears burned again. “I was so scared,” she whispered, and just like that the humor fled his face.

  “Fiona…”

  “You didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Hell, I thought you were dead already.”

  He shook his head. “Checked out. Had to do it. Didn’t do so well because I was worried about you the whole time.”

  “That was horrible.” She wasn’t whispering anymore. Now she was halfway to anger. “I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

  “Baby, my job…”

  “I know, I know. And I’m not telling you not to do…whatever it is you do. But I need a vacation from this for now. Somewhere we can go, just the two of us, and forget about rapists and hit men, and all this other shit, and just be us. An us without the drama.”

  “Beach,” he said firmly.

  “What?”

  “Beach. Drinks with umbrellas. Hot as fuck. You in a string bikini. Hotel with one of those balcony curtains that blows in the breeze while we fuck on a big bed.”

  She wanted that. Goddamn she wanted that. “You need to rest…”

  “I’ll fucking rest,” he griped. “You think that I won’t heal like a motherfucker if I know I get you in a bikini at the end?”

  “You’re not a superhero. You can’t speed up the healing process.” She glared at him.

  And just like that, he gave her a gift she hadn’t been sure she’d ever get again. He laughed. His long, loud Jock laugh that tapered off quickly because he grimaced with pain. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Don’t act like you’re Wolverine then, Jock.”

  “You promise I get you in a bikini?”

  “I’ll wear any goddamn thing you want if you heal and take me to a beach, feed me, and fuck me.”

  “Done,” he announced.

  She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t cry again. After so many years of only existing…she was living again. Looking forward to a future with a man who she could barely believe was real.

  “Black.” His voice cut through her thoughts.

  “Sorry?”

  “Black bikini. Just plain black. But it’s gotta be strings. The kind you tie at the sides that makes every man imagine slipping his fingers through the loop and watching it come undone.”

  She couldn’t breathe. He’d been stabbed for her and nearly died, and he was talking about damn bikinis. “Jock.”

  “But none of them are gonna be thinking it, or at least they won’t be doing much looking because I’m going to be next to you, and once these bandages come off I’m going to look even scarier.”

  She pressed her lips together and tried not to laugh. “This is true. You’re scary on a good day.”

  “Great. Scars will up my cred.”

  “I love you,” she said abruptly.

  His gaze swung to her and held. “Baby.”

  “I can’t wait to live life with you.”

  “Can’t wait to live life with you either.”

  She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. When he whispered, “Love you,” a single tear of hers fell onto his bandage. It was a happy tear.

  * * *

  Jock stood in Marisol’s kitchen while she flew around the room making enough carnitas, rice, and beans to feed an army. When he told her that, she snapped, “We are practically an army!” And he couldn’t disagree so he shut up.

  Fiona stood tucked into his side, something she didn’t do because she felt like she couldn’t be without him. She did it because he liked her there and she liked to be there. They were leaving the next day to go to an all-inclusive resort in Barbados, and he couldn’t fucking wait. Neither of them had wanted to return to that damn townhouse so they’d been renting a hotel room since he’d been released from the hospital. Roarke, Wren, Marisol, and Erick had moved everything from the townhouse into storage. After Barbados…well, they hadn’t gotten that far yet. They’d come back, maybe get a place in DC. Neither were in a rush because Jock still hadn’t stopped talking about Fiona in a bikini.

  He’d seen her luggage—she’d packed ten bikinis and seven of them were all black.

  Erick waltzed into the kitchen, gave Marisol a squeeze, and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. He no longer had a lump on his head from being knocked out by Tarr, but he was no less pissed. Even now he leaned against the counter and eyed Jock. “Heard from your friend?”

  Jock shook his head. Tarr had gone underground. Unsurprising, as they’d gotten word Maximus had bought Jock’s hit and hired the men Tarr had killed. Maximus had also gone silent, and Jock was sure the silence wouldn’t last. But Jock would take advantage of it now, and get the fuck out of town. The rest of the crew was going to do the same. Jock didn’t expect Maximus would send someone after them right now. He’d lick his wounds and prepare another attack. This was definitely the start of a war.

  Erick scrunched up his nose in irritation. “I still want to know what the fuck that was about. Why knock me out? Why not give me a chance to help him? Two against one? Shitty odds.”

  “You don’t know Tarr,” Jock explained. “Works alone. Always. While I don’t necessarily agree with what he did, he did keep you alive.”

  “He gave me a concussion.”

  “You’re alive,” Jock repeated. Erick still looked pissed. He also looked like he was scheming, and Jock didn’t like that look. “Erick, do not dig.”

  Erick tried to appear jovial, but Jock could see something lurking under that. “Dig? Me? Nah, I’m cool.”

