Asher doesn’t question me. He just repeats, “What can I do?”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve pulled into the driveway, loaded up the car, and when Asher intends to pull open the passenger door, I grab his arm. “I’m going to see Tag. Go protect Candace.”
“If you’re going to see Tag, I’m going with you.”
“If you go with me, you become a target. One that has to be eliminated before this is over.”
“You underestimate my skills, man, and my willingness to kill those who deserve to die.”
“Think about your wife.”
“Think about your future wife,” he counters. “If you’re dead, who’s going to protect her? Because let’s just face it, the asshole who jacked off on Candace’s bed can do your job for you. It doesn’t come with the scorned lover cover-up, but they’ll improvise.”
“You aren’t going with me, asshole.”
“Do you know where Tag is right now?”
I grimace. “No, fucktard, I don’t.”
“I do. Let’s go.”
“Fucktard,” I repeat, and release him, clicking the locks open before I round the Porsche 911. I climb inside and he’s already there. “Where are we going, you dumbass?”
He gives me the address and I reply with, “You’re going to end up dead.”
“I like you, too, Rick Savage. Now drive.”
***
Twenty minutes later, we pull into a residential neighborhood and Asher indicates a blue, one-story house shrouded in trees but not the midnight hour. The place is lit up and glowing like a sore thumb that I slammed with a hammer. “Looks like they’re expecting me,” I say, approaching the driveway.
“What’s the plan?” Asher asks.
“This,” I say, hooking it into the driveaway, slamming us into park, and with the engine running, opening my door. “Time to party.” I exit, drawing my favorite Glock as I do.
To Asher’s credit, he doesn’t disappoint. By the time I’m at the front of the car, so is he, with not one but two guns in his hands. “Damn SEALs,” I murmur as I join him. “Always showing off.”
“Always showing up,” he counters. “Considering what a Rambo you are, I’m not sure how you made it without us.”
“Sucking my thumb in a corner, crying,” I say, and I’m already charging up the sidewalk, my strides long, my body bulldozing right to the door, where I kick the fucker in.
About sixty seconds later, I’m holding a gun on Tag, who’s sitting in a recliner in the middle of a cozy living room. My damn father is on the footstool in front of him attending to some wound on his arm. In about thirty seconds, I’m across the couch, pointing a gun at Tag’s head, while four assholes point guns in my direction. Wes Casey isn’t one of them. I don’t know any of these men beyond them being douchebag killers who work for Tag. Asher is behind the couch with his guns, pointing left and right.
“Asher,” Tag says, his bruised lip swollen, from my fist last night. “How about we talk about how much money you could be making?”
“He’s dripping money,” I say. “But not blood. Yet. We can fix that right now.”
“Son,” my father warns.
I don’t look at him. “That’s the last time you live to call me that.” I step directly in front of Tag and press the barrel of my Glock to his forehead, giving the room my back. A silent message that tells them I’m not afraid of them and I trust Asher. That means they should fear Asher.
“Where’s Wes?”
“Plotting your murder,” he says. “Which is why I kept him away from you. He’s not here.”
“Where the fuck is Wes?”
“The moment you see Wes again will be the moment before you die. Do your job. Unless you’re waiting until he bangs your woman. I mean, maybe you get off thinking about another man inside her.”
I can almost feel the room bristle in fear of what might come next. They all think he’ll break me, but I look into that man’s eyes, and he into mine, and we both know—he knows—he can’t.
“Talk never gets me off,” I say softly, a lethal quality to my tone, even to my own ears. “You want me to kill Honest Gabe. Wes dies first.”
“No deal,” he says. “You owe me.”
