Lethal Lies

by Lara Lacombe

  “I suppose,” she muttered.

  “Speaking of hurting,” he said, sliding around a corner. “Do you still have that bag of medical supplies?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I need some gauze.”

  “Why? Where are you injured?” She pulled the bag into her lap and began rooting inside.

  “My shoulder. It’s no big deal, but I’m bleeding a little bit.”

  He reached for the gauze she held out, but she jerked it away when she saw his hand. “Is that blood yours?”

  “Yes. Would you please give me the damn gauze?”

  She scooted across the bench seat until she was pressed up next to him, her hands roving over his chest in a search that made him grit his teeth with the effort of staying in control. “Were you hit anywhere else?”

  “No. Now stop molesting me.” Before you find out just how much I like your hands on me.

  Ignoring him, she tugged at the collar of his shirt, exposing his right shoulder. “Just this one?” she asked, probing the injury with cold fingers. Pain flared in the wake of her touch, burning away the arousal her earlier search had brought to life.

  “That’s the spot.” He gritted the words out.

  She pressed the gauze to his shoulder, and he couldn’t hold back a grunt of pain. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “It’s okay,” he assured her. He slowed a bit as they approached Massachusetts Avenue, glancing in the rearview mirror as he navigated the turn. So far, no sign of the boxy sedan from the motel parking lot. Maybe they had gotten lucky, after all, and the gangbangers were too busy licking their wounds to follow.

  “Where are we going?”

  Alex glanced over at Jillian, who was watching the road with her hand against his shoulder. It felt nice to have her next to him, even if she was trying to torture him by pressing hard on his injury. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. Fresh snow began to fall, fluffy and delicate. He flipped on the wipers to brush the flakes away, leaving short streaks of water that blended with the cracked lines of the windshield.

  “We need to find someplace where I can examine you,” Jillian said. “I think that bullet is still inside your shoulder.”

  “We’re not going to a hospital,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “I know,” she said a bit impatiently. “I wasn’t going to suggest it. I have another location in mind.”

  That got his attention. “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “My place.”

  Chapter 5

  “Absolutely not.” Alex turned his head to scowl at her before returning his focus to the road. “Out of the question.”

  “Why?” she said. “Have you got a better idea?”

  He was silent for a moment, his jaw tense as he guided the truck over the slick roads.

  “No one but you knows who I am,” she pointed out. “So they don’t know where to look. It’ll buy us some time.”

  “I don’t like it,” he gritted out

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like a lot of the things that have happened tonight, but I haven’t complained. You need to suck it up and deal.”

  He gave her a sidelong glare and tightened his grip on the wheel. The gauze she held to his shoulder had grown soggy under her fingertips, so she added some fresh squares and pressed harder against the wound, eliciting a grunt from Alex.

  “You’re still bleeding,” she said unnecessarily. “I need to patch you up, and I can’t do it in a moving truck. I have no desire to do it in a dirty gas station bathroom, either, so please just take me home.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but a loud gurgle rose from the direction of his stomach. Her own stomach rumbled in response, breaking the tension and making them both smile. “I have food,” she said, the words a proverbial carrot she dangled in front of him without apology. If she couldn’t convince his mind, perhaps she could win over his stomach. It was said to be the way to a man’s heart, but could she use it to break down his resistance, as well?

  Apparently she could. After a long silence he nodded. “All right,” he said quietly. “I suppose it’s as good a plan as any right now.”

  Sensing her victory was fragile, Jillian resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. She gave him directions to her apartment and he followed them without comment. She didn’t try to make conversation, just kept her hand pressed to his shoulder. Worry rolled off him in waves. She could practically feel it, as though it was a tangible thing, another passenger in the truck with them. She wanted to reassure him that they would be all right, that things would turn out okay, but she kept silent. Her words would be hollow promises at best, and he didn’t seem the type to take comfort from platitudes.

  Alex pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, finding a spot at the rear of the lot, away from most of the other cars. Hopefully the truck wouldn’t attract attention from the other residents. They tended to mind their own business, and the winter storm should keep them indoors. It would buy them some time.

  He turned off the truck, but made no move to get out. Instead he sat there, staring ahead at the bank of trees that bordered the lot. Jillian could tell by his vacant expression that he was lost in thought, and she was torn between a desire to give him a moment to process and the need to stitch him up. The longer she waited to tend to his shoulder, the more it would hurt.

  “Alex?” She spoke his name quietly, not wanting to startle him into jumping. When he didn’t respond, she tried again.

  He blinked, then turned to look at her as if just now remembering she was there. She caught her breath at the unguarded look on his face—desolation, despair and guilt danced across his features in rapid succession before a neutral mask dropped into place. It happened so quickly she almost missed it—would have, had she not been watching him closely. It was the first time she’d seen him as anything but confident, and the knowledge that he was hiding doubts and insecurities should have worried her even more.

