In Denver, she’d met up with Eli, Bex, and their star-struck nieces, for a personal appearance and a tour backstage. It was the least she could do to thank them both for saving her, and Mackenzie, eventually. She met up with them again in Vegas, for a more grown up adventure with drinks and dinner in her suite with Trista, as they regaled them with tales of the Marshal Service and celebrated their commendations for parts in her situation. It felt good to be among friends who truly understood her.
Going to Phoenix had been a bit traumatic, and she’d given what was billed as ‘her most emotional performance to date’. She’d called Ange with the intention to meet up, only to be told she’d been promoted and transferred to the Atlanta office as the Deputy Chief. She didn’t ask about Mack. Finding out he didn’t want to see her would have been too much to bear. It had been lonely, miserable, and even having her best friend with her didn’t mitigate the pain.
They made plans to meet up when her tour swung through Atlanta for a three night stand. She was actually looking forward to it, because it was her last connection to a love deferred. As pathetic as it sounded, right about now, she’d take what she could get.
* * *
Mack hobbled into work on Monday morning. It had been difficult to get used to the cane, but, as his physical therapist reminded him, at least he got to keep the leg. Small comfort, really, in the face of the constant pain in his heart that accompanied the pain in his leg.
The bullet wound healed without too much incident, a minor infection at the site of the entry, some nerve damage, some musculature. That and the series of scars on his chest meant, as much as he wanted it, field work was no longer an option. It was a hard confrontation for a man who prided himself on his physicality.
Grambling’s downfall had been swift and sweeping, leaving the Arizona office under a cloud of suspicion. Bringing in Hinojosa came with all kinds of perks beyond closing upwards of fifteen longstanding federal cases ranging from his personal indictments for murders and murders for hire, to dismantling Guillermo Salazar’s organization and the raft of still incoming indictments on that. It was a career making case, and with the power vacuum in the office, Mack had been a perfect fit to slip right into Grambling’s obscenely overpriced loafers. At least he had been, until his full prognosis came down.
Ange had been the next option. She was competent, capable, and newly promoted. However, she didn’t see staying under the pall of the Arizona office and put in for a transfer. His shiny new promotion, combined with his shiny new diagnosis, meant he’d be going inside for good. Fortunately, a vacancy at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in the form of Head of Firearms Training and Marksmanship came open, and he easily topped the list of candidates.
Moving to Savannah had been hard, and not just for the physical reasons. Giving up poker buddies hadn’t been a hardship. Packing his house, while painful, had been a matter of course. It was Conchita; the idea of being a thousand miles away from her gave him pause. She had encouraged him to go, was proud of his promotion and his work, but his mind always came back to: What if she needed him? What if she got sick again, and he wasn’t there? Who would look after her like she had him all those years? He’d begged her to come with him, but she refused, because a grown man didn’t need a mamita, or something like that. She loved him and would be there for him, but it was time for him to live his life for him. He wasn’t sure he agreed with her sentiment, but left anyway.
His sister, Leandra, picked him up at the airport. Her tall, willowy frame and flame-red hair that was more pronounced than his own were easy to spot. She came with a collection of ginger children who were all eager to welcome their Uncle Mack to Georgia. It wasn’t exactly home, but he figured it would be eventually.
The first step to making it home was to find a radio station that didn’t make him want to throw things while driving. As a country fan in a southern state, he figured this would be an easier task than most. Alas, all over the radio was his heartbreak, for all the world to see and consume. Every song held more personal meaning than it should, and Cassie’s voice in the speakers, in the close confines of his truck, his personal space, was more than he could deal with, driving or not. Until that particular wound healed a little better, he figured he was safer sticking to classic rock. He figured Mr. Cash, of all people, could appreciate that.
The new job was perfect, like it had been tailor-made for him, and he found he enjoyed teaching the finer points of his ballistic art almost as much as he loved being out in the field. It became a great compromise, and had the benefit of being near Ange, who was out in Atlanta.
