Talk For Me: Club Avalon Book 3

by Kay Elle Parker

  “No, sugar. We're not damaged. A little bruised, but bruises heal.” His voice was so warm and confident, she had no reason to believe he spoke anything but the truth. Her body pressed against the cold metal of the truck as he unlocked the door and opened it, then his arms were no longer cradling her. “This is just a hitch in the road.”

  She blinked sleepily as the belt came around her, locking her into the seat. How many hitches did it take until the road became impassable? How many times could she test his patience, his kindness and compassion, before her insecurities became a landslide? They were in love, but love could turn sour. It could become toxic and poison everything within reach.

  Thane's hand encompassed her cheek, bringing her face toward him. Tired eyes met hers, the amber dulled in the shadows. “Connie, stop fucking worrying. I'm going nowhere. Tonight is not going to plunge us into destruction—we're going to build on it, shore up the weaknesses it exposed, and make us stronger.” He bent and kissed her forehead, then closed the door.

  Before she fell asleep again, she prayed he was right.

  *

  The bleating of his phone woke him at just after oh-seven hundred hours. Cursing up a blue streak, Thane grabbed it and silenced it before the obnoxious noise could disturb Connie. With bleary eyes, he studied the number on the screen, then decided he was too goddamn tired to answer anyone's call at stupid o'clock on a Sunday morning.

  By the time he'd driven home, carted Connie from the truck into bed, and crawled in beside her, it had been after three. She'd stirred awake long enough to murmur, “I love you, Thane.” Those four little words had slathered balm over the ache in his heart that came from her wondering whether she'd damaged them.

  He scoffed at the notion. Hooking his arm around her waist, he eased her back against his chest and settled in for a few more hours' sleep. He'd already decided they wouldn't be attending the club tonight to play—they needed a night at home to reconnect and strengthen the thread of trust that had frayed when she ran—but he intended to visit Braun today to sort out the issue of Alicia.

  Connie needed to make a choice as to whether she wanted the girl to come home, to live with them here. If she did, then they would go state their case to Braun and Bodie. At the end of the day, the choice was Alicia's as to where she spent her life. Maybe she'd choose the facility, maybe she wanted to come home to Connie. Might be she even wanted to live on her own with the assistance of a caretaker.

  Regardless, Connie required closure.

  His fingers found the cuff on her wrist, traced the connection between the padding and her flesh. Found her pulse beneath the thinnest section of skin. In sleep, her heart beat slowly, steadily. One day, he'd fuck her with his hand around her throat, the pads of his fingers digging into her soft throat to monitor the changes. From slow and strong to fast, thick, and frantic.

  Bad thoughts. Bad, bad thoughts.

  Ignoring his erection jabbing into Connie's curvy rear with intent, Thane stroked her pulse point and willed himself to go back to sleep. To do anything else would start their day off with a bang of epic proportions—not that his cock would complain, he was sure. After being blue-balled last night, he had a yearning for a tight, hot cavity to sink into and rut until he lost himself.

  The annoying buzz of his phone vibrating on the bedside table pissed him off.

  Grunting, he wrenched himself away from the warmth of Connie's body and rolled off the bed. Bare-assed naked, he snatched up the phone and stalked out of his bedroom, pulling the door almost closed behind him before heading downstairs. Growling, he answered the call with, “It's too fucking early.”

  “You used to be up before the sun,” Stevens fired back. “Getting soft, son?”

  “Far too fucking early,” he said in disgust. Padding toward the kitchen, he aimed straight for the coffeemaker—there wasn't a chance in hell he could have any form of civilized conversation with his ex-commander on four hours sleep and no coffee. “This is getting to be a bad habit, Stevens. I don't like it. I sure as hell don't need you calling me every few days just to piss me off.”

  “I wouldn't have to if you'd talk to me,” he tried to reason. “I realize we left a lot of things up in the air when you transferred to the special unit. I shouldn’t have gotten angry by my perceived notion of you abandoning your team. Our team, Thane. It was wrong of me, and you had every right to better yourself with that opportunity.”