“He jacked off on my woman’s bed,” I bite out, my tone as cutting as the knife I will one day use on his throat. “Even you know how off-limits that is. Deal with him or I will, which means I’m not dealing with Gabriel.” I lower my weapon and holster it. “There is no negotiation on this. The next time you see me, if he’s not gone, everyone in this house right now will be.” I don’t turn, but I speak to his cohorts. “And if anyone in this room thinks I didn’t see their faces, or that I can’t find you again, ask your pimp daddy here about my ability to forget no one.” I pause for effect. “And kill everyone. There’s a reason he’s a sour puss over losing me. And there’s a reason he wants me dead. Because he knows I’m the one most likely to kill him.” I glance down at my father. “You’re dead to me.”
“Son, he told me—”
I turn and start walking toward the door, my strides just as long on the path out as they were on my way up the sidewalk. Asher lingers a few beats after me, backing up with guns drawn all the way down the driveway. Because he doesn’t get it. Tag never allows dirty shit to go down when he’s present. Because Tag doesn’t want to die. But he will die, and it’s going to be brutal. Because I now have to go back to my woman and explain Wes to her. And yes, that will make her fear Wes, but more so, it’s going to do what deep down I’ve never wanted to do: it’s going to make her scared of me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Candace
Adrian sits at the piano in the middle of the fancy suite we’re now occupying on the highest floor of the Hotel Emma. He’s not silent. Ever. Much like Rick, the man is one big ball of huge personality. Presently, he’s playing Chopsticks while I’m thinking that this expensive apartment at the top of a hotel, is about security, which translates to danger. It’s a given, considering this night but nevertheless, I’m nervous about Rick’s silence for the past two hours. And the Chopsticks are chopping at those nerves. “Stop, Adrian,” I order, settling a hand on top of the piano. “No more Chopsticks. It’s making me crazy.” I sound like a bitch. The man is protecting me. “I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands. “I don’t mean to be on edge. Am I on edge? I think I am. Of course, I am. In my head I already know I’m on edge.” I press my hands to my face and then drop them. “I sound like a crazy bitch. I’m just worried about Rick. I’d better walk away before you hate me and I deserve it, which would suck because you are a nice guy who doesn’t deserve a bitch to protect.” I turn and walk onto the balcony and into the cool wet night—at least cool for Texas in November—that never materialized into a stormy night, and can almost feel my hair turn into a frizz ball on my head. Thus is the life of a Texan. I sit down on the cushy chairs next to the fireplace. I wonder what life in New York City would be like. I wonder if that’s what Rick wants. Is that what I want? I almost laugh at myself. I want him. That’s what I want.
Adrian joins me, claiming the sofa in front of me and settling in, his attention on me, just me. It’s not uncomfortable. He’s a nice guy—tall, dark, and good looking, with curly dark hair and intelligent, but quite friendly, green eyes. Friendly while not being inappropriate. I like this about him. And he has tattoos. Lots of tattoos. Both his arms are covered, but I’m not looking at the design and really seeing the design. I’m thinking that I just want my tattooed man back.
“There was a Texas A&M Aggie,” Adrian finally says, apparently about to launch into one of the many Texas Longhorns/A&M Aggie jokes, us Texans learn from the moment we can speak. In fact, you don’t even have to like football in Texas to tell these jokes. They’re as much a part of us as is country music, big hair, cowboy boots, and chips and queso.
“I’ve heard all of these jokes,” I warn. “And I mean, all of them.”
“No way. I’m a Texan, too. I’ve got an endl
ess supply.”
“You’re from Texas?”
“Yep. I’m from Waco which back then, wasn’t much of a place to talk about. Which means there wasn’t much to do back in the day but tell jokes.”
“Bad jokes?”
“Is there a better kind?” he teases.
I laugh. “Not if it’s an Aggie joke. I know some really great Aggies.”
“Me, too, which is what makes these jokes even better.” He rubs his hands together. “So here we go. Joke number one. I know you haven’t heard this one. A Texas A&M football player was almost killed in a tragic horseback-riding accident. He fell from the horse and was nearly trampled to death. Thank God the manager of the K-Mart came out and unplugged it.”
