by Christa Wick
"No need to apologize," I tell her.
"Good," she laughs and squeezes another liter of air out of me. "I'm so dang nervous about orientation!"
"Funny, you don't look it."
I am joking, of course, but it takes her a couple of seconds to realize it. When she does, she wags a finger at me.
"How's Sarge doing?"
"Great!" she answers, eyes shining with an almost religious fervor. "He Skyped with your Aunt Dotty this morning and now he's reading a Dune comic on his iPad."
"Done," Caiden says, coming into the living room. With a faint tilt of his head, he gestures at the hall. "Want to see my stuff?"
"Sounds cool," I answer.
In his room, I'm surprised at how tidy everything is. The books on his shelf run from tallest to shortest, none of them pushed in more than the others. Precisely assembled models of tanks, dinosaurs and one spaceship fill the gaps. There's a Dune movie poster on the back door that looks like it's fresh from the wrapper. Taped to the ceiling is an oversized poster of the solar system. The bed is made with military corners, the blanket and sheets so tightly tucked I could bounce a quarter on them.
"Good job squaring things away, Sarge," I say as I sit on the edge of the bed.
Caiden shrugs but his cheeks flush like he's glad I noticed.
"Ken would always inspect Caiden's quarters when he got home from being away," Delia explains, her gaze nervously darting to measure the boy's reaction to the mention of his dead father.
He nods thoughtfully.
"I brought something for you." Opening my backpack, I pull out a map folded in quarters. I lay it flat on Caiden's bed. "This is Aunt Dotty's homestead."
Grinning, he leans over the map, head and shoulders swinging side to side as he peers closely at the areas I marked off. A legend explains where my siblings and I have discovered geodes and arrowheads, as well as where the creek runs and a flock of Greater Sage Grouse nest.
"This weekend, yes?" he asks, his gaze excited when he looks up.
"Yep, we just have to get through today's stuff, then it's smooth sailing into the weekend."
"Mom said they have a science lab there," Caiden tells me.
"And a chess club," Delia chirps.
His mouth shrugs and he exhales a long sigh.
I give his shoulder a friendly squeeze, the pressure just hard enough that I don't make him uneasy.
"Think of it as a new mission, Sarge. Observe and report."
His head bobs and a grin appears.
"I can do that!"
Four hours later, with a good visit to the school behind us, I park my truck behind the Federal building where Emerson and Madigan work. I go to the front passenger side, open the door and offer my hand to Delia. She climbs down and then I open the door for Caiden. The boy hops onto the ground.
Still buzzing with excitement over the school's summer program, he high-fives me.
"Chill a little," Delia laughs. "We still have to get the paperwork returned by four-thirty today."
He looks at his watch then gives her a thumbs up.
"Let's pray Special Agent Turk doesn't have Maddy still stuck in the surveillance van."
"You can always use me for the emergency contact," I say, grabbing her bag from the backseat and handing it to her. "Change it to Maddy later or have both of us on it."
I get another tight hug from her and then her arms are around Caiden as she plants hard kisses all over his face.
"I'm so proud of you, sweetie."
"Okay, okay," the boy says, shrinking from the affection. "Don't get weird, Mom. They won't let you into the building if you're acting weird."
Delia salutes her son then practically skips toward the entry.
Inside, we go through security and then a junior agent escorts us to a small room with a glass wall to wait. Delia remains giddy and chatty as she organizes the paperwork from the school and pulls out the forms Madigan will need to sign as the boy's legal guardian in case Delia is incapacitated.
A few minutes tick by and then there's a tap at the window. I look over to find my brother scowling at me.
"Hostiles at three o'clock," I tell Caiden with a wink. "I got this one."
I slide out of the room and into the hall.
"Maddy know we're here?" I ask. "Paperwork needs to be back to the school by four-thirty."
"She's coming up," he huffs. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on?"
I cant my head at Emerson. "Paperwork, signature, Maddy."
