by Kaylea Cross
The offer surprised her. Though he’d been supportive and helpful at every turn since the night Carter died, she couldn’t help but feel that he’d grown a bit distant from her. “I thought you and the guys were going out together?”
“I can skip it.”
“That’s sweet of you, but I’m okay. With most of the house packed up I don’t have anywhere to put you anyway. Everything’s in storage, even my sofas.” In the morning, priority one was to find another rental to move into. Although ideally it would be something she could see herself and the baby living in long term, and eventually buy.
“Then you can come back to my place and sleep in the guest room.” He glanced over at her. “I just don’t want you to be alone tonight.”
Molly smiled as warmth filled her chest. Maybe she’d been wrong about the distance she’d sensed from him. “I appreciate that, thank you, but I need to be alone for awhile. I’m going to have a hot bath, watch a movie, then crash.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded once. “Okay.”
At the rental house he walked her to the door. And out of nowhere, the prospect of another long night alone suddenly triggered a flare of dread. Molly almost changed her mind about taking him up on his kind offer. He’d always been an amazing friend to her and Carter, so the new shift in their relationship bothered her.
“What about you?” she asked on the welcome mat, keys in hand. Stalling.
He frowned, the moonlight gilding the side of his face. It was strange seeing him clean-shaven. She was so used to seeing him and the others with beards or at least a few days’ worth of growth on their faces. “What about me?”
“Are you okay?”
Something flared in his eyes for a moment, then he looked away. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
He wasn’t. Not really. But of course he would rather die than admit it.
Molly sighed. Stubborn-ass alpha males. They were all the same. And that’s why she’d stayed with him this past Friday night—because he’d needed someone and would never have asked for help.
Ruefully shaking her head, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace almost hesitantly, as though afraid to hold her too tight.
Molly rested her forehead on his sturdy shoulder for a moment, some part of her knitting back together with the embrace. Carter had been a huge bear of a man. Jase wasn’t as tall as her ex-husband had been, and not quite as broad, but he still towered over her and was built of solid muscle.
It felt damn good to be held by someone who cared. “Thank you for everything,” she murmured.
“You don’t have to thank me, Moll. You know I’m always here for you,” he said, and released her. He eyed the house, then her. “You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once in acceptance and stepped back. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”
“I will.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Promise?”
“I promise.” She unlocked the door and stepped inside, where a stack of packed moving boxes greeting her. Turning around, she stood there with one hand on the door and watched as Jase strode down the pathway.
Him leaving triggered two reactions. A sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
And the sudden weight of loneliness that threatened to suffocate her.
Chapter Three
“Well?” Mick asked through the phone’s speaker.
Rafe passed a slower-moving car on the way out of town, checking his mirrors. He’d already made two circles to ensure he wasn’t being followed, but the need to stay vigilant was long ingrained in him. “She’s either clueless, or one of the best liars I’ve ever met.”
His boss grunted. “Coming from you, that’s saying something.”
One side of Rafe’s mouth curved up. “I know.”
“So which do you think it is?”
“Not sure yet.” Molly Boyd was a lot tougher than he’d thought she would be when he’d first started investigating her just days prior to her ex’s death. Even at the funeral she’d been strong, not shedding one tear.
Maybe she’d hated the son of a bitch she’d divorced, Rafe wasn’t sure. But if she had, then why had she been front and center at the service as the grieving widow, and why had Boyd kept her as beneficiary on his life insurance policy? Unless he hadn’t had time to change everything before he killed himself. Rafe didn’t believe for one second that it was an accident.
Either way, Molly clearly still had some feelings for her ex. Feelings he could exploit to get what he wanted.
“Doesn’t matter,” Mick said. “That asshole owed us money. And she’s his widow. She has to know something.”
“I don’t think she knows shit about any of it. I don’t think anyone does.”
Mick scoffed. “You said he wasn’t close to the rest of his family.”
“He wasn’t. Or at least he wasn’t when he died.” Rafe made it a point to know about his targets’ lives. Boyd had been all alone for the weeks prior to his death.
Mick’s annoyed sigh gusted across the line. “The widow must know something. I don’t care how you get it done. Just get the money.”
“What if it was suicide? What if the life insurance policy doesn’t pay out?” A hundred-and-twenty grand. Not an insignificant sum. And the way things were going, it looked like Rafe was going to need every penny of it, too.
“So what if it doesn’t? He owes us the one-twenty, dead or not. She’s the ex-wife. She’ll pay.”
“With what?” She was a nurse, and a renter. As far as Rafe could tell, the only thing she owned was her car and it wasn’t worth anything. Squeezing her might not get him any of the money. That thought expanded the burning knot of anxiety deep in his belly. He needed to get all the money he could, and fast.
“With whatever she can get her hands on to settle the debt.”
Desperate as he was, Rafe had his doubts about this one. It wasn’t the first time he had gone after a dead man’s widow to collect money, and it wouldn’t be the last. The size of the debt Boyd had racked up with them meant it had to be recouped.
