The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  “God, that’s the truth,” he sighed happily. “Here, we’ve got four solid walls, air conditioning, and carpeting. We have our own working bathroom, I assume. And, if we’re lucky, we might even be bug-free, too.”

  He roamed around, checking the window and the curtains, the closet, and under the bed. Their predicament didn’t seem to be denting his good cheer in the least, and that only irritated Lyla more.

  “We’ve got no food and one bed for two grown adults,” she countered, knowing she sounded petulant. “And at the moment, I don’t know which I need more—a shower or sleep.”

  Tate exhaled and eyed her with sympathy. “It’s been a long day, and I know it didn’t go the way you wanted. Why don’t you take a nice, hot shower, and I’ll run out and find us some supper.”

  That sounded about perfect, but… “What, and leave me alone here? I thought that was against the rules.”

  Tate smiled and came closer, his stupid dimples popping up on his cheeks and his dumb blue eyes twinkling. “This room has exactly one window that is welded shut, and one door with three locks on it. If you’re a very good girl and promise not to open the door to anyone but me, I think I can bend the rules just this once.”

  “So magnanimous,” Lyla muttered.

  “What do you feel like eating?”

  “Tate, you saw it out there. It’s all tourist traps, coffee shops, and dive bars. You’ll be lucky if you can find some stale chips at the minimart in the lobby.”

  She ought to have known he’d be undeterred by pesky things like simple facts, though. Tate only repeated in a singsong voice, “What do you feel like?”

  The thing that dropped instantly into Lyla’s head was burritos.

  Her mom was a big believer in instinct—in hunches. She’d always told Lyla that the first idea you had was usually the one you wanted most, even if logic and rationality came next and muddied the field. Plus, there was no denying that cheese was Lyla’s comfort food.

  And so, even as unlikely and impractical as it was, she muttered, “I wish we could find some burritos.” It was a hopeless idea, given that they both knew they’d probably be eating power bars for dinner. Lyla added quickly, “But please don’t go out of your way. I’m serious.”

  Tate grinned. “You worry about your job. I’ll take care of mine.”

  “Your job is not to feed me—it’s to protect me. And that’s going to be hard to do that from wherever you’re going.”

  “Watch me.”

  With that, Tate grabbed his keys, made Lyla promise approximately seven-million times to lock up behind him and not open the door unless he specifically texted her that he was outside, then took off into the wilds of the Baltimore night.

  ELEVEN

  TATE TOOK A few minutes in the lobby to do a search on his phone, then hit up the bellhop for his suggestions. Once he had a good idea of where to go, he took the elevator down to the garage to get the truck.

  It figured there was nothing within walking distance—it was just that kind of day.

  Still, he found the hole-in-the-wall Tex-Mex place after only a few wrong turns. They were doing brisk takeout business, so Tate ordered Lyla a vegetarian burrito platter and some fajitas for himself. Then he added chips, queso, guacamole, and bottled water to make sure she had a good selection of things to eat.

  After only a second or two of debate—and several good looks at what other people were getting—Tate went back through the line and ordered them some churros for dessert. Come on, they came with chocolate sauce—what woman wouldn’t like that?

  Back outside, Tate was feeling like a boss when he tossed aside the odds and ends on the passenger seat and set the heavy bag of provisions down.

  Lyla had been so sure she couldn’t have what she wanted for dinner tonight, but the whole foray had gone about as seamlessly as Tate could’ve hoped for.

  It only seemed fair that he’d caught a break, given how their afternoon had gone—but he ought to have known it’d been too easy.

  Sure enough, when Tate rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel, he heard an ominous crunch beneath his feet, and realized his victory dance had been a bit premature.

  When he leaned down to investigate, he found his sunglasses—or rather, the maimed remains of his sunglasses.

  Shit. The shades hadn’t come cheap and were pretty mission-critical these days—and Tate and Lyla had a two-hour drive to Pittsburgh in the morning.

