Firethorn (Discarded Heroes)

by Kendig, Ronie

  She punched to her feet. “Put it down.”

  “What?” He stalked up to her so close that if he took in a deep breath, his chest would bump her nose. Slowly, eyes on her, he bent and retrieved her glass. “I’m just going to refill your—“

  “No.” She snatched it from him and flung it on the leather seats, afraid if she turned her back on him, he’d dump that ice-cold water on her. “Put it down, Griffin.”

  “Oh.” He jutted his jaw. “What? You afraid I might spill it?”

  This would not end well, especially in the confined space of a private jet. “Okay.” She raised her hands in surrender but also to enable herself to fight him off quicker. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  He stuffed the decanter onto the table. “Done what, Baby Girl?” He inched closer.

  Whoa. He smelled good. His chest larger than the width of her shoulders. He was bigger—much bigger than her. Her defenses skittered up her arms like spiders seeking refuge.

  “You should’ve stayed on your side.”

  Arms out, he shrugged. “I’m a big guy. I need space.”

  “More like your own planet.”

  His eyebrows rose. “No, you didn’t…”

  Someone laughed. Kazi blinked, realizing it’d been her.

  “What, you think this is funny now?”

  “Fine.” She backed up one step. “I’ll give you space.”

  “Aw, now it ain’t that easy.” His head cocked to the side. “You drowned my pride, Baby Girl.”

  “Stop calling me that.” It unhinged her in too many wrong ways.

  He came forward.

  Her hand spiked out.

  Griffin deflected the strike.

  She struck out with her left.

  Again, he defended himself, his gaze never leaving hers. It spurred her on. Made her angry that he was trying to unnerve her, gain the upper hand. That wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t get him what he wanted. She wouldn’t yield. Wouldn’t show her belly like some dog in submission.

  A roundhouse kick.

  Blocked.

  She spun—a seat knocked her off balance. But she used the mistake to swing the confrontation in her favor.

  Griffin motioned with his hands as if to say, Bring it!

  She hopped forward, then threw her feet toward his abs. Midair, in the seconds before she actually struck him, Kazi saw him step back and snap up his hands.

  He whipped her legs around, spinning her straight into the ground. Metal collided with her head. Stars sprinkled over her vision. She stayed on the industrial-grade carpet. Waited for him to feel bad about nearly knocking her down. Then use his compassion against him.

  “You givin’ up already, Baby Girl? Had enough?”

  Kazi glared up at him as she pushed to her feet. “You’re not like most men.” Get him distracted, get his mind on the verbal assault, and she could nail him. Take down the giant.

  He grinned.

  “You don’t have a heart.”

  Face awash with dejection, he placed a hand on his heart. “Aw, that hurts.”

  Bingo.

  She had seconds to seize on his weakness. But a somersault—no room. It’d have to stay hand-to-hand. Kazi threw a right hook at his jaw and connected.

  But it was like connecting with a cement wall. Fire spiraled down her wrist into her elbow and up into her shoulder. She cordoned off the pain and focused on the fight. On beating him. She stomped his foot—a steel-toed boot. No effect. Frustration coated her every thought. She swung around, grabbing his wrist as he deflected another punch from her, rolled around, and flipped her left arm back—straight to his face.

  Another hit!

  In a second that felt like an eternity, Griffin caught her hand, twisted it behind her. His right arm hooked up and around her neck. He squeezed, shoving her forward. She blinked and found her face sandwiched between one of the seats and his solid pecs.

  Grip tighter and harder than cement, Griffin whispered, “What’s got you running—put this fire into beating that.”

  The way his deep bass voice tickled her ear sent swarms of panic rushing through her stomach. She wrestled her shoulders, trying to free herself, but only met with pain. A grunt escaped then morphed into a whimper.

  “You can beat it, Kacie.” His face leaned in nearer.

