What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  Oh, merda, he’d seen her with the Patriot Zealots. “Actually, the stronzi were fairly nice for a change.”

  His eyes were the black of a moonless night—and far too perceptive. “I noticed.”

  “Waitress!” The call pierced the noise in the room.

  Frankie turned to see a table of impatient tourists.

  “I need to get moving.” She’d spent too much time with the PZs.

  Brows pulled together, Bull nodded. “If you’re all right, I’ll get to work.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” She gave him what felt like the most insincere smile in the history of mankind.

  The guilt pinching her muscles was far weaker than the longing to bury her face against his neck and beg him for help.

  Instead, she waved at the tourists, told them she’d be right there, and went to retrieve the nachos.

  Nabera walked out of the roadhouse in a good mood. Before leaving, he’d had Luka ask about the sweet little barmaid, the one who was ripe for the plucking. Naïve, with inherited money and no relatives.

  Luka had learned her name was Frankie, and she lived in one of the old Okie’s cabins on the lake. Nabera sneered at the thought of Dante, the owner of the market and the cabins. The nonbeliever was on the town council and licked the uppity libtard mayor’s ass more like a trained dog than a man.

  Nabera glanced around for their driver. After some of their intoxicated Zealots had run-ins with the hard-ass police chief, the Prophet decreed that members coming to the roadhouse must be dropped off and picked up. Earlier, Obadiah had stuck his head in the door to let them know he’d arrived.

  At the car, Obadiah opened the door for him, then cleared his throat. “Captain, I wasn’t sure if I should mention this, but…” He scowled at the roadhouse.

  “Spit it out,” Nabera ordered.

  “It’s about Kirsten. In a way. See, last year, Kirsten’s friend came from New York for our wedding. That was before we moved to the compound in Texas.”

  Nabera sighed. Was this going to take much longer? He had a nice buzz on and was impatient to select a woman to fuck tonight. “Get to the point, Lieutenant. Was there a problem when the friend visited?”

  “Nah, I only saw her for a second. She’s all about women’s rights and that bullshit. Not a suitable person to be in my wife’s life.” Obadiah shrugged. “After she went back to New York, I exerted my authority, and Kirsten dropped her.”

  “As it should be.” Nabera nodded approval. Unbelievers were an unacceptable diversion from the Prophet’s way. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “I just saw her in the roadhouse.” Obadiah pointed to the roadhouse.

  His lieutenants moved closer, and Conrad sneered, “Like you’d recognize someone you met for a second?”

  “Kit had a ton of pictures of her. Hanging on the walls in her apartment. In photo albums,” Obadiah said doggedly. “I’d recognize Frankie, even in that roadhouse barmaid outfit.”

  Nabera stiffened. “Frankie?”

  “Yeah. She even uses a man’s name. Could she be here to try to get Kirsten away from me? From us?”

  Luka and Conrad moved closer as Nabera spat out, “Describe her.”

  “She’s part spic,” Obadiah said slowly. “Dark brown hair, brown eyes, full rack, mouthy.”

  The description matched, and Frankie wasn’t a common name for a woman. “She lives in New York?”

  “Yes, sir. She works—worked—at some fancy-ass job for her rich family.”

  Now she was in Alaska working a minimum wage job? Not fucking likely. His teeth ground together. “She knows Kirsten is in Rescue. She was trying to get information about her. And about our compound.”

  He’d thought she was tempting—innocent and stupid.

  The filthy, lying bitch.

  Luka’s mouth dropped open. “Captain, could she be the one who operated the drone?”

  It got worse and worse. “The operator’s footprints were from a woman’s shoe. She’s snooping around, all right.” Nabera’s mouth thinned. “If we’re not careful, the feds will show up with search warrants. They’ll take our weapons. Remove our women.”

  Conrad glared at Obadiah. “Your woman needs—”

  “She’s not involved.” Obadiah snarled, his teeth barely visible behind his yellow-brown beard. “She knows if she’s stupid, her whiny-ass boy will accidentally fall off a cliff.”

