But in their sophomore year, Trish had flipped a switch and went from being his best friend, to being the most popular girl in high school—for all the wrong reasons. At fifteen, they’d already been headed in opposite directions. She’d cut him out of her life, and after too many screaming rants against Andy, he’d cut Trish out of his. Nobody badmouthed his mom.
Sitting there in the busy, quiet, stillness of another stark raving family tragedy, a man tended to think of things like heaven and hell. If either had anything to do with just rewards, or if both were mankind’s weak attempt at understanding Karma. He’d read somewhere that men created their own heavens or hells by the way they lived. If that was true, Trish was in for an eternity of fiery damnation. So was Tripp, but for different reasons.
Yet even as he thought that, Tripp knew better. Andy believed in a loving Heavenly Father, one who always forgave his sons and daughters. One who loved them unconditionally because He was the wise One, not mankind. In the grand eternal cosmic scope of things, mankind was just a bumbling celestial infant. Not perfect. Not even close to it. Prone to make the ugliest, worst mistakes possible before enlightenment finally dawned inside his hard, empty skull.
“I couldn’t save Ikram, and I can’t save her,” he told the floor. “I was the man standing closest to Ikram, and I lived nine months in the same womb with Trish. I was born first. I even came into the world holding tight to her ankle. I literally dragged her kicking and screaming into the light with me. That should mean something. I wasn’t going to leave her behind, even then. But I did.”
Jameson’s palm landed on Tripp’s shoulder like a firm, warm rock. “That’s the best and worst thing about choices. We each get to make our own. We also get to live with the consequences. I saved a donkey once. Look what it got me.”
Tripp glanced at Jameson. Saw the tiny smirk barely twisting his lips. Also saw the dark glasses, and knew there were two unseeing eyeballs behind them, side effects of the risk he’d taken to save children he hadn’t known. Like it or not, Jameson had come to The TEAM already a legend. He didn’t swagger and boast like a lot of SEALs did. He was nothing like Tucker Chase, another SEAL. He just did his job, and he was quick to pitch in. Like now.
“You’re humble for a SEAL, you know that?”
“Is this a contest?”
“No, but—yeah. In a way. She’s my sister. Me and Mom are all she’s got. Of all the people in the world, I should’ve known what she needed. I should’ve been able to keep her from hurting herself.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
Jameson shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way, and you know it. The same fire that hardens steel, melts butter. Simple physics. Doesn’t matter who we came into the world with, who our parents are, or what circumstances we were born into. It’s never about the fire that burns us, only the fire within us. Only what and who we truly decide to be. Only what choices we make during the hours, days, and years, hell, the minutes we’re given.”
He was right. Tripp did know that. His mother used that iron and butter analogy often enough. It didn’t help, but it did explain how Trish fought against the very things he’d fought for.
“You want the best for your sister,” Jameson continued confidentially. “I get that, Tripp, but you can’t make her be good. Nobody can.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“She’s had the same opportunities as you. I can’t imagine your mom being kind to you, but cruel to her. No, somewhere along the line, she intentionally chose the path she’s on, and you have to believe…” He ran a hand over his head, ruffling the perfectly straight part that always made him look like an altar boy, something Tripp had never been. “You have to believe that she’s doing the best she can with what she’s got to work with.”
“Yeah, well, what she’s got to work with is shit.”
“Is it? Or is it a shit ton of experience that will eventually, hopefully, benefit her or someone else in her future? Maybe someone she’ll love more than she loves herself. Maybe a child?”
Tripp turned to really look at Jameson. The guy was totally serious that Trish could ever love someone more than herself. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t know her, and you’re not the one cleaning up behind her or watching my mom cry and pray and—”
“People can change,” Jameson interrupted quietly. “Don’t give up on her, Tripp. It’s not over until it’s over.”
Which reminded Tripp of what he’d told Ashley. Second rule: never give up. Even when all hope seems lost, … endure to the fuckin’ end. Who was giving up now?