  “Damn right, I bettered myself. Taking that step forward in my career helped people. I honed my craft, mastered it, and did good things for a long time. Until I understood that shooting people, even bad ones, was only adding to the problem. I’d already made the decision to stop being a sniper before the accident made it necessary.”

  Hot black coffee splashed into the mug Thane shoved under the dispenser. If he didn't have a mouthful, he wouldn't be held responsible for what he said or did next.

  “Will you accept my apology?”

  Thane sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Apology accepted, when I get one.”

  “Thank you. Look, I know you think you’re not fit to be a sniper, Thane, but you damaged your leg, not your eyesight or trigger finger. I need one person taken out, just one, on home soil. You wouldn’t be away from your new life for more than a day.”

  He laughed in disbelief. “You just don’t give up, do you? Of all the snipers in the world—the fit, young, up and coming generation—you want the broken one. Why is that, Stevens? Why me?”

  “Guthrie was released from prison six weeks ago.” Stevens didn’t blink at the mention of one of Thane’s team members. “He's been such a good boy, serving his time for drug offences, even if he fucked up what he was supposed to do. Wounding you instead of killing you certainly added a bigger prize to the pot.”

  Thane froze in the middle of reaching for the cup of coffee. Shock stole his breath, and he couldn't say anything as he tried to wrap his mind around the attempted murder confession. Stunned, he couldn't figure out the players and their motives. Hell, when Guthrie had shot him, Thane’s worth as a marksman had been considerably less than what it was now.

  “Got that clever brain of yours working on overtime now, haven't I?” Stevens gloated, almost singing the words down the line. “I'll be kind and fill you in on the blanks, Thane. Seems the least I can do. Guthrie had his dirty fingers in a lot of pies you didn’t know about, making his biggest profit from dealing pretty white powder to half the goddamn academy. Right under my fucking nose.”

  No. He wouldn’t. The protest was on Thane’s tongue, but wouldn’t spill.

  “I couldn’t have that, could I, when the filthy thief was stealing my business. So I gave him an ultimatum, a choice between continuing peddling his inferior drugs,” Stevens told him without remorse, “or having the blood of his best friend on his hands. I’ll admit, I thought his friendship with you would be enough to put an end to his dealing, but he was certainly committed to making money. The little bastard shot you without hesitation, lining you up in his sights and pulling the trigger.”

  “You changed the training schedule that day. We were supposed to be using blanks, and you switched it around, so he had access to live rounds. You gave him the opportunity to fucking kill me, you asshole.” Thane was perversely proud of the fact his voice was strong, not reflecting the shaken foundations of his whole fucking adult life. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go straight to the disciplinary board with this, Stevens.”

  “With what? There’s no evidence, and who will they believe? You left the military, Thane. You headed out on your own and carved out a life killing people for money instead of in the name of your country.” Stevens laughed, and Thane caught the brittle rasp in the sound. “I’m a lifer, I’ve sacrificed everything to get where I am, with the shiny medals of honor to prove my dedication. I miscalculated with Guthrie, I’ll admit. Not only did I not expect him to shoot you, but I also sure as shit didn’t think he’d twist his dishonorable discharge around and blame you for it
.”

  Thane stiffened, recalling how angry his best friend had been when they’d kicked him out of the unit, a few years before Thane left of his own volition. Guthrie had claimed the DD had been handed down to him for someone else’s mistake in the field, which Thane knew for a fact was a lie. It was one of the reasons their friendship had fallen apart after so many years—he just hadn’t realized Guthrie held him responsible.

  “They jailed him, you know. He served hard time for supplying drugs to serving soldiers, was held accountable for the reckless mistakes they made while under the influence. Saying that, he was off your radar by then, wasn’t he? You were too busy jetting around the world.” Stevens laughed again, then cleared his throat. “I have to give the man credit, Thane, he came damn close to killing you in that wreck on the I-90 three years ago. Coming after you was the first thing he did when he switched out prison orange for civvy clothes.”