  Even worse, it was supposed to be a bright, clear day, and with Tate’s light-sensitivity, the highway full of cars reflecting sun everywhere promised to be excruciating.

  He sat there with the broken frames in his hands and tried to decide what to do. Tate had a ballcap he could wear, and the truck’s sunshade he could use—but he doubted those things would be enough to cut the glare as much as he needed. And, given Lyla’s upset mood, he didn’t want to bellyache about it and worry her more.

  Where could he find a pair of replacements tonight, though? Most of the retail stores had to be closing up by now, and he had to get the food back to Lyla before it got cold.

  Tate turned on the truck, reflexively checked the fuel level, and realized he had his answer. No reason he couldn’t gas up for their drive now instead of in the morning—and a gas station minimart was as likely a place as anywhere to have a rack of cheap sunglasses.

  He texted Lyla his status, fooled around with his phone’s mapping app until he found a filling station close by, and set off once more.

  THE TINY SHOP attached to the gas station offered many things—ten brands of beef jerky, a selection of wiper fluid and propane tanks, fishing gear, and tourist t-shirts. They had stuffed-animal crabs, crab decals, and a variety of crab-flavored snacks.

  They even had kid’s sunglasses in the shape of crabs, arranged incongruously next to a rack of skeevy magazines.

  Alas, the market did not appear to sell any adult sunglasses, crab-shaped or otherwise. Tate contemplated his options, cursed his clumsiness, and then sprung for a few sports bars and protein shakes, so the trip wasn’t a complete waste of time.

  His eyes kept snagging on the presence of those rods and reels back in the corner, though. Tate hadn’t been fishing in years, but there weren’t many activities he could think of that were as relaxing as spending an afternoon on a riverbank waiting for a bite.

  Conveniently, Tate just happened to know someone who could use a few calm, lazy hours right about now.

  On a whim, he went back and grabbed a couple of poles and some line, then dropped them on the counter with all his other stuff. He had no idea if he and Lyla would get a chance to use the things, but what was the harm?

  Even if they never found a single creek on this tour, Tate could always stash the poles at his parents’ place once it was over. His brother Tom could use them when he returned from the Peace Corps next year, or Tate and his dad could go out the next time Tate got leave.

  He nestled the rods carefully in the back of the SUV, on the side where they wouldn’t get broken by his and Lyla’s luggage. And now that he had the things, he was feeling pretty determined to find an opportunity to use them.

  However, right now he had to head back to the hotel and feed Lyla, before she went completely around the bend.

  TATE STOPPED AT the front desk on his way upstairs to snag some extra blankets and sheets. Later, he could use them to make a pallet on the floor without having to deprive Lyla of any covers from the bed.

  Tate hadn’t considered how much that would be to carry, though, and found himself juggling the bedding and the food the whole ride up in the elevator.

  He’d told Lyla he would knock and text her once he got back, so she’d know to let him in—but once he got there, he ended up having to set the food down in the hallway, just so he’d have a hand free to pull out his phone.

  But as Tate stood outside their room waiting like the blue-ribbon ass he was, he wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring the other room key with him in the first place.
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br />   Truly, he was beginning to wonder what the heck Red had been thinking, hiring a scattered dolt like him for such an important job. Probably, the decent thing to do was resign, but the thought of some other asshole trying to protect Lyla scrubbed that dumb plan right out of Tate’s skull.

  And, when Lyla opened the door and her face lit up like Christmas morning at the sight of Tate bearing food, he knew he’d see this job through—whether it was a good idea or not.

  IT WAS A little amazing how something as simple as beans and rice could make a woman’s day—but given how easy it had been to obtain the food, Tate was a little embarrassed by the conquering hero treatment Lyla was lavishing on him.

  Not that he minded, exactly. Sitting cross-legged across from her on that bed, the fresh scent of her shampoo lingering all around him and weaving its bewitching spell, Tate was as happy as a pig in mud to be the object of Lyla’s adulation.