  Instead it made her want to gather him in her arms, to hold him close and stroke his hair the way her mother used to soothe her when she was upset. She knew he would reject the gesture—a tough undercover federal agent like Alex wouldn’t want to admit he needed comforting. He would likely see it as a weakness, but she knew differently. As a doctor, her focus was primarily on the physical bodies of her patients, but she had seen too many people on the verge of death rally, and too many people with recoverable injuries wither, due to an abundance or lack of human contact to dismiss it as unimportant.

  But that was a conversation for another day. “We should go inside,” she said quietly, her breath forming faint clouds in the rapidly cooling cab of the truck. “I’ll fix us something to eat and patch you up. We can rest for a few hours.”

  He nodded. “That sounds great,” he said, relief plain in his voice. He offered her a weak smile and she took his free hand and placed it over the gauze on his opposite shoulder.

  “Hold this for me until we get inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jillian slid out of the truck, her serviceable clogs making a soft crunching sound as she dropped into the snow. A lump of fabric caught her eye as she turned to shut the door and she reached back to find a dark jacket. The denim was crumpled and smelled strongly of fried fish and cigarette smoke, but it was better than nothing. Rounding the truck, she met Alex as he climbed out of the cab. With an apologetic smile, she reached up to drape the jacket around his shoulders.

  He reared back, wrinkling his nose as he caught the scent wafting from the fabric. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s cover for your shoulder. Just until we get you inside.”

  “Is it really necessary?”

  “Seeing as how you have a large bloodstain on the front of your shirt, I’d say so.”

  Alex glanced down and winced. “Fair enough. But
can we please get going? This thing stinks.”

  She guided him to the back door and swiped her card, ushering him into the warmth of the building. “It’s just a little farther,” she murmured, leading him down the hall and around the corner. She held her breath when they arrived at her door. Hopefully Mrs. Rodriguez was asleep—technically, it was still the middle of the night, but the old gal seemed to get up earlier and earlier every time she saw her.

  Jillian withdrew her keys from her pocket, taking care not to jingle them. As quietly as possible, she twisted the dead bolt open and then moved to insert the key into the doorknob.

  There was a rattle from behind the neighboring door, the sound of a chain lock being unhooked. Mrs. Rodriguez opened the door a crack, poking her nose out into the hall like a mouse scenting cheese. With her gray hair wrapped in pink foam rollers and her large plastic-framed glasses obscuring half her face, she was the very picture of a nosy neighbor.

  “Is that you, Jillian?” She squinted into the hall, peering near-sightedly at them. Jillian swore silently, knowing she was caught.

  “It sure is, Mrs. Rodriguez. What are you doing up so early? You should still be in bed.”

  The old lady pressed her lips together and shook her head. “My bones hurt something awful. The weather, you know. Cold gets me every time.”

  “I know.” Jillian clucked in sympathy. “Have you been using your electric blanket?”

  Mrs. Rodriguez nodded. “And drinking that tea, like you told me.”

  “Good. Just remember, don’t lie on the blanket, put it on top of you. And be sure not to turn it up too high.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Jillian turned back to her door, hoping her neighbor would take the hint. No such luck.

  “And who is this young man?” Mrs. Rodriguez eyed Alex up and down, her lips forming a perfect O as she took in his size. “Is he your boyfriend?” She sounded mildly scandalized at the prospect and leaned forward with a sudden gleam in her eyes.

  Before Jillian could respond, Alex spoke up. “I’m her cousin. Jillian was kind enough to pick me up at the train station. She’s letting me stay with her overnight so I don’t have to pay for a hotel room.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez nodded, her hand going up to pat her hair before she pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I see. Well, if you get hungry, be sure to come over. Your cousin is a lovely lady, but she can’t cook to save her life.” She shook her head and tsked quietly over this gross character defect. “I make a wonderful meat loaf. It was my Harold’s favorite, God rest his soul.”

  Alex smiled indulgently and Jillian watched in fascination as twin spots of pink appeared on Mrs. Rodriguez’s lined cheeks. Jillian couldn’t blame her—the flash of dimples in his stubbled cheeks made something flutter low in her belly, even though she wasn’t the direct target of his smile.

  Ignoring the inconvenient spike of attraction, Jillian tore her gaze away from his mouth. Alex was looking a bit pale under the harsh lights in the hall, faint lines of strain feathering from the corners of his eyes. It was clear he was in pain but putting on a brave front for Mrs. Rodriguez. Time to get him inside.

  “Try to get some rest, and stay warm!” Jillian told her neighbor, pushing open the door to her apartment and reaching in to flip on the light.

  “Ah, yes. You, too, dear.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez retreated into her apartment as Jillian ushered Alex inside.

  She shut the door and twisted the lock before turning to him with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry about that,” she said, shrugging off her coat. “She’s a nice lady, but I had hoped to avoid talking to her.”

  “She seems harmless,” Alex observed, removing the dirty jean jacket and holding it away from his body with a look of distaste.

  “She is,” Jillian agreed. She motioned him into the kitchen and stuffed the jacket in a trash bag in a bid to seal off the stink. “But I didn’t want to have to explain your presence. I don’t want her to get hurt, if people come looking for us.

  “They won’t.” His voice was hard.