"You and Mrs. Mays," he clarifies.
I mirror his scowl. "The boy lost his father."
"I'm aware," he bites out. "I knew Ken back in Boston."
With the way baby brother has acted around the widow and her son, I can't imagine he knew Delia or Ken very well. Half an hour at a barbecue, a nod in the parking lot, a bump in the grocery store.
I shrug and continue with the point I was making.
"Well, my being around seems to help, and getting him in this summer program is really important to Delia."
"None of that requires you screwing her."
I suck a breath in, then freeze as four thoughts race through my head, one of them repeating.
He's my brother.
He carries a sidearm.
He's a federal agent.
I'm surrounded by a building full of federal agents also carrying firearms.
He's my brother.
"You've got the wrong read on this," I say, my jaw locked tight.
Emerson snorts. "I know when the monk is out of his cell."
His gaze cuts to Delia, skipping Caiden altogether. Two small dots of red flare on my brother's cheek but quickly fade.
"Oh," I laugh as the elevator pings. "I see."
Madigan steps into the hallway. Her gaze meets mine, her face pulling wide. I jerk my head toward the window and wait until she enters the room before turning my attention back to Emerson.
"Look, baby brother, far as I know, the path to Delia is clear. You don't have to worry—"
He opens his mouth to interrupt me with misplaced outrage. I lift a finger, silencing him before he can speak.
"And it's none of your damn business who I sleep with."
14
Maddy
Standing at the corner of an exterior window, I watch Sutton leave the building with my sister and nephew. They are in a hurry to get back to the school, but he takes the time to settle Caiden into the back seat then opens the front passenger door for Delia and holds her hand as she steps up.
My chest contracts. My nose pinches.
I wonder why.
For a second, maybe two.
Then I turn back to my duties. I write a summary report on the surveillance tapes. Troy Sprankle, our target, is taking a trip to Seattle. Sipping iced coffee at an outdoor table, he made the flight and car reservations while I shivered beneath the air conditioning that cools the electronics in the surveillance van.
With the reservations secured, he called a guy named "Jimmy," surname unknown. They both use burner phones. We haven't figured out how, as frequently as they call one another, they manage to communicate their new numbers. Turnover on the phones is near constant. Usually at least once a week. And Sprankle never uses his phone in his apartment, which we have bugged.
"Almost finished?" Emerson asks, entering our common work area for the first time since his brother left the building.
"Yeah."
I click a few buttons, send it to file, then think about what comes next in my workday.
"Moorecock's mom had a stroke," Emerson says. "She called him babbling around five this morning, talking about his dad as if the man were still alive."
I bob my head and think about the mental list I keep regarding what I'm supposed to do or say—both to Moorecock when I see him and to Emerson because he is the one reporting bad news. The list isn't entirely in my head, but I don't want to look at my phone with its notes on socially appropriate responses.
"Is so
meone getting flowers?" I ask after a few seconds.
He scowls. "Leave that to the regulars. It's his shift following Sprankle around in the van that I need to resolve."
Again, I bob my head. The "regulars" are the agents that were here when Emerson and I arrived from the Boston field office. He still thinks of Billings as a way station even though it is the closest FBI office to his family.
I don't know what I think about the Billings office, especially now that Delia and Caiden are with me. Emerson is working the Sprankle case hard. He figures it's his best line to a plum position in a field office, maybe the top position. When he talks of leaving, he speaks in terms of "us" and "our."
Our next office.
Getting us the hell out of this state.
Emerson clears his throat. "So you should clock out, get some rest."
Blinking, I look up. I don't know if I stopped listening to him or if he just threw his last sentence out after a minute's worth of silence.
"In the van at two a.m.," he says.
"Right."
I log off my computer and remove my access card from the device. By the time I turn in my chair to stand, Emerson is on his laptop, softly tapping away at the keyboard with speed and precision.
I don't expect him to say anything as I leave, but he does, his voice low.