  Thane steeled himself against the stab of pain that came from having his heart ripped out, but it didn't come. He frowned at the lack of response his emotions provided, as though Guthrie was already dead to him. “God, you enraged a goddamn wolf and locked me in its sights, didn’t you? Then lost control of it. Guthrie’s the job, and you think I’ll take him out before he gets a chance to finish his mission and end me…” He shook his head. “No, it’s not me you’re worried about. You need me to kill him before he spills the data he has on you, right, and before he takes out the one guy capable of hunting him down. Fucker.”

  Stevens coughed, wetly. “I’m dying, Isaacson. Less than six months left. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure I don’t spend those months in a cell. We have a joint threat in common. Perhaps you'll rethink your answer once that pretty brunette sleeping so peacefully in your bed is brought to her knees. Guthrie knows where you are, who you’ve made friends with, what’s important in your life. I know he accessed files on a certain Connie Monroe. A doctor, isn't she? Psychologist? Not your usual style.”

  Thane’s blood ran cold. Fists clenched, he was ready to rend the commander limb from limb and leave his bloodied corpse in the sand for the coyotes. “Goddamn it, you just can’t stop setting me up, can you? Deal with your own mistakes instead dragging innocent civilians into the clusterfuck.”

  “This won’t be the first time she’s been used for someone else’s gain. She was treated worse than a dog, wasn't she?” Papers rustled as Stevens hummed under his breath. “Broken, battered, tortured. I imagine Guthrie’s spent an inordinate amount of time jacking off over the data, dreaming of all the ways he can…improve the experience for your little traumatized bird. I'm not a violent man, but the thought is arousing.”

  How had he not known he’d been under the command of a psycho? Thane ended the call and refrained from smashing his phone into pieces. In all the years he'd been with his unit, not once had Stevens shown signs of being so unhinged. Had he hidden it from the team all those years, like he'd concealed his drug dealing? Or had his association with criminals turned him into this monster? What had he become and how far did his crimes extend?

  That didn't matter. Stevens didn't matter. Right now, his immediate priority was Connie's safety, and he wasn't going to let Guthrie get within touching distance of his woman.

  Pacing the kitchen, coffee ignored, Thane rubbed at a spot on his forehead and tried to concentrate. Never would he have thought his former friend was capable of not only putting a bullet in him, but orchestrating a pile-up that cost two lives—of course, he only had Stevens’ word that was true.

  He ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't helpless, but this was way over his head. Taking Guthrie out was viable, but the thought of Stevens winning…both assholes needed to pay for what they’d done.

  The Dominant in him was raring to go rip heads off necks and leave a trail of destruction from here back to Chicago. He wanted blood, he craved vengeance, but most of all, he was prepared to lay the world to waste in order to protect the most important thing in his universe. The single shining star navigating him from one day to the next.

  His inner submissive sat pensively in the corner, awaiting orders. Well aware of his flaws and weaknesses, wondering how he was going to take on one man who'd already cost him plenty, and another who saw no reason not to use others like puppets to protect himself.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, Thane brought up his contact list and selected the number he needed. His thumb hit Call, then he continued to pace, hoping Connie remained sleeping until all his goddamn ducks were lined up exactly where he needed them.

  Dead and fucking buried.

  “Heisler.”

  It was ridiculous to be so relieved to hear another Dom's voice, but Thane didn't care. He knew he'd made the right decision when half the weight on his bare shoulders dissipated. Maybe he didn’t yet know the true extent of Atticus's operation, but the man would be able to give him some solid advice on how to bring the enemy down without civilian casualties.

  “Thane, if you're prank calling me at this time in a morning, I'll kick your ass better than any Mistress.”

  He winced, thinking of the power in those brutish biceps of Atticus's. Thanks but no thanks came to mind. “I need your help, Atticus. How much do you know about me? I’m guessing you ran a background check on me before you let me near Connie.”

  “You followed in your father’s footsteps and joined the military at eighteen. Worked your way up from cannon fodder into the position of Sergeant, taking a detour into the Green Berets, and then falling off the map into a classified project. Exemplary record, right up until the day you walked away from an exceptional career and became a sniper for hire.” Atticus sighed. “The car accident three years ago put an end to that, as well, and you moved from Chicago to Arizona a few months ago. What’s going on, Thane?”