He’d been a desperate man. So desperate that he’d gambled away all his money, incurring crippling interest charges with the money he borrowed from them, and still came back for more. Certain in his crazed mind that his luck would magically change.
Rafe was becoming well acquainted with exactly how that kind of desperation felt. He was growing more and more frantic with each passing day. “She doesn’t have much.”
“She’s an ER nurse,” Mick said, papers crinkling in the background, his voice holding not a single ounce of concern. “She’s got enough brains to figure something out.”
“He beat her, you know. The night he died.” Maybe guilt had made Boyd give the wheel a sharp turn as he’d rounded that final bend in the highway.
“Don’t care. Just get the money.”
Rafe’s pulse drummed faster. What if there was no money? The dude had been seriously fucked up, and Rafe had dealt with a lot of whackos in his time. Had it been a coward’s way out? Or the ultimate act of selflessness to leave his beloved wife something after he was gone?
If there was no money, Rafe was fucked.
“We done?” Mick said in an impatient tone.
“Yeah. I’m going.” Rafe had to play this cool, not let his boss or anyone else see him sweat. Mick was the brains behind this arm of the organization, and Rafe the brawn. Mick handled the books and managed the other businesses the higher ups used as a front for their money laundering operation. Rafe enforced the terms of the agreements their clients signed: pay up or die.
“I’ll let you know what I turn up,” he said, and reached for the button to end the call.
“I heard she’s pregnant.”
Rafe paused, his finger an inch from the button. He could hear the smirk in Mick’s voice. “Where’d you hear that?” He hadn’t heard it, and he’d been keeping regular tabs on her these past couple of weeks.<
br />
“I got my sources too.”
She hadn’t looked pregnant. Was it Boyd’s?
“Anyway, that should be useful to you.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes as he made a turn at the next corner. His tail was still clear. “Meaning?”
Mick heaved another impatient sigh. “It’s not just her life at stake, is it?”
A heavy, oily feeling coated the inside of his stomach. He’d tortured people to get money back. Even killed some of them, or their relatives. Sometimes he made it look like an accident. A slice to the brake lines in their car. A gas leak in their house.
And sometimes he used far more brutal and direct methods.
But he’d never targeted a pregnant woman before. Or a child. Not deliberately, anyway. Usually the threat of violence against them was enough to get the debtor to come up with a creative way to pay off the loan, with interest. Barring that, they either wound up working for Rafe and Mick until the debt was paid, or they met unpleasant ends.
In this case, it didn’t matter. Carter Boyd was beyond the reach of threats and intimidation, but Rafe needed every last cent of the money Boyd owed.
“I’ll call you tomorrow after my meeting,” he told Mick in a clipped voice, and disconnected. He had an early morning flight to catch to Vegas.
He always got the money back, no matter what, even if it was from a dead man.
But this time, he had far more motivating him than protecting his perfect, ruthless reputation.
If he didn’t get all the money he needed, he would wind up dead too.
****
After dropping Molly off, Jase headed home to change into jeans, dress shirt and his grandpa’s bomber jacket before heading out to meet the guys. Today had been the first time he’d worn his Class A’s in months. He’d worn them for Carter. The Army may have been his life for a long damn time, but that was all over now.
The Sea Hag stood in the middle of Front Street, a dark green, cedar-shingled building that had stood here since the founding of Crimson Point back in the 1890s. Since moving here he’d spent more than a few pleasant evenings at the Hag, having beers with Beckett and Noah, other guys from the company’s construction crews. Carter too, at first.
As soon as Jase thought of him, the heaviness in his chest returned. Carter Boyd was the closest thing he had ever had to a real brother, and Jase was still grappling with his death. Along with an additional helping of guilt about wanting Carter’s widow.
It had been damn hard to hide it from her since Carter died. So many times he’d been tempted to tell her how he felt, wanting to be more than just a friend through this whole mess. Thank God his saner judgment had prevailed. As far as he could tell, Molly was still completely in the dark about his feelings for her, and he’d pulled back a little to make sure she never guessed the truth.
Inside the Hag the air held the yeasty scent of beer and freshly baked bread. In the center stood the long bar, polished to a high gloss, with a large mirror reflecting the fading light that flooded in through the western-facing windows overlooking the beach.
In it he caught sight of Beckett, Mac and Noah over in the far corner, sitting with the other Army guys. Jase had served with most of them. Many of them were still active duty and had flown in from Fort Bragg for the funeral.
“Boys,” Jase said as he approached the table.
“Weaver.” Beckett waved him over to the end.
“Saved you a seat, wee man,” Mac said in his Scottish burr.
Wee, because Jase was a whopping inch-and-a-half shorter than Mac. Jase took the chair beside Beckett and glanced at the half-empty bottles and rows of shot glasses on the table. “What? You guys started without me?”
“Nah, this is just the appetizer,” Beckett said, passing a cold bottle of beer to him. “Finish this and we’ll get started.”
Jase drank it, dividing his attention between the stories being passed around the table and the view outside the long, wide windows overlooking the beach. It was beautiful here.