She normally came down on the weekends to appreciate the beach weather or the seafood, staying with him in his sister’s ‘guest quarters,’ or a three-bedroom, three bath bungalow attached to the back of her house on Pulaski Square. It was just enough privacy to be all right, with a separate entrance and space away when the family vibes became overwhelming, and close enough that he could hang out with his nieces with regularity. Ange was an extended member of the family that he liked more than most, and his sister appreciated that her brother wasn’t the misanthropic loner that she feared him to be.
The hints began in December when the summer tour schedule was announced. Ange left a copy of the news story on the windshield of his car, open to the page touting the arrival of the illustrious Cassie Witt in June, the following year. A three-night stand to support her album ‘Postcards from the Painted Desert,’ the latest one, the one that had driven him from the country station. All of them.
Hearing her voice was like a lash across his skin, slicing, painful, and leaving a dull ache behind. He missed her with his every thought, his every breath, and though his reasons for leaving her were no longer viable, it didn’t change the fact that he was still gone and she didn’t need a guy like him in her life. No, if anything, she taught him he was better off alone.
“Bullshit!” Ange had snarled over beer and pool on a Tuesday night at The Bar Bar. “You have no idea what you’re saying.” It was their regular hangout when she was in town.
He took his shot and contemplated ditching his Landshark for something substantially stronger. “I couldn’t keep her safe. I had one job and I failed it completely. I failed her. You can’t seriously believe I’m going to go back to her, heart in hand, and say, hey, I’m the fuck-up who almost got you killed, do you still have room for me in your life?” He handed her the pool cue they were sharing because it was the least warped in the joint.
She took her shot and then stood up straight, giving him a haughty sniff. “Pity Party, table for one, now seating in the bar.” Handing him back his cue, she laid her hand over his. “You’re going to have to let that go at some point, Mackenzie. You paid whatever dues you thought you owed, more than enough, really,” she commented with a meaningful look at his t-shirt covered scars.
The waitress came and refreshed their beers. He kept a running tab when he and Ange went out to drink and commiserate. She had a sexy little walk and a perky ass in her painted on jeans and steel grey halter, and when she handed him his bottle with tiny shards of ice still clinging to it, she reached over and brazenly stuffed something into the front pocket of his jeans.
Ange chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder. “What’d she give you?”
Mack was still staring after her in stunned shock as he reached into his pocket with numb fingertips. It was a white bar napkin with her name, number, and a bright red imprint of her lips on it. He quickly crumpled it and dropped it on the lip of the pool table as he turned around to take his shot. “Nothing.”
His partner snorted and leaned her back against the table next to him, facing the rest of the bar. “Uh huh, what’s her name?”
Mack shook his head and made an absolutely horrible shot, knocking in one of her balls and following it up with the cue. “I don’t know.”
Ange smacked him on the arm, a little harder than he was used to from her, and divested him of the pool cue. “That,” she hissed
at him as she strutted to the head of the table, “is exactly my point.” She made a beautiful shot and lined up perfectly to make the kill on the eight ball.
“Oh, Lord,” he groused as he rolled his eyes to the nicotine-stained ceiling, “I’m afraid to ask.”
She poked him in the same arm as she walked by him again. “You have given up!” Leaning over to take her shot, she observed, “You have completely forsaken the fairer sex. And, while yes, that does leave more for me,” she winked at him as she took her shot, “you, sir, have a problem.”
He caught her cue ball before it could impact and held it up in front of him as she railed against his ‘black, cheating soul.’ “I don’t have a problem. I have an intractable set of circumstances.”
“You have something, I’ll give you that.” She snatched her ball from his grip and stalked back to the head of the table. “And you need to take care of it. Call her, you know you want to.” She made her shot and ended the game, doing her victory dance with her ass shaking and cue stick over her head. When she handed the stick off to him before she went to the bar, she took both his hands in hers and looked at him seriously. “You need to forgive yourself, and you need to talk to her. I don’t care which order those happen in, but you gotta let up on yourself at some point reasonably soon.”