Thank God, a stern gentleman in scrubs, his mask loose under his chin, shoved through the door marked Do Not Enter, and saved Tripp having to admit Jameson was right.
“Who here is related to Trish McClane?” the man called out to the crowded waiting room.
Tripp jumped to his feet. “Me, sir. I’m her brother. My mom will be right back.”
Beau was already half out the door. “I’ll go get her. Sit tight.”
“Come with me,” the doctor ordered Tripp. “I’m Doctor Pitt. We need to talk.”
He jerked his head at another closed door across the hall, which ended up being a small family counseling room. Shutting the door, he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Your sister is on her way to ICU. I’m the thoracic specialist who was called in to repair the damage to her throat. How she survived having it cut, as deep as it was, is beyond me. Next she’ll face spinal surgery, a procedure that will hopefully repair the extensive compression fractures she suffered.”
“She broke her back?”
“No, the man who assaulted her caused severe damage to her spine. Doctor Smith, the spinal specialist on staff, will be in as soon as he can to discuss the procedure, her care, and a way forward. She’ll need lengthy rehabilitation.”
“But she’ll live?” Tripp had to know before his mom returned.
“It’s hard to say this soon, but I believe so, yes. The guy who assaulted her crushed her larynx. I believe he attacked from behind, grabbed her head, and twisted. He just didn’t twist hard enough to kill her. I’ve repaired what I could, but her vocal cords are damaged. She may never talk again. You need to be prepared to deal with that. Also…” He jerked his head at the closed door and growled, “She’s got cervical cancer that’ll most likely require a hysterectomy, three different STDs, she’s malnourished, and what the bloody hell is she using?”
“Anything she can get,” Tripp admitted somberly. “Probably H. She used to live with my mom. That’s what she used then. Wait.” He pulled the health notice Ashley had given him out of his back pocket where he’d put it after he’d changed into his work clothes. “She was at the free clinic a couple days ago. Here. And yeah, that’s my name on her list of possible infected partners, but I would never.”
Doctor Pitt’s brow spiked when he came to Tripp’s name. “You’re clean?”
Tripp bristled at the implication. “Yes, sir, and I can prove it. She’s done this crap to me before. Thinks it’s funny. It’s not.” He was glad Andy hadn’t returned yet. She didn’t need to know this, too.
“How long has she been working the streets?”
“Years. Since she was a teenager. Before she dropped out of high school.” Christ, this was humiliating.
“There are programs—”
Tripp put a palm up. “Been there. Done them all, Doc. Trust me, Mom and I have tried everything to turn Trish around.”
“Some people only learn the hard way,” Doctor Pitt muttered.
“And some people never learn.” Tripp’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. “Excuse me, sir, but I have to take this.”
Doctor Pitt waved him to go ahead, then hurried out the door.
“Mrs. Harrison?” Tripp asked as he stepped into the hall and aimed for the waiting room.
“Ashley’s not answering. I knocked, Tripp. I knocked really loud,
but I don’t think she’s home.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“You’re welcome, young man. I slipped a note with my name and phone number under her door. The minute I hear anything, I’ll call you. I’m sure she’ll be home soon,” said his neighbor, the eternal optimist.
“Thanks again.” Tripp disconnected the call. He still had to relay the news about his sister to his mom. At least Trish was alive. But where the hell was Ashley? “I have to go,” he murmured to Jameson, afraid to leave, yet needing to run. “Mother said Ashley left HQ a while ago, but she isn’t home yet.”
“Maybe she stopped for dinner or decided to—”
“No. She’s not like that. I need to find her. Call me the second my mom gets back.”
Jameson looked at Tripp long and hard. Rather, he looked in the right direction. “Don’t give up on her.”
“Not happening.” Tripp didn’t know who Jameson meant, Trish or Ashley. But something was wrong. He could feel it. He ran for the nearest exit.