  “Erick, you do not want Tarr’s attention.”

  He took a long sip of his beer. “I’m thinking it’s a little late for that.”

  Jock watched him for a beat. “Why do you say that?”

  Erick grinned. “Nothing, just saying, we’ve already met.”

  “That’s not what you meant.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Erick!”

  “Can’t wait for dinner, Marisol.” Erick took another sip of beer and walked out of the kitchen whistling.

  Jock looked to the ceiling and closed his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ. I just want a vacation.”

  Fiona laid her hand on his chest. “You’ll get one.”

  “I fucking better.”

  “The flight leaves tomorrow, and that plane is in the air even if I have to fly it myself.”

  “Can you fly a plane, baby?”

  “They’re all automatic now, right? I’m sure I can f
igure it out.” She grinned up at him, and he’d just lowered his head to kiss her when Marisol clapped, startling him.

  “No making out in the kitchen,” she announced. “It’s unsanitary, and I also don’t want to look at it. Shoo!”

  She waved them out of the kitchen, and they wandered out where Wren and Roarke were sitting on the couch playing Call of Duty. Erick sat nearby, cheering them on.

  The doorbell rang and Jock frowned.

  “Can someone get that?” Marisol called from the kitchen. “Or you’re all gonna stuff down burned rice.”

  “Who is it?” Jock asked.

  “Answer it and you’ll see!” Marisol shouted back.

  Fiona left his side to sit next to Wren, and Jock looked through the peephole. Dade stood on the doorstep. He opened the door and leaned against the frame. “Kelly.”

  Dade looked up and his face was clear of bruises, but his hair was dyed a dark brown, nearly black. “Jock.”

  “Joining us for dinner?”

  “Marisol invited me.” He stepped inside so Jock had no choice but to step back. “Heard about what happened. Glad to see you’re healing.”

  “Taking a vacation with Fiona tomorrow,” Jock offered, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he just couldn’t stop talking about it.

  Dade grinned, but same as Erick, that grin was covering something else. “Good, glad to hear it.”

  He made to walk past Jock, but Jock stopped him, his fingers on Dade’s biceps. Dade looked at his hand and lifted narrowed eyes to Jock. “What?” he bit out.

  “You have something to do with Tarr showing up?”

  Dade was a good actor, but he was a little off his game. He was in a friend’s home and so his armor wasn’t all in place. Which was why Jock saw surprise register on Dade’s face. Surprise and a bit of satisfaction before he shut it down. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re telling me Tarr figured all of that out on his own? How many men, their plans, the time and place?”

  “Tarr’s a smart guy.”

  “Sure he is, but he’s not that smart. Doesn’t have all that access.”

  “Guess he’s got some friends, then. Friends with access.” Dade held Jock’s gaze but said nothing more. That was all Jock was getting, but it was all he needed. He didn’t know why Dade had decided to continue to tie himself to this crew, but Jock wasn’t going to complain. Dade, along with Tarr, had most likely saved his life.

  “All right, if that’s how you want to play it,” Jock said quietly.

  “Not playing anything,” Dade snapped. “Can you let go of my arm now?”

  His tone amused Jock, but Jock tried not to let it show. He dropped Dade’s arm. “Sure. Everyone’s in the living room.”

  Dade’s eyes slid over Jock, and he walked past him into the living room. When Jock hit the room, Dade was standing next to Fiona. She was smiling up at him, turning all the fire and sweet that was Fiona onto Dade.

  Dade was smiling back, a warm smile Jock hadn’t known Dade was capable of. And it hit Jock that women were a bit of weakness for Dade. He loved them, and not in a way that meant he wanted to own them, control them, or fuck them—at least not these women in his life—but he loved them in a way that meant he wanted them safe and protected. Dade took care of Wren, and now he’d take care of Fiona. The men in the crew—he’d help them, too, but probably only because it made the women happy.

  Filing that information away, Jock moved to take the seat next to Roarke. He’d stopped playing, letting the controller dangle from his hand to take a sip of his beer. “How’s the body doing?” he asked.

  “Stiff sometimes,” Jock answered. Fiona insisted he massage his scars to prevent scar tissue buildup and had him lather them with scar cream. He couldn’t understand what the big deal was. What did scars matter? He’d asked her that recently and explained that he thought chicks dug scars. And she’d glared at him and then told him that was exactly why she was so adamant. “No chicks will be digging your scars except me!” she’d snapped at him, eyes flaming.

  He’d stopped complaining after that and practically bathed in the scar cream because it made her happy.

  He met her eyes on the other side of the room. She grinned, he grinned back, and he leaned against the sofa, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the quiet murmur of his friends’ chatter until Marisol’s voice cut through it all. “Asses at the table. Food’s coming up!”