  “My life apparently isn’t what I believed it was, and I’ve been set up.” He rested his forearms on the counter and breathed slowly, explaining everything. His voice choked as he finally grasped the reality of what he’d gone through, and why. “They have intel on Connie.”

  The growl that rippled down the line was unlike anything Thane had ever heard before. It was something out of a horror movie, the sound of an unnatural predator driven by bloodlust. Whisper quiet, which made it all the more ominous. “What weapons do you have at hand?”

  He stopped his march around the kitchen long enough to grab the cooling mug of coffee, then forced himself to think, take a long drink of caffeine, and lean his naked ass against the cold edge of the counter. “I’m done with it, Att. My weapons are in secure storage, aside from a couple of handguns. My SSG 3000, my M107, they’re locked up tight.”

  “Goddamn it. I’ve got some contacts in the military, higher up than that jackass, Stevens. I’ll pull some strings, get the ball rolling on taking him down and out of the equation.” Another rumbling growl of discontent. “Full name of this Guthrie prick?”

  “Mikhail Guthrie.”

  “All right, I’ll send one of my guys to track him down. Are you at home?”

  “Yeah. Connie's asleep upstairs. I came down to the kitchen to take the call.”

  “Go upstairs, wake her up, and pack your shit. I'm pulling Anarchy in on this, and I’ll send Jasper to pick you up on their way in. They'll bring you to headquarters for around the clock protection until this is dealt with.” Atticus exhaled slowly. “I need details from you, Thane. Everything you can remember from when you met Guthrie.”

  “You believe me,” Thane muttered.

  “Any reason why I shouldn’t? We’re taking this threat seriously—Guthrie obviously isn’t concerned with killing uninvolved civilians to get to you. I dislike it when my friends come under fire.”

  “There's more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?”

  Atticus laughed, and it carried a husky edge that told Thane he didn't know the half of who the Master really was. “Second guessing your decision to offer to come work for me, Thane? I don't run a PI business, pussyfooti
ng around with a camera in dark alleys. This is top level security. The kind where threats aren't just bundled into handcuffs and dragged off to the nearest cop shop. We identify a threat, we hunt it down, and then we eradicate it. In its entirety.”

  Well, if he'd had any doubts about what Atticus did for a living, he didn't now, Thane thought with a slow exhale. Should he feel guilty that he'd just sic'd a team of mercenaries on his former superior, his ex-best friend? His mouth twisted thoughtfully. Nope. He felt not one iota of regret for hauling Atticus into this.

  Stevens had made his bed with threats and blackmail—he could lie on the consequences. Same for Guthrie—if the man he’d loved like a brother for years could do the things Stevens said he had…oh, Thane had a lot of questions, and no sympathy for what was coming for both men.

  Ruthlessly, he banished any memories of the funny, loyal friend he'd known. Or thought he'd known, he corrected himself. That man was long gone, if he'd ever existed anywhere but in his mind. Mikhail Guthrie had died sometime in the last twenty years and been reborn as a drug-dealing, murdering fuckwit.

  “I’ll help where I can, Atticus, but I mean it when I say I’m done being a sniper. I’m done being an executioner. There are more important things than money, and I’ve contributed all I can to my country.”

  “Understood.”

  “Can you get your hands on the data pertaining to Connie's history? Stevens told me Guthrie managed to access it.” Thane swallowed down his rage with difficulty. “It needs erasing, Atticus. If one person can use it against her, so can another. I want it gone.”

  “Sounds like someone’s house needs a deep clean. I'll get someone to dig into it, see if we can trace who pulled up the data and from where. Connie didn't report the shit with Evan to the cops, did she?”

  “She didn't mention it, no. And the bastard went on to do the same to another girl.”

  “Guthrie's tapped into her medical records, then. Maybe one of the nurses spoke to an officer about it and he logged it into the system for reference. I'll hunt it down and remove anything that could be used to hurt her in the future.”