Chapter Twenty-Two
With her heart clawing its way out of her chest like a crazed squirrel, Ashley stifled a shuddering breath and waited. Just her luck. Once she’d burst into the complex lobby, thinking she was home free, she discovered the elevator was out of order. She’d run up four flights of zig-zagging stairs, and now stood at the heavy fire-door between the fourth and fifth floors. Listening. Afraid to breathe too loudly in case the person climbing the stairs behind her might hear. Just as afraid to step into the hall in case someone was there. She was positive someone had entered the lobby after the first-floor fire door closed behind her. She needed to be sure that person, whoever he or she was, exited on a lower level. Frightened that he or she might live another level up and have to pass her, she held her position.
Whoever was climbing the stairs below her now tread quietly. Stealthily. Couldn’t be Mrs. Harrison. She’d said she was tired and was probably in bed by now. Not Tripp, either. He’d be running, taking those steps two at a time. Then who was it?!
Did she dare break cover? Her key was tight in her hand. She could make it. Cautiously, she peered over the banister and down the stairwells. No one was there. Yet someone still climbed upward. She could hear them. Step by step. Drawing closer and closer. The paralysis of blind, dumb terror kept Ashley frozen in a Freddy Krueger nightmare of her own making. One where all monsters and murderers were omniscient, victims were stupid—like her—and where bad guy always won.
Not. This. Time.
Scared witless, she flung the heavy fire door open, ran into the hall, and flew past Tripp’s door. Twenty steps farther would bring her to her apartment. She could make it. Until she fumbled her key and it fell. Crouching, she grabbed the darned thing, but stabbed it so hard, it slid beneath her door. No, no, no! Only a tiny brass edge showed.
She could still hear pounding footsteps in the stairwell. Going up or going down, she couldn’t tell. She had to get that key!
Using just her sweaty, trembling fingertips, Ashley took a shallow breath and focused on pulling the rest of her key out from under the door. Oh, no! Had the elevator just pinged? Was it fixed already? She was shaking so hard. Only the tiniest corner of her key showed now. She couldn’t risk taking a quick glance in either direction. Only getting that key!
At last! Thank God! The sweating skin of her index fingertip sealed to the tiny brass tip showing. She had it! Jumping up, she stabbed her key into the lock and the trusty deadbolt turned. Just in time. With her head about to explode with panic, Ashley burst into her apartment, and slammed herself inside. Almost. The darned door didn’t close!
Her gaze hit the tip of a big, black boot stuck in the doorjamb. “Stay out!” she screamed, as she slammed the door again. Then again. As hard as she could. She wouldn’t go easy!
Peewee was all fluffed up and shrieking his lungs out by then. She’d scared him. He’d spread his wings and was flapping like a windmill, no doubt stomping his clawed feet, too. Birds did that when they were threatened. They made themselves bigger, acted tougher and braver, when they were anything but. Like Ashley. She’d been living a lie, and now she’d die.
A voice. Out in her hall. Someone was growling. The killer! He’d found her! A wide, manly hand reached in through her door and—
BANG, BANG, BANG! went her door on that jerk’s arm! “Leave me alone!”
Peewee shrieked along with her. His raucous squawks drowned out everything. Even her.
That awful hand turned into a thick, leather-covered, muscular forearm. Then an elbow. The door opened wider with every inch her killer gained.
“Why are you doing this to me? Who are you?” she cried as this unknown monster forced his way into her apartment.
Peewee shrieked louder. Waking the dead. More feathers scattered. Ashley had no choice. Breathing hard, she stepped back, as with one hefty OOMPH! She let go and the invader was inside her home.
“D-d-don’t do this,” she begged, unable to tear her gaze from the hulking shadow of a man, dressed all in black, back-lit by the hall light. “Help! Someone—!”
That monster’s hand reached for her wall switch. Not her. And…
Click. There was light, and there was Tripp. Not—him. Oh, God. It’s Tripp.
Real concern panted Tripp’s beautiful face. He reached a hand for her to take. “Ashley, it’s me. Honey, don’t cry, it’s just me.”