  EPILOGUE

  An hour into the vacation Jock decided he was buying a beach house somewhere hot as fuck just so he could see Fiona in a bikini more often.

  He’d thought his presence would deter assholes from looking at her but it did not, and therefore he also decided that this future house he planned to purchase would be on a private beach. He glared at an older man who looked like an attorney, who had his eyes on Fiona’s ass while she walked toward Jock. Jock had his arms on the edge of the pool, body in the water, watching his girlfriend walk toward him. She held two drinks with pink liquid, both with umbrellas.

  Tarr was on the phone, bitching into Jock’s ear. “Tell Erick to back off.”

  Jock sighed. “I did.”

  “He’s not listening.”

  “I’m not his keeper.”

  “Jock—”

  “Erick doesn’t wish you harm, but he’s curious. He’s nosey. That’s what he does for a living, and to be honest, he might play with you for a bit. He likes pranks.”

  “I fucking don’t,” Tarr said.

  “Just ignore him,” Jock advised, not sure if that would work or not.

  “Fucking ridiculous.”

  “Look, I got Fiona about to hand me a pink drink with an umbrella in it, and so I’m done with this conversation.”

  Tarr spoke again, and when he did, there was a smile in his voice. “Pink drink with an umbrella, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “Looks like you’re living the high life.”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll let you go.” And then Tarr was gone.

  Fiona stood above him grinning, probably because the drink was pink and she’d probably flashed the bartender a smile to make the umbrellas pink, too.

  She dropped to a crouch and sipped one and then closed her eyes. “Oh my God, this is good.”

  He took the other drink from her. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I told him to make me something pink and fruity.”

  He took a sip. It was definitely pink and fruity, and rum-based. It was also fucking good. He ditched the straw and took a gulp, crunching a cube of ice between his teeth. He set his drink down and beckoned to Fiona. “Sit.”

  She took a seat at the edge of the pool, and he immediately slipped between her legs where they dangled in the water. He snaked his hands around and cupped her ass. She widened her eyes at him and choked mid-sip. “J.”

  “Don’t.”

  “We are in public.”

  “Yeah, and that guy behind you is liking your bikini too much. Rethinking my request on these bikinis, babe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t complain an hour ago when I put it on. You immediately took it off, and now I finally have it back on again.”

  He grinned. “True.”

  She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, right at the edge of his healed cut that would in fact scar like fuck. “Every woman in this resort looks at you, and I don’t get all macho.”

  “They do not.”

  “Do too. You’re just too busy scowling at their men to notice.”

  “Then their men shouldn’t look at you.”

  “Jock.”

  “Fiona.”

  They went into a stare down, but amusement glittered in Fiona’s eyes. God, she was beautiful. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee and watched her eyelids dip, even though he’d just been between her legs an hour ago. “J,” she breathed, and he kissed her other knee.

  “Stop, I want to finish my drink, not have you drag me back to
the room caveman-style.” She huffed and closed her lips around her straw.

  She was right. He drank more, and when she was finished, he coaxed her into the pool with him. She came, heated wet skin, legs wrapped around his waist, arms clutching his shoulders. He spun them, and she made a small squeal as the water lapped at their bodies. He kissed her shoulder. He kissed a lot of places because he could.

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Tarr.”

  She blinked, not expecting that, and for a moment he saw the pain flash, the memory of what had happened, before she shut it down. “So he’s okay?”

  “Wouldn’t have picked up his call because I’m here with you, but I wanted to make sure he was okay. He is, and he’s pissed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Erick is sniffing around.”

  Her mouth formed an O.

  “I told him to relax. Erick likes to know who pulls one over on him.”

  “What’s your history with Tarr?” she asked.

  He hadn’t told her yet. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime when I don’t have you happy and drinking and in a bikini. But short story is that I took a bullet for his sister, and he loves his sister. She’s alive and happy and now making him an uncle for the third time, and so he thinks he owes me.”

  “J,” she said, voice full of wonder and admiration, and it made him hard. In the pool. In public.

  “Don’t say my name like that unless you want to leave this pool and lock the door to our room.”

  She pursed her lips and gave him a look.

  He changed the subject. “Texted Wren, let her know we made it down okay.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Thanks for doing that.” Her hands played with his hair at his nape, hair that was too long. He was thinking of finding a barber on the resort to take care of it for him.

  “When we get back, do you want to be near your girl?”

  “I thought Roarke and Wren weren’t in DC much.”

  “They’re not, but that’s where they’re based. When they come home, they do it there. Marisol also stays there now, and she’s kind of fond of you.”

  “I love her,” Fiona said. “And watching you two fight is entertaining.”

  “Bicker.”