  She darted a look and found herself falling into the richest, brownest eyes. Blood dribbled down his chin. She’d busted his lip, hurt him, but he’d not flinched or complained. The realization unseated her. She yanked her gaze forward.

  “Imagine what it’ll be like to stop running.”

  She pushed away—and miraculously, he released her. Even stumbling and putting two feet between them didn’t release her from the invisible hold he had on her. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I see that fear in your eyes every time someone gets a little too close to the truth. What about the club? You ready to go in there and—“

  “Yes.”

  “No, you’re not. It’s why you’re on edge. Why you’ve been silent for the last three hours. Why I drew you out to get your head in the game.”

  Drew me out? He did this…on purpose? A violent crash in her chest made the cabin spin. Have…to…getaway. “Stay out of my head.” She turned and stalked to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “I don’t need you or your help.”

  “You can’t get rid of me with tough talk.”

  His words chased her into the lavatory. She slammed the door shut, flipped the lock, kicked the door. Again. Banged it. Crazy-mad, she slumped against the steel door and growled. Anger wrapped its lengthy tendrils around her heart.

  Oh Tina…I need you… This was where that magic friend bond helped her escape the frenetic raving of her mind and heart. A stabilizing force, Tina had always known how to talk Kazi off the ledge.

  It felt like Griffin pushed her off it.

  He’d pushed her in more ways than that. Around him, she was unbalanced and unnerved. Her stomach twisted and knotted, her mind even worse. Which meant they had to go their separate ways.

  A soft knock came to the door. “We’re on approach. Landing in ten,” a female voice announced.

  Standing, Kazi looked in the mirror, surprised to find a ragged, worn-out version of herself staring back. She smoothed her hair and shook her head. No wonder Griffin only saw a petulant, angry girl. She’d wait out the landing in here, thereby limiting her time with the beefy guy. Once the tires screeched on the tarmac, she opened the door. And froze.

  Arm over the top of the door as if hugging it, Griffin rested his forehead on his arm, looking miserable. Eyes held fast to hers.

  “Get out of my—“

  “You can hate me, but we’re still working together.”

  “That’s your mistake.” The words were automatic. The standard response when a man tried to inject feelings into a situation to manipulate her into his court, his power. “I don’t need to have any feelings for or against you to complete this mission.”

  “True. My point was that we need to be on the same side. Ready to defend each other.” Oh.

  A long hesitation ensued.

  She should say something. Tell him to get away. Tell him they had to get his boys back—his only real priority. But something had shifted inside her. Scared her. No…petrified her. As if someone had stolen into the graveyard and dug up the casket.

  “You know this club, so you can probably anticipate trouble. I need to know you’re going to have my back. That you won’t abandon me to the wolves.”

  “Aban—” Her pulse stampeded over his words. She had never abandoned anyone. Everyone had abandoned her. “I don’t work that way.”

  “You look out for yourself, Baby Girl. You’ve done it every second since you sprang me from Wallens Ridge. Convince me.” He lowered his arm and leaned against the wall, affording her an exit from the musty lavatory. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he sighed. “Convince me when we go in there, you got my back, Kaci
e.”

  Agitated at his words, she understood the deeper meaning. He was afraid. Afraid of being abandoned. Of getting strung up again. Fiery slivers of surprise rippled through her to think that this undaunted mountain of a man was afraid someone like her would leave him, as he said, to the wolves.

  “Convince me, Kazimiera.”

  Mentally, her eyes shut at Carrick’s sickening words. He’d wanted so much more than words or a promise. Her gaze traced the lines of Griffin’s angular features. Is that what he wanted, too?

  No. He wasn’t like that.

  Of course he is. He’s a guy.

  Fine. She’d played that game for years. No loss. No worries.

  She tiptoed up, planted her hands on the corded muscles that bulged so his neck and shoulders almost appeared as one. Then she leaned in.

  His eyes locked on hers so fast and hard she thought she heard a click. Worse—she felt something like the Loch Ness monster swimming through her belly as the moment in time froze. So close, his scent tingling her nose, she felt like a small child facing a giant. A big…muscular…beautiful giant.

