Lock&Load (PASS Series Book 3)

by Freya Barker

  I take in a deep breath and turn. I knew he was close, but I still suck in a breath when I discover how little space there is between us. His glasses do nothing to hide the intensity in his eyes.

  “What?” My voice cracks a little and I swallow hard when his eyes drop to my mouth.

  “Let’s clear the air,” he says, forcing his gaze back up to meet mine. “I’m sorry you thought I stood you up on Thursday.”

  “I didn’t—” I start denying when he shakes his head sharply.

  “You did,” he insists. “I could see it all over your face when you opened the door. Had I been around, I would’ve been here in a heartbeat.” The slight burn of the hurt feelings I’ve been carrying around these past days eases as he takes a step closer. I can feel the heat from his body. “To clear up any possible further misunderstandings; I like you. I’m not particularly good at this but I’d like to know you better.” My heart melts at the sincerity in his words and the hint of vulnerability in his expression. “Say something.”

  “Okay,” I finally manage.

  “Okay?” I nod to confirm, my eyes never leaving his. My breath catches as he reaches up and brushes a finger over my bottom lip. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, now would be the time to tell me,” he mumbles.

  Instead, I lift my arms and slip them around his neck. The brown of his eyes darkens, as he hooks an arm behind my back, and pulls me flush against his front.

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  My whispered response is drowned when his mouth slants over mine and I can’t stop the groan from deep in my chest.

  Holy shit.

  I can already tell this man is going to obliterate my defenses. All it takes is the light brush of his tongue along the seam of my lips for me to welcome him inside. Not good at this, my foot. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed so thoroughly my toes curled. Maybe never.

  The fingers of his hand pressing against my lower back dig into the swell of my butt. I find myself shamelessly rubbing against him, my own fingers tangling in the long hair brushing his neck.

  My nerve endings are on fire—from zero to blazing inferno—and I moan down his throat. Immediately his hands move to my hips. I embarrass myself by tightening my hold as he pulls back.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, releasing him instantly and dropping my head down to my chest.

  Too much. Too soon.

  “Hey…”

  He hooks a finger under my chin to lift my burning face. I catch a satisfied grin stretching his swollen lips before I get to a pair of smiling eyes.

  Jesus. The man is lethal.

  “Glad I’m not the only one getting carried away,” he whispers, kissing the tip of my nose before taking a step back.

  I wrap my arms around my body, the sudden chill hitting my chest. Or so I tell myself.

  “There’s beer in the fridge,” I share for something to fill the sudden silence. “I’m just gonna pop this in the oven. Dinner won’t be long.”

  Turning to the counter, I finish wrapping the bread and quickly shove it in the oven. By the time I feel some of the burn leave my face, I have bowls and cutlery set out, and Radar is sitting at the kitchen table, taking a sip from a beer. He placed a second one on the table across from him.

  “I’m gonna need your number,” he says, setting his bottle down and pulling his phone from his pocket, holding it out to me.

  I can’t quite place the look on his face as I take it from his hand and punch in my digits. His fingers stroke the back of mine when I give it back. Then he saves it and types something before tucking it away. The sound of a message coming in has me automatically turn toward the coffee table where I dropped my cell earlier.

  “That’s me. So you have my number as well.”

  “Ah.” I busy myself setting the table. “Why did you stop?” I ask when I sit down across from him, unable to hold back the question circling around my head.

  “I told you, I’m not very good at this.”

  I snort and mumble, “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I mean pursuing someone,” he says with a cocky grin.

  I find the fact he seems plenty confident in his physical abilities but not his social skills, fascinating. Damn, the man has the whole hot nerd thing down to a fine art.

  “Trust me, you were doing fine,” I share honestly.

  “Good to know.” He smirks and reaches across the table to grab my hand. “But I meant what I said earlier; I want to get to know you better. I didn’t come here to fuck you on the kitchen counter. At least not the first time.”

  Yowza. Not sure whether it’s the vivid image he creates in my mind or the crass words he uses, but I’m suddenly on fire. I stand up abruptly, pull my hand from his and escape into the kitchen. His soft chuckle follows me.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” he confirms, and I don’t look back to see if he’s wearing that smirk.

  I can hear it in his voice.

  Over dinner we manage to fall into an easy conversation; mostly about things like work, family, a little history. It’s not until we’re in the kitchen washing dishes—he insisted on drying again—that he brings up the cause of the disagreement we had last week.

  “The guy at the shelter, Jeff, any luck trying to get him to file a report?”

  I shake my head. “No. He won’t budge.” I peek at him over my shoulder. “Didn’t really expect him to.”

  “Me neither. Why don’t you give me the kid’s name? I have to get going and do some work tonight anyway. I can see if there’s anything I can dig up.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed he’s leaving.

  He tugs free a curl that got stuck in the corner of my mouth.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he says, hanging up the towel.

  I follow him to the front door where he turns toward me.

  “His name is Curtis Philips,” I share.