  Nabera wasn’t so sure. The barmaid—Frankie—had said, “A couple of your women were at the grocery,” and spoke about the younger woman with them. She’d seen Kirsten. “The snoopy ‘friend’ already knows too much about us. If she’s not stopped, she’ll learn more.”

  Luka stiffened. “The chief of police is just waiting for us to put a foot wrong.”

  Nabera growled under his breath. One day that cop would drive down the wrong back road, and his head would get blown off. “Let me think.”

  The others waited respectfully as he considered.

  They couldn’t leave the busybody alive. That was obvious. But if she disappeared, there would be a search. Awkward questions of why she was here.

  A car accident might work, but…there still might be questions.

  What if it appeared as if the target was someone else and she was—what was that big city term?—collateral damage.

  She was staying in one of the Okie’s rental cabins. “Luka, didn’t you tell me about Dante fighting with someone?”

  “Yes, bunch of wannabe gangsters from Anchorage. They got high and were shooting things up. He kicked them out of the cabin they’d rented.” Luka smiled. “They almost shot him as they drove away.”

  Conrad spat on the ground. “City assholes can’t shoot for shit.”

  “Just as well.” No one would question that the city thugs would want revenge—and would love to burn all four of those nice wooden cabins.

  With some money as incentive, a few Anchorage scumbags could be found to pay a visit to the cabins. Nabera smiled. It would be worth the money to fuck up the old Okie who’d given the Prophet so much trouble.

  Nabera told his lieutenants, “Change in plans. A quick trip to Anchorage right now. No point in putting this off.” Who knew what the cunt might get up to next?

  “Anchorage, sir?” Luka asked.

  “There are times it’s better to hire things out. Keep your own hands clean.” Law enforcement must not trace anything back to the Zealots.

  Nabera glanced at Obadiah. “When we get back, we need to speak to Kirsten. The New Yorker couldn’t have discovered that Kirsten is here unless she was told.”

  Killing the New Yorker would have been enjoyable but hearing Obadiah’s disobedient wife scream would make up for it.

  The roadhouse was closed.

  The night had been profitable, Bull thought as he finished with the bar receipts. Near the center of the empty room, Frankie waited for him at a table, doing her own paperwork.

  The routine let them leave together so she could spend the night at his house. Even though he liked her little cabin, it wasn’t good to leave Gryff alone too long. The traumatized rescue needed more than his snug doghouse on the deck—he needed people.

  After putting his paperwork away, Bull leaned on the bar top to watch Frankie work. Such a beautiful woman. Although when he called her that, she’d laugh and say she was pretty enough, but her sisters were the beauties. Not to gain herself compliments, just stating what she believed.

  He didn’t agree. Maybe society considered her sisters to be more attractive than she was, but as a man, he had his own opinion.

  Francesca Bocelli was beautiful.

  However…

  His jaw tightened. He might not know her as well as he’d thought. He’d figured her to be honest and straightforward. But tonight, her behavior with the PZs had him questioning his ability to read people.

  Usually when men tried to touch Frankie, she sidestepped and called them on it. Effortlessly. Yet, earlier tonight, Nabera had held her hand, put his arm
around her waist, even squeezed her ass. She’d not only let him but leaned in closer.

  Her flirting had roused ugly feelings in Bull. Ones that hadn’t died down in the hours since.

  Done with closing, Bull walked over to her table.

  She rose and smiled. “Ready to go?”

  “In a minute.”

  Her smile faltered. “What?”

  “Want to tell me what was going on with you and Captain Nabera?”

  “That was Nabera?”

  He blinked. She didn’t know who the guy was? Maybe he’d misread the situation. “It was Nabera who held your hand. Who squeezed your ass.”

  Dark color rose in her cheeks, and his indecision faded away. That was guilt in her face.

  Dammit. He’d been through this before, back when Paisley had taught him not to ignore his gut. “Oh, Bull, I was just flirting a smidgeon with the buyer. Everybody does it.” Only her flirting had been a prelude to fucking her clients.