  Do it fast before you lose your nerve. All part of the game. Keep him where she needed him.

  He hauled in a fast breath, and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Catching her arms, Griffin pushed her back. Hard. Eyebrows drawn tight, nostrils flared, he drew away from her.” What are you thinking?”

  “I—” The growl in his voice tangled her thoughts.

  “Don’t do that again.” He shook a meaty finger at her. “Not ever! I’m not—” His chest heaved. The muscle in his jaw worked as he lowered his gaze. “Forget it. Let’s do this.”

  She watched him, watched his shoulders, watched the broad biceps that forced his arms out so that his elbows couldn’t touch his trim but still large waist. That man carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Carried it without a complaint. Without a grudge.

  And it dawned on her that he’d been willing to carry her load, too. But now…

  I’m on my own.

  Just like always.

  In reality, that was the best place to be. Nobody got hurt. Nobody got killed. Keeping things to herself, discarding feelings meant those around her and connected to her remained business acquaintances. Nothing more. And that meant they stayed alive. If Carrick could peek through her carefully guarded crypt of feelings…she feared what he might see examining it through the lens of Griffin Riddell.

  CHAPTER 19

  Vaughn Residence, Virginia

  Why are you keeping me here?”

  “Son, you’re not thinking clearly.”

  Marshall shoved the glass of water off the bedside table. “I’m thinking just fine.”

  A nurse rushed forward, but the glass—which turned out to be plastic—clunked against the linoleum floor and splashed water all over the wall.

  “It’s the drugs talking,” his father said, oozing condescension. Which in and of itself was wrong, since his father had always had short conversations and an even shorter temper when it came to Marshall. “You’re at the hospital, Marshall. It was that blasted job of yours—you were injured again, almost killed. I keep telling you to get a respectable job—“

  “Defending our country is the most respectable and honorable career that exists.”

  With a huff, his father shook his head again. “I’ll come back when you’re more reasonable.” He stood, stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m done.” Marshall ripped the IV from his hand, savoring the prickling fire in his hand and arm. Pain was good. Reminded him he was human, that he wasn’t drugged out of his mind. He tossed them down deliberately in a dramatic display so his father would have no doubt where he stood.

  The door opened, and Rel stepped in with a gray bin propped on her small hip. Her eyes widened when she saw his father. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said as she backed out.

  “No, no. Kim, you’re just in time with that medication.” His father motioned to Rel and sighed. “I think he’s overworked. He’s having fantastical delusions.” Hand on her shoulder, he said, “Make sure he gets some rest—do your job and do it right. He’s a bit too feverish right now.” He turned a taut expression to Marshall. “Straighten up, son. If you continue making irrational assertions, they’ll never let you out of here.”

  Why was his dad so hell-bent on keeping him drugged and imprisoned? What was his father protecting? “I’m as straight and clear as they come, Dad.”

  Disdain dripped from the graying man stalking out of the room.

  Rel came to the bed. She bent and retrieved the IV needle. “What are you doing?” she hissed as she worked on the tubing. “You’re going to give it away.”

  “Testing him.” Marshall’s heart hammered. “Do you still have it?”

  Her gaze hit him as she reconnected the tower. She lifted a pen from her pocket, twisted it, then wrote on his chart. “If we keep using this, they’ll figure it out.”

  “After today, it won’t matter.”

  She paused.

  “He’s playing me, Rel. Thinks I’m an idiot.” He clamped his jaw, thinking back through the conversation. How his dad had played stupid, tried to steer the conversation constantly away from the “accident,” as his father had called it. “Nothing’s changed. No matter what, I can’t make that man happy.”

  “Then stop trying,” she whispered so softly, he wasn’t sure she’d spoken the words at first. “You’re a great guy, crazy-smart, and…” Her gaze dropped.