  He didn’t deserve it, though—and it felt pretty lame to be basking in glory he hadn’t really exerted himself for.

  After Lyla’s fourth, “You’re the best human being on earth,” Tate reluctantly made an effort to shut her down.

  “For God’s sake, Slick, all I did was run out and buy some fast food. It’s not like I single-handedly vanquished the Visigoths or anything.”

  “I bet you could if you tried,” she gushed, albeit around a mouthful of burrito.

  With the way Lyla was twinkling over at him, Tate didn’t have the heart to argue the point with her. “I mean, if I had enough duct tape…then maybe,” he said.

  She giggled, damn it. It was so natural and unvarnished—just sweet, happy, adorable woman—that it slayed Tate right where he sat. How was a guy supposed to resist it?

  If women had any clue how cute they looked with their hair all soft and damp, their faces scrubbed clean of cosmetics, and their guards down—hell, men would never stand a chance.

  But Tate wasn’t here to enjoy a late-night picnic with a pretty woman, he reminded himself. He was here to work.

  And that meant, when the food was demolished and the woman was yawning wide enough for him to hear her jaw crack, it was time for Tate to leave the bed.

  He helped Lyla gather up the scattered containers, utensils, and napkins, and crammed them into the tiny trash can in the bathroom. Tate locked himself in that bathroom to change into a respectable t-shirt and pair of shorts to sleep in, and once he’d brushed his teeth and taken his medicine, Tate came back out to discover Lyla tucked daintily under the near side of the bedcovers.

  “Mind if I just pop in there to brush my teeth?” she asked.

  “It’s all yours,” Tate told her.

  He grabbed the pile of bedding he’d gotten earlier and scoped out the best location for him to crash that night.

  The largest square of space was on the floor near the bathroom, but he couldn’t bed down there. If Lyla needed to hit the head in the middle of the night, she was liable to break her neck tripping over him.

  That left the much narrower sliver of carpet between the bed and the A/C unit under the window. It would be a tight fit for his shoulders, but at least it looked long enough to accommodate Tate’s height.

  He began laying out some of the blankets to soften up the hard floor, and hoped that his spine wouldn’t feel like complete shit the next day. Lyla came out of the bathroom and slipped right back under the covers again.

  She kept to the far side of the mattress and eyed his arrangements quizzically.

  A minute later, she inquired, “Tate, what on earth are you doing?”

  “Making my bed.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Tate frowned. “Yeah. I am.”

  “But you can’t sleep on the floor!”

  He sighed, “Lyla, what else do you expect me to do? I’m sure as hell not going to make you sleep down here.”

  Lyla rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to sleep on the floor, I would’ve become a…uh…”

  Sometimes it was just too easy. “A soldier?”

  “Let’s go with trail guide. I would’ve become a trail guide, instead of a writer.”

  “Okay, but I know for a fact that you’ve noticed we only have one bed. So, if you’re not sleeping on the floor, that means I am.”

  “Tate, I realize that it’s completely awkward and weird,” she sighed, “but surely we are adult enough to share the bed for one night, without losing control and molesting each other.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he smiled.

  “Ha, ha. Would you please stop doing that and just lay down here?” Lyla patted the empty space beside her primly. “For crying out loud—that pile you’re making looks like something a dog would sleep on.”

  “Lyla, I promise it’s fine. I really don’t care. Enjoy your big mattress and get some rest.”

  “I don’t have cooties, you know.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I don’t even bite.”

  “Well…I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t disappointing,” Tate cracked.

  Lyla’s exasperated tone was edging into something else, though—something less entertaining and far more concerning.

  “Tate,” she insisted.

  He took a good long look at her face, registering the tightness around her eyes and the tension in her jaw. Something more was up here than who laid their head where.

  “Hey, you okay, Slick?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Lie. What’s going on?”

  Lyla stared him down for a good long while before she caved. “Just…sit down, would you? I have to tell you something.”