“Heard it,” I say.
His lips purse and he hits me again. “Why don’t Aggies use 911 in an emergency? Because they can’t find eleven on the phone dial.”
“Heard it.”
He frowns. “I don’t believe you.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. “Why did the Aggie get fired from the M&M plant as a quality control inspector?”
“He kept throwing out all the W&W’s!” I say. “We sat around telling Aggie jokes in summer camp.”
He scowls this time. “Okay then. I’m going to get inappropriate, but fuck it. You didn’t hear this in summer camp. An Aggie goes to the doctor. The doctor tells him, ‘I'm sorry, but you're going to have to stop masturbating.’ The Aggie asks, ‘why?’”
I finish for him. “The doctor says, ‘I'm trying to examine you.’”
His eyes go wide. “Well then. I guess summer camp got pretty damn inappropriate. How old were you at camp?”
“Twenty-six.”
He looks confused and I laugh. “Just kidding. Camp didn’t get inappropriate. But have you met Rick Savage, who I was once engaged to? He does. Often.”
“Were engaged to?”
“A long story,” I say quickly. “And I don’t know you.”
“Ah, right.” His hands settle on his black jeans. “If you tell me you’ll have to kill me, and all that shit. Moving on then. Eating makes everything better, especially when talking isn’t an option. Which will it be? Fancy room service or GrubHub Taco Bell?”
Now I laugh. “Taco Bell. I’m in.”
“Taco Bell it is.” He pulls out his phone to place the order and his phone buzzes with a text message. He reads a moment and glances at me. “Your inappropriate, stupid man is on his way up.”
“Stupid?”
“You clearly love him and he clearly lost you. Made that stupid mistake once myself. But then, she was better off without me.” He stands up and walks inside, leaving me chilled in a way the fireplace can’t possibly warm. He believes his love is better off without him, the way I know Rick still feels I’m better off without him. That scares me, but as I hear the front door open, I shove that thought away. I push to my feet and run toward the door. I reach the inside of the room in time to find Rick standing in the center, and Adrian is nowhere in sight. And my God, the man claims the room, a tall, fierce warrior, that scar down his cheek almost a battle cry.
“Come here,” he orders, and perhaps considering my thoughts before I walked in here, I should resist, but I don’t. Just that easily he owns me. Just that easily I comply, and I do so eagerly and willingly. So willingly, that I don’t just walk. I run to him and wrap my arms around him. And when I lift my mouth to his, his hand comes down on my head in that familiar way he touches me, a moment before his lips find my lips. Before his tongue presses past my teeth and slides deep in a long, lavish stroke I feel shiver through every part of my body. It’s a dark kiss, a daunting kiss in the message it speaks without words.
I tear my mouth from his, searching his face. “What’s wrong?”
“We need to talk about this scar on my face.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Candace
We need to talk about the scar on his face.
I don’t know what this is about, or why it’s happening now, but my fingers immediately rest on that scar. “I don’t need you to do this.”
“You do. And so do I. But I’m not trying to scare you off. Fuck.” His fingers close around my hair, but it’s not aggressive. It’s more like he’s hanging on for dear life. “I’m terrified I’m about to scare you off.”
Terrified.
This man, terrified.
“Don’t be,” I say. “You won’t scare me off. You can’t. I told you—”
He kisses me again, this time hard and fast. “Tell me they have whiskey in this place.”
“There’s a bar off the kitchen. Yes, we have one of those, too.”
“Good. Thank Fuck.” He releases me, runs a hand over his head and then scans to find the hallway he rightly decides leads to the kitchen. He heads in that direction and I follow, cutting through it to the small pantry-sized bar area.
By the time I get there, Rick has four mini bottles of bourbon on the counter, but he hasn’t opened them. He presses his hands to the bar and lowers his chin to his chest, torment radiating from him. I close the space between us and slide under his arm, placing myself between him and the counter. And when he lifts those blazingly fierce blue eyes to mine and blasts me with his torment, my hands go to his face. “You can’t scare me away.”