"Sounds like the meeting at the school went well."
"Yes," I agree. "I won't need to request any schedule restrictions."
I wait for a nod or some other reply, but he doesn't turn his gaze from his screen and he is back to tapping at the keyboard. I ghost down the hall and out of the building.
Reaching my car, I get in and drive.
A soft knock on my car window wakes me. The sun was out when I left the federal building in Billings. It is well past sunset now. I stretch, momentarily forgetting about the noise that pulled me from sleep or why I drove to Willow Gap instead of going home.
My phone rests in the cupholder. Mouth gaping in a yawn, I press the power button to check the time. It's a quarter past nine.
"Madigan…"
My eyes open a bit wider. I peel back the layers of wool that gathered in my head while I napped and remember exactly whose driveway I parked in.
Looking out the window, I see Sutton. His deliciously thick arms are folded across his chest. His mouth quirks to one side in an expression I cannot read.
Heat flares through me. I may not have known what I felt watching out the window as he folded my nephew and then my sister into his truck, but I know what I feel now.
Done waiting, Sutton reaches out, grabs the door handle and tugs. Nothing happens because the door is locked.
"Madigan."
His tone is sharper than before. I hit the button. This time when he tugs, the door opens.
"How long have you been here?"
Long enough to fall asleep, I think. A couple hours, likely, but I admit nothing.
"Why didn't you call to tell me you were here?"
I shrug and hear the hot release of breath as he snorts.
"Does Delia know where you are?"
"She knows not to wait up for me," I answer.
Sutton grunts, then turns. When he makes it onto his porch and I haven't left the car, he stops and looks at me over his shoulder.
"Come inside, Madigan. At least one neighbor already called Betty Rae, who then called me to say I had a strange car parked outside my house. The longer you stay in your car, the more calls that are going to be made."
I grab my bag, phone and keys then follow him inside. He holds the door open, shuts and locks it behind me.
"Thirsty?"
"Parched."
He fills a tumbler with orange juice then places it on a coaster on the coffee table before sitting down.
"You have a reason for the drive from Billings then waiting hours in front of my house without calling me to say you were here. Tell me."
I take a sip then stare at the liquid in the glass. Drawing a sharp breath, I lift my head as if to speak, but remain mute. Sutton stands. He stops about a foot away from me, hands wrapped around his lean hips, fingers strumming against the snug jeans he wears.
"Finish it," he orders with a hard rasp.
I gulp the rest of the juice down and return the tumbler to the coaster. Sutton captures my wrist.
"Stand."
Again, I obey in a hurry. Heat sizzles down my spine and across my breasts and thighs. Even if I can't admit it, this is what I came for.
His fingers holding me like a vise, Sutton leads me down the hall. He pulls me into his bedroom then hits the light switch. He takes me to the bed, sits first and grabs me by the hips as I remain standing.
"Do you want to leave?" he asks, green gaze turned up to meet mine.
"No," I rasp.
"You say 'no,' or 'stop,' or 'don't,' and I will pull back until you can tell me what you want," he warns. "Is that clear?"
"Crystal," I answer as my heart hammers in my chest.
"I won't be gentle with you."
Now it's his voice that is scratchy. Heat scours my flesh. My thighs start to sweat. Tight as my throat has become, it's almost impossible to talk. I squeeze one word out.
"Good."
His hands jerk at the waist of my dress pants. His fingers are nimble, accustomed to working with nearly microscopic electronics. The top button and zipper melt away like butter. The fabric pools at my feet.
Seeing the pale blue panties of lace and silk hiding beneath the pants, he groans. His head dips. He bites at one hip as the pads of his fingers dent my flesh.
With a quick, sharp roll, he has me on the mattress on my back, his body pressed against mine. Separating our flesh are the buttoned blue dress shirt and the silky bra that matches the panties.
He gnaws at my neck, rubbing his hard body roughly against mine as his fingers slide from button to button. When they are all unfastened, Sutton jerks the fabric down my arms.