  Did that sentence ever not sound ominous? Tate sat.

  Lyla swallowed hard and told him, “Someone called while you were out getting the food.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. It might’ve been—”

  “The stalker?” he demanded.

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, what’d they say?”

  “Nothing. They only breathed—heavy breathing. I asked who it was a few times, but then they hung up.”

  “Could it have been a wrong number?”

  “I don’t think so. At first, I assumed that you’d butt-dialed me, but then I realized that you would’ve used my cell number, not the room phone.”

  Tate nodded and Lyla’s eyes filled up. “I feel so stupid,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I stayed on the line for so long. I should’ve hung up right away, but it took me a while to realize what was happening.”

  “That’s normal, sweetheart. Why should you have expected that fucker to call you here?”

  “Because apparently, this is going to be my life now,” Lyla blurted out. She began crying in earnest, then.

  “Shh,” Tate soothed, scooting closer so he could wrap an arm around her. “Don’t cry. We’re going to figure out who’s doing this as soon as we can, okay? And then you won’t have to worry anymore.”

  “I keep forgetting I’m supposed to be on guard,” she admitted weepily. “And he always seems to sense the second I do it.”

  “I’m sure that’s only a coincidence,” Tate told her, and hoped like hell that was true.

  Lyla snuggled down into the bed, so Tate reached over her head to turn off the light.

  “Still. It’s like he knew you were gone.”

  Tate had been considering that very thing, but he’d be damned if he let her know it. “No way,” he said.

  “Will you stay up here for another couple minutes?” Lyla asked him.

  It was a terrible idea. But Tate said, “Of course,” and rested a hand on her back, moving it slowly back and forth as she settled down.

  “I’m so tired,” she murmured.

  “Go to sleep. I’m here. It’s safe.”

  “Thank you, Tate.”

  “Anytime.” In that moment, with Lyla’s soft breath feathering over his skin in the semi-darkness, Tate meant that vow with every fiber
of his being.

  HE MUST HAVE fallen out. It was the only explanation for why Tate woke up with a start a few hours later, his body molded to Lyla’s like he’d been welded into place.

  His heart was racing, and his t-shirt was stuck to his back with the cold sweat that bathed him. Tate edged carefully back until he felt the side of the mattress, then pulled the sodden shirt over his head. He mopped off his face and tossed it on his bag, then took stock of his surroundings.

  Dark hotel room. Unused pallet on the floor behind him. Lyla snoozing away peacefully, two feet in front of him. The A/C unit ticking under the window. No trace whatsoever of the nightmare that had awoken him.

  It had been the same old thing, but with a frightening new twist. There was the usual impending sense of doom, and the utter conviction that the explosion was coming—but this time, Lyla had been there, too. Laughing happily, walking through the market, expecting Tate to catch up to her.

  Except, he couldn’t. He’d tried to make his legs work, but it was like running underwater, or through quicksand. Lyla only got farther away the harder he’d worked.

  The road between them had stretched out, and the air between them had grown thick. Worst of all, he’d known the hellfire was coming with the vengeance of a hundred devils.

  Tate gasped at the still-vivid memory and reached out a shaking hand to touch Lyla’s hair, silky soft and spread against the stark white pillow.

  She was safe. He was here next to her, and no one was trying to blow them up—tonight, at least. Tate desperately needed to pull himself together.

  He focused on his breathing like they’d taught him in the hospital, pulling air in slowly through his nose, then letting it out on the count of ten through his mouth.

  He thought about crickets chirping in the grass, water burbling over stones in a brook, and dogs with floppy ears, sound asleep in a patch of sun.

  Tate dwelled on Lyla’s giggle, the way it sounded when he made silly jokes.

  Little by little, the fear dissipated, his pulse returned to normal, and his eyes got heavy again. Still, in case he had a repeat, it would be safer to move to the floor and let Lyla have the whole bed.