“I don’t know if that’s true or not, Candace. But one thing this night taught me was that my past will catch up to us. You deserve to know what that means. And I’m not going to drink that whiskey. Because you deserve to have me fully present for this.”
“We can drink it together after you tell me.”
He closes his hand around mine and kisses my fingers. “You always say the right thing.”
“Because it’s you. Someone else might think it’s the wrong thing. That’s because we’re—”
“Connected,” I say. “Yes. We are. In ways, you may never escape.”
“I don’t want to escape.”
“Good. Because I’d have to become your secret protector or stalker if you did. And to maturely protect you while watching you with another man, would be about as successful as asking The Rock to play Cinderella.”
“The Rock is actually funny. He might be able to pull that off in a silly—”
He kisses me. “Don’t run away,” he whispers, the words rasping from his lips, on a breath that is both warm and somehow icy cold.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I push on his chest and force his gaze to mine. “Tell me. Get it over with right now. Just say it.”
“That easy? Just say it?”
“That’s right. You aren’t a man to mince words. Don’t start now. Who cut you and why?”
He draws in a deep breath, that perfect chest of his expanding and the set of that strong jaw tightening to a near burst. He gives me a sudden nod and then steps back from me, leaning on the wall opposite the counter, the space between us small. The space is small. This is good. We’re here, me and him, and no one else. And I want him to know that I’m his safe place. He needs one. Even the big bad killer that he is needs a safe place.
His foot goes to the wall behind him. His hand scrubs the full-day stubble on that tensed jaw. And then, only then, does he breathe out that breath he’s been holding. “It was a job taking out a Venezuelan official. A hit on a bad man. Of that I’m certain. But that bad man had a small child.”
“Oh my,” I whisper when I don’t mean to. It just comes out.
“Yes. Oh fucking my,” he murmurs. “I killed the man and I feel no guilt over that. It wasn’t until he was dead that me and my team—there were three of us—got the call to kill the child, his child. He was ten.”
“And?” I ask, my voice so small, it’s barely more than a pin drop in a silent night, that may or may not, be your imagination.
“I did what you would have wanted me to do, baby. I tried to save him. There were three of us there that day, all of us under Tag’s employ. All of us working a job that was off the books but directed by whoever was in charg
e in the US government. Me, Wes Casey, and his wife, Lily Casey. I raced to the boy’s room. I got there just after Lily.”
“And?”
“She was already in the room. She had him and was about to slice his throat. I grabbed her and she sliced my face. I held a blade to her throat. I could have killed her. She agreed to let the boy go.”
“But she didn’t?” I ask, my fist balling over my racing heart as if I might stop it from exploding from my chest.
“No. The minute I let her go, she went for him. I can’t even explain the exact way it happened. I don’t make miscalculations, but somehow I threw a blade, meant for her, and she grabbed him and used him as body armor.”
I gasp and my hand goes to my mouth. “Oh God.” I feel sick, but I drop my hand and grab the sink behind me. “What did you do?”
“I killed the bitch.”
“Good. Good, Rick. How does this make you a monster?”
“I was a part of an operation that targeted a small child, Candace. That’s going to hit you later.”
A thought stabs at me, and it’s painful, so damn painful. “Who directed that mission to Tag? Was it my father? Or Gabe?”
“I don’t know, baby. I told myself it wasn’t your father, but there are decisions made at high levels, things a soldier isn’t supposed to question.”
“You weren’t a soldier. You were a civilian. And my father—”
“Might be in trouble right now because he figured out that Gabe directed those kinds of missions. And that mission was on US soil—they were renting a vacation villa.”
“Which means that Gabe broke the law if the CIA commanded such a thing.”
“Exactly, but even if I find proof of that mission in the documents that I hid wherever the fuck I hid them, that does nothing to prove who directed that mission.”
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