Stuffing her key into her rear pocket, she fell into his outstretched arms like a walking puddle of sweat and fear and—yeah—PTSD. It was killing her! Trembling like a kite in a stiff wind, she nuzzled into his neck, needing every last bit of those drugging male pheromones pouring off his skin. Needing him.
“I thought… God, I thought… I’m scared that…” You’re going to think I’m insane!
“Shhhhh. Shush, honey, I’ve got you now. I’m here,” he murmured, his hot breath in her face the solid conviction of a man who would kill for her. “What’s making all that racket?”
“Peewee. It’s just Peewee. My poor little boy.” I scared him, too.
Hurriedly, she ran to the large cage by her window. Peewee sat with his beautiful, peach-colored feathers ruffled, his crest flared high and wide, and squawking his beak off. A dozen or more large flight feathers lay scattered on the floor. “My poor baby. Quiet, please,” she urged her sweet companion even as her heart pounded to be let out of her ribcage. She’d really made a fool of herself this time.
Reaching inside the cage door, Ashley stroked his crest, then under his outstretched wings until he calmed. “Sorry, little guy,” she told him as she checked his water and food bowls, then covered the cage with his blanket, as much to settle his nerves as to settle hers.
Tripp was standing behind her by then. He pulled her back against his wide, warm chest, his arms the steel protection she desperately needed. His warm breath was so darned welcome on her sweaty cheek.
“You’re soaking wet,” he murmured. “Sorry I deserted you. Really thought I’d be back sooner. Thought you’d wait for me.”
“No, I… I… I…” Ashley didn’t know what she meant to say, only knew he was there now. She was safe, and no one could hurt her. If anyone had even been following her to begin with. She still wasn’t sure. That was the trouble with panic attacks. They blinded a person, and logic was the first thing they stole. Common sense didn’t hang around much longer. But fear surely did. If her heart pounded any louder, the noise it was making would scare the whole world.
“You’re here,” Ashley told Tripp, earnestly fighting her imagination as much as her panic. But still afraid to look at him and let him see her. “That’s what m-m-matters.”
Turning her around, he pressed her body flat against his, one broad hand between her shoulder blades, the other tangled in her wet hair, cupping her head. Holding her up and holding her tight. Keeping her from falling apart.
“You… you probably think… I mean…” Man, what do I mean? This was getting old. She di
dn’t want Tripp to think she was crazy, too much drama, or too much trouble. Because she was. Heck, if PTSD didn’t kill her, her wild imagination would.
Without saying another word, he stooped low and slipped one arm under her knees, then picked her up and walked to her couch. Down he went with her on his lap, folded inside both his arms, the top of her head under his chin. He reached under his arm and withdrew a really big gun, which didn’t surprise her at all. If anything, that gunmetal gray weapon he’d just set on her end table brought a sure sense of security to her apartment. Tripp knew how and when to use it. She was finally, totally—safe.
Ashley shut both eyes, ashamed at how seriously out of control this day had gotten. She focused on breathing slow and thinking smart. Tried to remember why she’d even started running. What scared her? Shadows? Figments of her imagination? The wind in the trees? The rain? Or had someone really been out there? Man, it was hard to know for sure. Harder to relax. Two panic attacks in one day took a lot out of her.
“Was that you behind me on the stairs?” She had to know.
His voice rumbled deep and low under her ear. “Didn’t know you were ahead of me, but yeah. Elevator’s broke. I was in a hurry, so I hit the stairs.”
Wow. Tripp could be quiet. And she was a fool.
“I think I s-s-scared myself,” she admitted breathlessly, her nervous head bumping against the underside of his hard chin.
“Who’s the guy who said the only thing we have to fear is fear itself?”
Her cheeks puffed with a heartfelt gust of relief. “I have no idea. Roosevelt? Churchill?” Who cares?
Tripp was doing it again. Understanding. Somehow absorbing the sharpest edge of her panic. Sharing the terror she’d kept hidden for too long. Ashley squeezed her eyes tight, relieved but feeling stupid. “I think I could write the book on fear, title it ‘How to Scare Yourself for Dummies.’ My head always hurts after these attacks.”
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