  He tugs me into his arms and I go willingly, lifting my face. This kiss is too short, but he pecks my lips twice more before letting me go. That’s sweet, as is the little tap on my nose before he opens the door and steps outside.

  “Don’t forget to check your messages,” he reminds me before heading down the stairs.

  As soon as I lose sight of him, I duck inside and make a beeline for my phone.

  Unknown number: Wonder if you taste that sweet all over?

  Sweet Jesus.

  My cheeks flush and my body tingles.

  Before common sense sets in, I fire off a message back.

  Me: Only one way to find out.

  The response is almost immediate.

  Unknown number: Now that’s just cruel.

  I’m still walking on clouds an hour later when I peek out my kitchen window one last time before turning off the lights and heading to bed.

  I’ve just put my head on the pillow when my phone beeps on the nightstand.

  Unknown number: Sleep tight, Lady.

  He must’ve been checking too.

  I’m smiling when I doze off minutes later.

  Chapter Nine

  Radar

  I push my chair back from my desk and run my hands through my hair in frustration.

  For hours last night and most of today I’ve been trying to find information on that game Dimas saw referenced; Lock&Load - Revenge. He’s working on an ever-growing list of people who make mention of the game on social media, while I’ve been fruitlessly looking into the game itself.

  Nothing. There isn’t a single piece of information I can find. No actual product, no manufacturer, no gaming blog reviews, no press release, and no mainstream distribution. I’m starting to wonder if it even exists. If it weren’t for the dozen or so social media mentions Dimas found referring to levels of the ‘game’ reached, I wouldn’t be looking. As it is, I may have to venture into the more obscure layers of the internet to find information.

  The dark net is a dangerous place for
a geek like me. It’s only a portion of the onion that makes up the deep net, which is equal parts disturbing and fascinating. It wouldn’t be the first time I succumb to the temptation to discover all. It can become an addiction; crack to a former hacker.

  It’s creeping up on six. If I’m going to dive in, I’m gonna need some fuel and possibly a lifeline. I get to my feet and Philomena groans in protest from her bed under my desk.

  “Have a minute?”

  Dimas looks up from his laptop when I walk into the general office space. We’re the only ones left.

  “What’s up? Find something?”

  “Not a whisper.” I sit down at Bree’s desk and turn the chair to face him. “What about you? Any more luck?”

  “We’re up to eighteen names.” He flips through his notebook and settles on one of the pages, turning it toward me. “I was able to get locations on eight of them.”

  I glance at his scribbled notes. Jeremy Loman graces the top of the list, right here in Grand Junction. Of the other seven names, one more is local, one is from Palisade, one is in Tulsa, and the other three are from Saginaw, Jacksonville, and San Luis Obispo.

  Whatever their connection, unfortunately it’s not geographical. That might’ve made things a little easier.

  “Did you print out the new posts you found?”

  He hands me a stack of printouts and I go through them, looking for any more information than the previous ones. A hashtag catches my eye on one of them.

  “Did you notice this? H10:30?”

  Dimas glances over and shakes his head.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Open up a new browser window and enter it. Let’s see what comes up.”

  I lean forward as he types the hashtag into the search bar.

  “A headset?”

  My eyes scan the page on the screen. “Aviation headset,” I clarify. “That doesn’t make any sense. Keep scrolling.”

  “It’s also a medical code,” he says, clicking on one of the links leading us to a page of ICD diagnostic codes. “For acute conjunctivitis.”

  “Why would a fifteen-year-old hashtag pinkeye?”

  Dimi has no answer either. The hashtag has to have something to do with the content of the post. We’re just not seeing it.

  “Are you ready?”

  Both of us turn at once to see Willa, Dimi’s woman, walk into the office. He gets to his feet to greet her and I turn my eyes back to the screen, giving them a little privacy.

  “Hey, Radar,” I hear her say on a soft chuckle, indicating it’s safe to look at them.

  “Willa, how are you?”

  “Good. Better if I can get this lug to come with me so we can make our reservation at Engine 36.” She names one of Grand Junction’s most popular restaurants. “I put on a dress and everything.”

  I hadn’t noticed, but now I do.

  “You look great.”

  “Get your own damn woman to ogle. This one’s mine,” Dimas grumbles, slapping his laptop shut and grabbing it and his phone off the desk. “Lock up, will you? See you tomorrow.”

  I lift a hand at Willa, who winks at me before Dimas slings a proprietary arm around her shoulders and steers her out of the office. My thoughts immediately drift to Hillary. I wish things weren’t so hectic, I wouldn’t mind taking her out for a proper date one of these days. Maybe Thursday?

  As if conjured up, a message comes in on my phone when I head back to my office after making copies of Dimi’s notes and printouts.

  Hillary: OMG just read back my text from last night. Sorry, didn’t mean to be a tease.

  I sit down in my chair and drop the copies on my desk so I have my hands free.

  Me: Not complaining.

  Hillary: You were last night, calling me cruel.