  She glanced over at him as she washed her hands. His muscles were bunched and tense, but whether with pain or determination, she couldn’t tell. His hands curled into loose fists, as though he was prepared to fight at the slightest provocation. His expression completed the picture of a warrior—mouth pressed shut, eyes narrowed to thin slits as if he could bend the world to his will with the force of his gaze alone.

  If only it were that simple.

  She turned back to the sink to rinse the suds from her skin. “Um, no offense, but things haven’t exactly gone according to plan tonight. Better safe than sorry.”

  From the corner of her eyes she saw him look down, his scowl relaxing as he silently acknowledged her point.

  Jillian dried her hands on a few squares of paper towel, then turned to face him. “Let’s get you patched up.” She gestured to the small table at the end of the room, indicating the lone chair that wasn’t piled high with mail. He sat, eying the detritus across from him with interest.

  “Have a lot of guests, do you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, carefully peeling away the fabric of his shirt. “I love to throw lavish dinner parties. Gotta keep my Cordon Bleu training fresh.”

  His eyes widened as he looked at her, clearly trying to gauge the truth of her words. “But your neighbor said you couldn’t cook...”

  She snorted, unable to keep the farce going. “I can’t. But if you’re going to be snarky about the state of my apartment, I’m going to give it right back to you.”

  “I wish,” he murmured.

  His words sent a delicious thrum through her limbs, making her skin tingle and her chest warm, as if she’d just taken a sip of hot tea. Deciding it was too dangerous to acknowledge the feelings he stirred up so easily, she studiously ignored him, deliberately looking anywhere but his face as she continued to probe the wound, her gaze unseeing.

  Stop overreacting. He probably didn’t mean anything by it.

  After a few seconds her body got the message and her brain cleared enough to register what was in front of her.

  It wasn’t bad, as far as gunshot injuries went. A small dark hole marred his skin, the margins a bit jagged and starting to swell. She pressed gently at the edges and was rewarded with a fresh welling of blood, oozing red in small, bright beads of color that made her think of holly berries. She stepped around to check his back for an exit wound, biting her lip as she saw the smooth expanse of skin, unmarred by injury.

  “The bullet is still inside your shoulder,” she informed him, straightening. It felt safer to look down on him, as if she was actually in control rather than at the mercy of her hormones. I shouldn’t have hugged him, she thought. It had been an impulsive move, born of nerves and adrenaline. She’d been terrified; sure they would be caught at any moment. She’d wanted a connection—however brief—to ground her, to keep her from falling down the rabbit hole of fear. So she’d pressed her body to his, felt his heart beat against hers.

  And now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  His lips moved and she realized with a sudden jolt that he was asking her a question.

  Get it together, Mahoney.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Alex cocked a brow while he studied her, like he was evaluating her sanity. “Can you get the bullet out?” he repeated slowly.

  She nodded, feeling her cheeks warm at being caught distracted. “Yes,” she said simply. She turned away and reached for the paper bag of supplies on the kitchen table. She’d seen a suture kit earlier, which would come in handy if she had to dig around for the bullet...

  “Do I get any drugs?” he asked, his tone half joking. “Surely I haven’t lost too much blood, right?”

  Jillian set her supplies on the table, consid
ering. “I think I have some lidocaine around here somewhere. Sit tight—I’ll be right back.”

  She returned a moment later, syringes in hand. Alex shook his head as she set them on the table and resumed prepping his shoulder.

  “As a Federal agent, I should report you for having controlled substances in your home,” he said, his tone dry.

  “Is that right?” she asked, slipping on a pair of gloves. “Should I stop what I’m doing and turn myself in? I’d hate to put you in an awkward position, professionally speaking.”

  He chuckled. “Touché. No, I think under the circumstances, I’ll look the other way.”

  She swiped his shoulder with Betadine, the chill making him suck in a breath. “Very kind of you,” she murmured.

  “That’s just the kind of nice guy I am.” He paused then spoke again. “Seriously, though, why do you have random syringes lying around your apartment?” His tone was light, but she could tell by his slight frown that the answer was important to him.

  “Working in the ER, I stitch a lot of people up. If I don’t use all of the syringes, I put them in my pocket while I’m cleaning up. Sometimes I forget I have them, especially if I get called to another emergency soon after.” She shrugged. “I make a pile at home, and take them back to work when I remember.”

  “Ah.” He relaxed at her words, clearly relieved at the innocent explanation.

  “Did you think I was some kind of addict?” She spoke quietly, giving him the option of ignoring the question.

  He was silent for a long moment, making her think he wasn’t going to respond. She focused on his shoulder, injecting the lidocaine in a ring around the entrance wound. She’d give it a minute to work, then start digging.

  “No,” he said softly. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “No, of course I don’t think you’re an addict. It’s just...” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I’ve spent too much time around bad people and it’s made me question everything. I’m sorry.”

  Jillian leaned back against the table, considering him. “Don’t apologize. I can’t imagine the things you’ve seen—it must be hard for you to trust anyone.” She was careful to keep her voice even and calm, sensing that he didn’t want platitudes and eager reassurances.