  Then again, his past might have skewed his judgment. “Maybe I’m too sensitive because of my ex.” His brows drew together. “Both ex’s, actually, since my first wife messed around when I was deployed.”

  “While you were risking your life, she…” Frankie shook her head, her dark eyes softening with concern. “That must have been horrible.”

  “Yeah. It was. But now…” He ran a hand over his head, feeling the first signs of roughness. Much like this relationship, eh? “I know we’ve never talked about how this relationship should work.” He’d been pleased she even recognized it as one. “But no matter how short-lived our time together might be, I have certain expectations of…loyalty.”

  “What?”

  “Loyalty for both of us,” Bull added. “For instance, that we only have sex with each other.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She jumped to her feet, hands lifting in the air. “I didn’t fuck the man. He just held my hand.”

  “He fondled your ass, woman, and you let him. You’ve never let anyone else touch you like that.” So why now? What was he missing here?

  Her mouth opened—and he expected some good Italian cursing. But she sighed and her shoulders sagged.

  Surprised, Bull stepped closer to her. “What’s going on, sweetheart? Tell me so I can understand.”

  She retreated a step, blinking hard, then shook her head, and looked him in the face.

  And lied. “Nothing. Nothing is going on. And I’m going home. It’s been a long night.”

  Feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut, he stared at her. Feeling as if he was back watching a marriage dissolve. Just like Paisley, she wasn’t going to talk. Explain. Work on making it right.

  When she walked out of the roadhouse, he stayed silent.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Every time someone says, “Expect the unexpected”, the best course of action is to test that quote by punching them in the face. ~ Unknown

  * * *

  Frankie was still awake. She punched up the pillow again and curled into a tighter ball.

  Her eyes burned. From crying. And crying. And crying.

  How could she have messed up so badly? Handled Bull’s questions so clumsily? When reading romance novels, she’d snicker at the messes the heroines fell into and call them idiots. All those complications because the man and woman didn’t talk about the problem.

  Isn’t this great. I’ve fallen right into the you-are-really-dumb category.

  She couldn’t blame Bull for being unhappy that she’d let Nabera grope her. She slept with Bull, made love with him, spent hours with him every day. Certainly, he’d feel as if they were exclusive.

  It was how she felt, too. It was why when she’d flirted with the PZ and let him touch her, she’d felt sick—and guilty.

  What if Bull let some woman hold his hand or fondle him? What if he flirted with a woman?

  I’d kill him dead.

  Bull had only asked her why. Normally, she wouldn’t have gotten upset…but she’d felt cornered. Of course, she wanted to share everything with him, but it wasn’t her life on the line. How could she live with herself if she asked Bull for help and he went to the police? To his brother, the chief.

  Once told, Gabe would have to do what the law required, even if a little boy might be hurt. Oh, the hard-faced law officer was a kind man. Hadn’t she seen how he was with Regan?

  But he’d have to call in help. Matters would be taken out of his hands—and completely out of hers.

  Nabera was a fanatic. Batshit crazy. She’d seen it in his eyes. It would be a slaughter.

  “I can’t risk it,” Frankie whispered, “not even for you, Bull.” Even for what they had. Might have had. Wanted to have. Tears pooled in her eyes again.

  The way she felt now was no surprise. She’d always known her heart would get broken.

  She pressed her hand to her aching chest. It was past broken. Crushed into painful splinters.

  Because…she loved him. Oh, Madonna, she really did.

  She rolled onto her back. What would he be doing now? Trying to sleep—and staring at the ceiling like her? Or sitting with Gryff on his deck, watching the lake.

  Her wine was gone, but still, she could go outside to the dark water. Whisper goodbye and see if the sound carried across to the Hermitage.

  Right, and how pitiful would that make her?

  And maybe—

  What is that?

  A rustling noise came from outside. Bull? Her hopes rose so high they bounced off the ceiling.

  No, silly. He wouldn’t be walking around the back of her cabin.

  Sitting up in bed, she listened to more rustling. The crunch of gravel. Other nights, hearing the same noises, she’d peeked out the window and seen a bear. The next time, it’d been a moose.