Crazy to think he’d wound up in a small town like this after he’d left the Army, but he loved it and was glad Beckett had asked him to come work for his renovation company when they’d both decided not to re-up their contracts after their last tour. And of course it also meant he was close to Molly, a double-edged sword most days.
“All right, let’s do this,” Beckett said and rose from his chair, his natural air of command and Captain’s tone taking Jase right back to their days in the field together. Those had been some of the best and worst times of his life, and they had all forged bonds between them that would last forever.
Even beyond the grave.
Beckett raised a shot glass high. “It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.”
George S. Patton. A murmur of agreement came from the table. “Aye,” Mac said with a nod.
Beckett paused, his dark gaze sweeping over the men assembled to say goodbye to Carter. “A toast, brothers. Raise your glasses to ‘Absent Companions’.”
“Absent Companions,” they all chorused, and knocked back the shot. A loud, hollow thunk sounded as nine shot glasses hit the table almost simultaneously.
The whiskey burned down Jase’s throat, providing the only real internal warmth he’d felt all day. They’d lost too many friends and fellow warriors to these wars through PTSD, injury, combat and suicide. But none of the previous losses had hit Jase the way Carter’s had.
Mac stood next, taking Jase by surprise. “Here’s to honor,” the Scot said, raising another shot into the air. “To getting honor. And not getting off her, until you get off on her.”
Jase barked out a laugh at that as a raucous cheer rang out around him, drawing the attention of everyone else in the bar. Some people gave them curious looks, while others smiled. God, Carter would have loved that little speech. Jase could picture his wicked grin so clearly.
When the guys had quieted down, Jase pushed to his feet, his heart growing heavy once more. He was silent a moment before offering his toast. “The soldier, above all other people, prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.” Douglas MacArthur, and that ballsy bastard had known what he was talking about.
Everyone went quiet. They stared at him for a tension-laden moment, the gravity of what he’d said hanging in the air along with the stringent scent of alcohol.
Then Jase upped the ante. “May the brave soldier who never turned his back to the enemy never have a friend turn his back to him.” He knocked back the shot as soon as the last word was out of his mouth, and somehow managed to get it down before his throat closed up. He’d looked up quotes about toasting a fallen friend last night, and that one had hit him like a knife to the chest.
The ugly truth was, he’d turned his back on Carter at the end. They all had. And now Carter was gone, maybe because of it.
The logical part of Jase knew it wasn’t directly his fault. That despite his problems Carter had been a grown man and made his own choices. Jase hadn’t driven that truck over the cliff, Carter had. Yet his conscience refused to let him off the hook regardless.
“Wow. That was heavy, wee man,” Mac said at last, reaching out to clap a big hand on Jase’s back.
Yeah, he was aware. But he’d needed to say it even if it made everyone else uncomfortable. He didn’t have many regrets in life, but this was far and away the biggest.
With the tension broken the others chuckled, and within moments the other toasts began. Jase paid only partial attention, still wrestling with his thoughts. The life insurance company might be conducting its own investigation into Carter’s death, but Jase already knew the truth.
Without a doubt Carter had deliberately wrenched the wheel of his pickup as he rounded that final bend on the highway outside of town. Why he’d done it wasn’t as clear. If Molly didn’t get the life insurance money, things were going to be really hard for her and the baby. It would be pretty damn hard to
prove it hadn’t been an accident, however, given the weather at the time of the crash and the winding stretch of road.
He stared down at the next shot of Jack that Mac had pressed into his hand as conversation buzzed around him. He’d seen and done a lot of shit in his time in the military, some of it so bad it had left permanent stains on his soul.
But that night. The terrible events of the night Carter died would haunt him for the rest of his life.
When he’d gone to confront Carter that night, he’d never dreamed his friend would race out of that bar and drive off a fucking cliff.
The guilt corroded his insides like sulphuric acid, a constant burn that never went away. He didn’t regret the things he’d said or the punches, because he’d meant them, and because Carter had known he deserved them.
What he couldn’t get past was being responsible for making Carter race out of there and get behind the wheel when his friend was clearly distraught. Ever since that night, Jase’s personal demons had been out in full force to punish him for it, robbing him of sleep and haunting him even while he was awake.
“So, Weaver. You’re a pencil pusher now, huh?” one of the other SF guys down the table said to him, a slight smirk on his face.
“Nah, man. Bean counter. That’s what I heard,” the guy next to him said.
“That’s right,” Jase answered them both. “Not a bad gig, except my boss can be a giant dick and the benefits kinda suck.”
Everyone chuckled as Beckett sliced him a hard look. “My dick is giant,” he allowed after a moment, and laughter broke out along the table.
“What about you, Mac?” the second guy, Glen, said to Aidan. “You got sucked into this sad little civilian operation Beck’s got going on too?” He indicated Beckett and Jase with a sweep of his hand.
Mac shrugged good-naturedly. “Ach, it’s not all bad. I was sweatin’ my bollocks off in Florida anyhow. And as project manager I get to keep bossing folk around, which I’m fond of doing, so there’s aye that.”
“You must miss it, though,” another guy said to them, looking from Jase to Mac, then Beckett. “The action.”