For one flashing second, I see how he could trap my arms like this. But he meets my gaze and I know I am safe. He tugs me up, peels the shirt the rest of the way off and tosses it by my pants.
"I want you naked," I tell him.
He grins but doesn't oblige.
"Soon."
With effortless speed, he unhooks the bra, frees my breasts and grabs them. His hands are dry, the skin roughened from the time he spends hanging around the ranch. My skin is delicate in contrast. Delicate and alive with the sensation of him touching me.
He squeezes. I moan and thrust.
Pushing me onto the mattress, he slides down my body. He grips the sides of my panties. I expect him to slide them down my plump thighs.
The shriek of fabric defies my expectations. The panties fall to the floor in pieces. His mouth is on me half a second later. His hands part my thighs, pushing them down and out, spreading me wide for his demanding tongue.
I tremble in need as he takes hard licks. I tremble harder as his teeth scrape against the fragile dangle of my swollen clit.
This is how I want it—how I need it.
Sutton is the only man I trust to facilitate.
Moans gurgle up from my chest. I writhe, grab his head and push him harder against me. Cream pulses from my pussy as my internal muscles grind around one another.
My eyes strain upward. Breathless whispers escape me.
"Yes," I moan. "Almost—"
My climax is cut off before it can unleash.
Sutton rolls me onto my stomach. I hear the unbuckling of his belt, the slide of his zipper. He pushes into me, hard and thick, my cream and arousal accommodating the unanticipated invasion.
Working his hand between my body and the mattress, he grips my mound and squeezes.
"Spread your legs," he demands.
I immediately comply.
He finds my clit, pinching and tugging at it to match his strokes.
Ah, sweet, merciful heaven…
His teeth sink into my shoulder. I claw at the mattress, my
pussy growing wetter and hotter. I clamp down on his thick cock, muscles coiling and milking the shaft and fat head.
Sutton rubs my clit, his touch rough and excruciatingly exquisite. My climax vibrates through me. Crying out, I buck against the mattress and his hard body.
His teeth release their hold on my flesh. His hands slide to my hips and he rears back. His cock rams in and out, harder and faster. Heavy balls slap at the back of my thighs.
I can't stop coming. Each thrust sends fresh shockwaves racing up my spine. And there are so many thrusts, fast and hard, relentless. The shockwaves pile up, whip my body.
Despite the impossibly tight fit, my juices escape the seal of our raw fucking. I feel them trickle along my skin, down my mound to the curve of my stomach. The stream thickens until I am quivering and crying out.
Sutton freezes. His cock jets inside me. Tears stream down my face from how complete I feel.
For the first time since we left the living room, his touch turns gentle. He eases from me and guides me onto my side. He kisses my shoulder, the press of his lips losing their earlier firmness.
I squeeze my eyes but I can't stop the rest of my body from tensing. When I open them, I catch sight of the clock on his nightstand.
"Maddy?"
Shaking my head, I slip from his hold and sit up.
"I have a surveillance shift that starts at two," I tell him.
Sutton wraps a hand around my hip, gently at first then harder when I shrink from his touch.
"I obviously enjoyed what we did," I say, risking a glance over my shoulder.
His gaze is intense, not yet judging me harshly.
"But I'm never going to stay the night," I add. "You have to know that."
His thick brows crinkle.
"I want to like you—"
"You saying you don't?"
"I want to keep liking you," I amend.
My hand lifts to tug at my ear. He captures my wrist, stopping me.
This is hard. Really hard. I look up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay. My throat convulses as I swallow, the muscles tight and unwilling to yield.
"Do you like Delia?" I ask.
To Sutton, the question must feel like it's coming out of left field, but it is part of what drove me to him tonight—seeing the way they interact, seeing how easy it would be for Sutton to take over Ken's place in her and Caiden's life after an appropriate amount of time.