  Me: Still not a complaint. Nothing wrong with ramping up the anticipation.

  Hillary: Anticipation?

  Hillary: NVM I get it. *Facepalm*

  I chuckle and find myself relaxing into the banter. I feel a lot more confident on a keyboard than in person.

  Me: Although the anticipation was already pretty high when you opened the door in that outfit.

  Hillary: Those are my ratty old lounge clothes

  Me: Worked for me.

  Hillary: You really that easy to please?

  Me: Only one way to find out.

  I watch the dots dance on the screen but it takes a while before her response comes.

  Hillary: Touché. You have me flushed in the middle of the hospital cafeteria. People are staring.

  Me: Because you’re beautiful.

  She sends back a blushing emoji and I send her a smiling one. This may well be the first time I’ve ever used an emoji. I’ll never be able to live it down if the guys find out.

  Hillary: I should get back to work.

  Me: Me too. Still at the office. Talk later?

  Hillary: I’ll be late.

  Me: Tomorrow then.

  Hillary: Do you like butter chicken?

  Me: Doesn’t everyone?

  Hillary: 6-ish?

  Me: I’m there.

  Phil stands up and stretches before propping her front legs against my knee. Her big round eyes plead with me.

  “Let me guess, you’re hungry.” She answers me with the wagging of her tail. “Fine. Let me shut this off and we’ll head home.”

  I shove my laptop and my work in my backpack, clip Phil’s leash on, and make my way through the office, flicking lights off as I go. I toss my pack in the truck and follow the dog to the berm where she quickly relieves her taxed bladder. Then I help her up in the passenger seat, where she spends the drive home with her nose up catching the stream of chilled breeze coming in from the slightly opened window.

  Once home, I get her fed, make myself a fried egg sandwich, and take my plate and a beer into my office. There I spend the evening expanding on the list Dimas made. By the time Phil comes to alert me she needs to go out, I have twelve new names added, complete with locations.

  Sixteen names in total at some point used the hashtag H10:30 on a social media post. Definitely a connection, but the meaning escapes me.

  For now.

  Hillary

  An elbow hits me in the jaw and I wince as I struggle to get the arm under control.

  Two nurses and an orderly, and still we can’t seem to subdue the patient who stumbled into the ER five minutes ago, bleeding from a gaping wound to his abdomen.

  “Someone call security!” Linda calls over her shoulder, while trying to hold down the other arm.

  James, one of our orderlies, threw himself on the man’s thrashing legs, and manages to pin at least his bottom half to the stretcher.

  Instead of security, Dr. Sugarlips walks in.

  Wonderful.

  “What’s going on here?” His authoritative voice grates on my already frazzled nerves.

  “A sedative maybe? Some restraints?” Linda sneers sarcastically.

  If anyone dislikes Bill Shearer more than I do, it’s her. That one month I lost my faculties and dated him, despite her warnings, almost cost me our friendship.

  I finally get the patient’s arm under control when Bill returns with leather restraints, the surgical resident and a security guard right behind him. In minutes they have him secured and I go in search of the syringe the patient knocked out of my hand. I find it in the corner of the room, which looks more like an abattoir right now. The bed, the floor, and my scrubs are covered with his blood and I’m afraid if we don’t act fast, he’ll bleed out under our eyes, but Linda and the resident are already working on him.

  He smelled like he’d soaked in alcohol and rather than place him in a cubicle and stink up the entire floor, I’d escorted him to a room. He’d already been agitated when I tried to have a look at his injury, but the moment he saw me with a needle he became combative. It didn’t take me long to clue in to the fact alcohol wasn’t the only thing he was high on. Luckily James and Linda were walking by and heard me yell when he whale
d on me.

  I pick up the dirty syringe and drop it in the sharps container mounted to the wall, before raising my hand to my throbbing face. Shit. He got me good, busted my lip, and I can already feel the swelling under my left eye where he clocked me with his elbow.

  “You look a mess.” Bill is standing far too close, scrutinizing my face. I flinch when he lifts his hand and carefully palpates my cheekbone and eye socket, but he doesn’t even notice. “Come with me.”

  Without waiting for my answer he grabs my arm and steers me ahead of him, out of the room into the hallway, where we bump into a sour-faced Karla. Just my luck.

  My escapades last week involving CPS have landed me at the top of her shit list, and I know she’s waiting for me to make one misstep so she can be up one side of me and down the other.

  “I hear you weren’t able to control your patient without manhandling him?” I press my lips together before something flies out that could cost me my job, but Karla isn’t done. She gives me a once-over with a look of disgust before she continues, “Even a hint you did more damage than good and you can pack your bags.”

  With that she steps around us and into the room. Bill’s chuckle in my ear has my skin crawling and I jerk my arm from his hold.

  “Hillary, Hillary, have you not been playing nice?”

  “Enough, Bill,” I snap. “You know damn well why she can’t stand the sight of me and you are not helping. Grow up.”