  Marshall pushed a hand through his hair, then scratched the several-days’ growth of beard. “Yeah, well, he’s never satisfied. He wanted an Ivy League son, and I didn’t follow that path, so he’s still trying to force me into that mold.”

  “He’s a fool if he can’t see how amazing you are.”

  Like a dead weight, silence dropped between them. He caught her gaze, but she pulled it away, pink tingeing her cheeks, as she rolled the clear plastic between her fingers.

  What was this? He searched her face, disbelieving. Whoa. Had she really said all that? About him? A beautiful girl…talking about him like that. In earnest. Not joking? What did he do with that? Nobody liked him. Nobody thought he was amazing. He was the butt of jokes, the comic relief. Not the hero. He’d never be fierce like Max. Or charming the way Cowboy was with the ladies. Or slick and smooth-talking like Midas. And Legend had that quiet, brooding manner that sucked women in like a vacuum.

  But…Rel…a gem in a pile of coal—he didn’t want to risk letting her think he wasn’t interested. And yet they didn’t have time to sort out their feelings. What if he was completely misreading this? Dude, that could hurt. Marshall wrapped his hand around hers, pulling those brown eyes to his. “Get me out of here.”

  “I am.” She looked to the door. “We need more time. You’re not strong enough yet.”

  “No, today. I can’t stay here with him drugging me, lying to me. I’ve had time to think about it. He has to know something about what happened.” Marshall motioned to the room. “How else would I be here?”

  “Someone he knows…?”

  “Right, and they’d bring me to him with two broken ribs, a concussion, and just say, ‘Oops’?” He shook his head. “My dad would come unglued. He’s got to be in on it.”

  The facts were never simple. Through Rel and her counter–drug administration over the last few days, Marshall’s brain fog had lifted. Now he could process—or at least try—what had happened.

  Fact number one: His father explicitly knew Marshall had been injured in the attack that wiped out the team.

  Fact number two: His father or someone associated with him had Marshall brought back here, erected a pseudo hospital to trick him into thinking he was getting real medical care for grievous, near-fatal injuries. Yet as far as Marshall could tell, he had a few cuts and scrapes to go with the healing ribs that no longer felt like he was breathing fire. The doc said he had a concussion, but who knew if that intel was legit?

  Fa
ct number three: His father wanted him sedated so he either couldn’t remember what happened or couldn’t leave the room.

  What’s he trying to hide?

  If there was one person who would know what was going on, it’d be the Old Man. “What’s Lambert saying?”

  She hesitated. “The last few nights, I haven’t been able to reach him, so I left messages.”

  Lambert out of touch? At a time like this? That meant the situation had escalated and either Lambert was dead or in hiding. What’s going on? Urgency sped through his system. “Okay, get me clothes.”

  Rel smiled and reached into a bin she’d brought into the room. She lifted a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “I guessed on sizes.”

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The room spun. He jabbed out a hand to steady himself. “Whoa.”

  “Did you miss the part where I said you’re still too weak?”

  “Didn’t miss it. Just irrelevant.” He tested his sea legs as he hovered near the bed. A little shaky, but already the surge of adrenaline was filling in the gaps the injuries had left.

  As he reached for the pants she’d set on the bed, a wave of heat washed over him. Shouts. Shots. Like an undammed river, the memories flooded him. The locker room. Reaching for his change of clothes. Azzan sprinting into the room shouting, “Take cover! Under attack.”

  Doors burst inward. A stream of men in tac gear. The chaos. Deafening noises reverberating off the metal roof. Watching Azzan flip up into the rafters with a rifle. Marshall swung around with a left jab at an assailant. A right hook. Then a sharp pain in his back.

  A half-dozen men converging on the team. Being dragged out into the main bay. Shoved to the cement, his face kissing the ground. Midas flying through the air into the room. Colton erupting like a volcano in one incredible last stand.

  One bad guy firing at Dighton. Crack!

  Marshall?

  Two men emerging from a car. One an oversized figure. One an oversized ego.