If only it were that easy.
As the date for the concerts neared, he’d find articles tacked to his fridge via magnets he didn’t remember buying, and magazines on his coffee table open to her picture. It was maddening, but his former partner was relentless. The week before the first show, she informed him she’d spoken to Cassie, and was planning to have dinner and hang out with her for that weekend. Mack understandably declined. There was self-flagellation, and then there was throwing himself in a wood-chipper and hoping for the best, and he didn’t have to tell her into which category that endeavor fell.
The first night of the show, a balmy Friday, he holed himself up in his house with some take-out seafood alfredo and the largest jug of decent whiskey he could find. He kept the house dark to ward off any unwitting—and unwanted—visitors, content to stew, or marinade as the case may be, in peace by candlelight. His cell phone rang at 2:00 a.m., but he didn’t answer, letting Ange’s call go to voicemail.
The second night, he’d almost convinced himself to go, just to show he could, that he’d moved on and hoped it would silence his former partner’s constant haranguing. At least, he would have gone, if not for the fact that he was too drunk to find his shoes, much less his keys.
Sunday he decided he was ready. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it involved a shower and a shave. He was on the road in his truck when Ange called to inform him she was on her way from her condo in Atlanta to his house to kick in his door and drag him out to do what she felt needed to be done. She was simultaneously amused and pissed that he would most likely pass her in transit.
At least her assessment of his plan was favorable: “It’s about damn time.”
Phillips Arena was packed to the rafters, so he slid his truck into the ‘No Parking’ lane behind a battalion of police cars and dropped his FLETC placard in the window. He was still getting used to parking in the spots designated for the disabled, and preferred cop parking all day long. It wasn’t until he killed the engine and felt the rumble of the crowd’s roar through his feet that he really began to feel nervous. It had seemed like such a great plan the previous night over large quantities of alcohol, but now, as he got out of the car with his cane and badged his way into the building and backstage, he wasn’t quite so sure.
Mack had never been backstage for anything before, and was stunned at the amount of people bustling around doing things. Stagehands, musicians, wide-eyed and hyper fans with prominent credentials hanging from their necks as they gawked and sang along with the music, it was extremely loud, organized chaos. The conductor of which was a tiny brunette with a high ponytail, tight hot pink shirt, and a pair of jeans that were extremely complimentary to her assets. He recognized her instantly.
“Miss Mayfield,” he called over the roar of the music as he tapped her on her shoulder.
She turned around with a tablet in hand, eyes lighting up in recognition. “Inspector Jefferson! Good to see you.”
Even though he was no longer a member of WITSEC, he still looked around to see if anyone else had noticed him being called by name. “Good to see you as well, and please, call me Mack.”
A stagehand approached her with a guitar, and though he stood approximately three feet from her, he heard nothing. The stage went quiet, and he heard Cassie’s voice, his heart tripping over knowing he was close to seeing her in person. He stuffed his suddenly sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans. She thanked her fans for a great show, a wonderful few days, and was generally just appreciative for the support and love they showed her. She was nothing if not grateful and humble, two things he truly loved about her. When she launched into her encore, a cover of a Rascal Flatts song he knew by heart, it damn near took out his knees.
The pain in her voice, the regret as she sang about being so close and having so much to say, only to watch someone walk away, it was like she was telling their story. He moved a little closer to the curtains so he could watch her and Betsy, sitting on a stool in front of a microphone in the halo of the spotlight, pouring her soul into every note. It was magical.
Mack jumped when he felt the soft hand on his arm. Trista blushed and gave him an embarrassed grin. “Sorry, you didn’t hear me.”
He rolled his shoulders and smiled back, trying to rein in his jitters. “I guess not.”
“I said I didn’t expect to see you. Your partner’s been around the last couple days, but she didn’t mention you were in town.” She turned to holler some stage direction at a passing hand before turning back to him.
“She’s not my partner anymore, and it’s been a little complicated.” He didn’t want to get into any of the finer points with anybody but Cass.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure Cassie will be happy to see you.”