  So amazing. So Alaska.

  Her New York pride roused a bit. There were bears in her state—up in the Adirondacks. Not that she’d ever seen any.

  She moved a little and realized that having an oversized glass of wine before bed wasn’t clever—not if one possessed only a teacup-sized bladder. Boy, did she have to pee.

  She made a beeline into the bathroom across from her tiny bedroom corner. Her fingers searched for the light switch.

  In the living area at the front—and behind her—glass crashed, and things thudded on the wood flooring.

  What? She spun, half in, half out of the bathroom.

  PHOOM! PHOOM! PHOOM! The explosions were in the living space and her bedroom area. The black interior of the cabin lit up like the sun had risen.

  Her whole left side stung and burned. What was happening?

  She stepped farther out of the bathroom to see—and her breathing stopped.

  Her cabin was on fire. Flames streaked up the walls, raging across her sofa and rug. And her bed—her bed was burning.

  Cazzo! I have to get out of here.

  What the fuck time was it anyway? In the gazebo by the lake, Bull scowled at how the sky was lightening to predawn gray. Meant it was after 3:00 or so. He should be sleeping. So should Gabe.

  At least Gryff was smarter. The dog was sprawled out, head on Bull’s feet.

  Unable to settle after getting home from the roadhouse, Bull had carried a cooler with the brewery’s new seasonal beers to the screened gazebo and lit the firepit.

  Wasn’t this a perfect time to do taste testing…his temper was so foul nothing would taste good. Yeah, he was a dumbass.

  Earlier, before Bull had even finished one bottle, Gabe had appeared, prowling around the courtyard as he was wont to do when plagued with nightmares. Combat vets—fucked to hell and gone, all of them. Taking a chair across from Bull, the old man had accepted a beer with a grunt and hadn’t asked what was wrong. That wasn’t their way.

  Silently, they’d shared the darkest hour of the night.

  Bull spent the time thinking about Frankie. She was one of the most up-front people he’d ever met—except for a few things. Such as why she was in Rescue. Why she’d hidden her
car and gone hiking around the PZ compound. Why she’d flirted with Nabera.

  What was the connection between her and the fanatics? It was more than curiosity.

  His mouth tightened. He’d have to ask again, as many times as was necessary to get an answer. What was the worst that could happen? She’d walk away? She intended to do just that, so he might as well flatten this roadblock. How else would they get a chance to see what they had together?

  She’d over-reacted when he questioned her, but…his lips quirked up. That was Frankie. Her feelings were out there, and when she was upset, her emotions boiled right over. He loved that about her…and yeah, he loved her.

  Fuck, he was in deep, and he knew it. So if she thought she’d just walk away, it wasn’t happening.

  He frowned. Walking away wasn’t like her. He would’ve expected her to blow her top rather than fold up and leave. Maybe because of whatever she was hiding.

  So. A visit tomorrow and a long talk. A chat. The word reminded him of Mako’s psych buddy who’d show up and take Bull or one of his brothers for a hike. It’d been years before they’d realized those chats had helped straighten out their heads. Mako had saved them. Doc Grayson had screwed their heads on straight.

  Bull took a sip of his beer. Maybe he’d take Frankie out for a long ramble through the forest. It’d worked for Grayson, right?

  Mission planned, he glanced over at his brother.

  Beer in hand, Gabe was watching the mist floating over the still lake. Over the last hour or so, the lines of tension had disappeared from his face.

  “Won’t Audrey notice you’re not in bed?” Bull asked.

  “She woke up as I was leaving, which means I have about another hour before she’ll hunt me down.” His smile indicated he liked that his woman would come after him, even in the dead of night.

  Bull suppressed a sigh. Frankie had said she’d do that.

  No, he wasn’t giving up on what they had.

  “Are those new trial beers?” Caz stepped into the gazebo.

  “Yeah. Why don’t you try Old Baldy for me?” Apparently, it was a rough night for more than just Bull. He picked out a bottle from the cooler and handed it over.