He wasn’t so sure of that, at all, given the way they’d left things. “Might be getting ahead of yourself there.” Anything else he had to say was drowned out by the rush of the band leaving the stage, the fangirls in an uproar, and the appearance of a pink-cheeked, thoroughly ebullient Cassie. He’d seen her like that before, but this definitely wasn’t the time. Her blue eyes locked on his as she departed the stage, and then she was swept up into the maelstrom.
The houselights went up with the flick of a switch, the stage lights down, and he was left alone, the whirlwind rush of people evaporated like they’d only existed in shadows, leaving him still standing just offstage and no one to direct anything. “Guess this was a damn stupid plan,” he muttered to himself. Feeling completely dejected, he wandered through the maze of hallways until he found the exit through which he’d come. He would have been out the door and on his way back to Savannah if a roadie who looked like he should have toured with The Dead with his long grey beard and tie-dyed shirt hadn’t stopped him with a note.
“Can you wait?”
For the rest of his life, willingly. He nodded to the roadie and commandeered a chair an officer had been using by the back door. However long it took, he would be here for her.
* * *
Of all the things she’d expected to see when she’d walked off the stage, Mackenzie hadn’t even been on the list. She’d almost faltered and been swallowed up by the crush of people that always met her at her exit because she’d been so stunned. He was here, probably at Ange’s prompting, but here nonetheless. She didn’t even know how to process it.
Dealing with her fans had been pretty simple, and then she needed a quick shower and a change out of her sweaty stage attire. Normally she was just jeans and a t-shirt and maybe some high top Chucks, but now…she pawed through her stage wardrobe for something sexier. Everything she had on the rack was far too flamboyant, and she had been nothing but her real, authent
ic self with Mackenzie. She saw no reason to change that now, and threw on the peach camisole and her favorite soft grey cardigan over her jeans and canvas shoes. She only hoped he’d be waiting for her when she left. She’d sent Cap’n Jack out with her hastily scrawled note, and he hadn’t returned, probably had to finish packing up the show. Cassie had been so nervous, hell, she hoped it was legible enough to read, much less that he actually read it.
Walking through the arena, she looked out on the main floor. The stage was half-dismantled, the crew dwindled, and it was almost like she hadn’t even been there at all. It was the crash after the high, the fall after the pride. Like a shower and a change of clothes became her equivalent to Superman’s phone booth, from Cassie Witt back to Cassandra Whitfield.
Mack was leaning against the doorjamb talking to one of the cops who worked security for her when she was in town. She liked to meet everyone who helped bring her show together, to let them know they were appreciated. She had no delusions of grandeur, nor did she forget her own humble beginnings or those of her family. A little gratitude went a long way. When the uniformed cop saw her, he straightened up immediately.
“Miz Witt,” he said with a nervous grin as he touched the brim of his hat. He was a cute kid, maybe five years her junior, but he had a smile that turned all the girls’ heads.
She patted his arm, which made him blush furiously. “Hey, Bobby, I told you to call me Cassie.”
He ducked his head and bit his lip. “Sorry, ma’am.” As if he suddenly realized they weren’t alone, he gestured toward Mack. “This gentleman says you asked him to wait for you?”
She could hear in the way he asked that he hoped to the contrary, and smiled shyly at Mack before addressing Bobby, “I did. Thank you for keeping him company.”
“I didn’t mind the wait,” Mack offered genially.
His smile still made her melt a little, all the warmth and affection she felt for him flaring to life inside her again. “I’m sorry for keeping you.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, feeling her cheeks heat as she looked him over. From his coppery red hair to his black t-shirt that showed off his beautifully carved shoulders under his soft-looking black leather jacket and jeans. The silver star at his waist was visible, but not overly prominent. Very casual and low key, the only thing about him that told a different story were the boots. Shined and pretty, but definitely broken in, they were alligator and ostrich, and probably cost as much as her first car.
Bulletproof Princess Page 20
