Burning Ache

by Adrienne Giordano

  Bracing himself, he took three steps, ready to intercept and shut her the hell up the minute she started yelling. Instead, she plowed right into him, wrapping him in a hug that sent a fresh batch of pain through his ribs.

  “Ach.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You’re okay.”

  As much as she liked to tangle with him, lecture him on what he should be doing and when, his sister had a protective streak bigger than the county in her care. By the way she held on to him, she was half out of her mind with worry.

  He slid his arms around her, patting her back and pressing his lips against the side of her head. “I’m okay. We’re good. I promise.”

  She stepped backward, holding him at arm’s length, and, yeah, that hurt a little, too.

  “You’re sure? Nothing is broken? You’ve got a cut. Blaine, get those EMTs over here. He needs to go to the hospital and get checked for a head injury.”

  “Mags, stop. I’m okay. A little sore.”

  She turned to Roni. “Are you hurt? What do you need?”

  “Nothing. I’m good. I’ll have some bruises, but I’m fine.”

  “Mags,” Way said again, “shut up a minute.”

  She smacked her mouth closed and drew her eyebrows together, deepening the crease enough to bury a body in there.

  She cocked her head. “Pardon? You almost get yourself killed and you tell me to shut up? What were the two of you doing out here? Are you insane?”

  “He must be,” Do-Right muttered.

  Maggie sucked in a breath and turned to Do-Right. “Blaine, give us a second. Please.”

  She waited for the deputy to wander off before facing them down. “What happened?”

  Way took that one. “Car ran us off the road.”

  “What car? Did you recognize it?”

  He shook his head. “No. Black sedan. A Nissan, I think. Roni got the plate.”

  “Good. I swear, Waylon, how many times have I warned you about riding that damned bike on these roads at night? It’s too dangerous.”

  “Hey,” he said, “what the hell are you yelling at me for? It’s not my fault some asshole tried to run us down.” He jerked his thumb toward the guardrail. “And did you notice my bike is gone?”

  She scanned the emergency area. “What?”

  “I put years into that thing and it’s…gone. Over the goddamned side. That fucker better pray I don’t find him.”

  “Oh, my God. Waylon! You’re lucky that bike was all you lost.” Maggie shook her head. “I can’t believe someone would do this. Roni, give me that plate number. We’ll take care of this right now.”

  That quickly, his sister went from anxious family member to determined sheriff.

  Roni recited the plate number to Maggie, who tapped it into her phone. “You’re positive about this?”

  “I’m sure. The car had a light over the plate.”

  “Excellent. Give me a couple of minutes to run this down. Sit tight.”

  She hustled off, leaving Way and Roni standing on the side of the road while deputies and various other folks analyzed the scene.

  The full weight of the situation descended again. Way gritted his teeth. Fucker, fucker, fucker. Both he and Roni could have been killed.

  Mind spinning with visions of the two of them tumbling over a cliff, he ran his hand over his face while his gut seized.

  “Are you okay?” Roni asked, gently touching his good arm.

  “It’s…hitting me. What could have happened out here.”

  She glanced over at the emergency flares in the road. “It could have been bad, no doubt. It’s not your fault, though.”

  Wasn’t it? He’d been on these roads thousands of times without incident. As soon as he threatened to go public about a CIA breach, someone tried to run them off the road.

  Could they have… “Shit.”

  “What?”

  He peered down at Roni, studied her beautiful face and dark eyes that kept his mind firmly in the gutter. Sexual fantasies sure beat the thoughts currently shredding him.

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking crazy, right now.”

  “Why?”

  She worked for the agency. If he said it, she’d laugh at him.

  She stepped closer, getting into his space, and the smell of her soap, something musky, fired his senses.

  “You think the agency set this up.”

  Maybe he wasn’t crazy. “It’s nuts, right?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. The timing, considering your call with Don, makes me wonder. But, the CIA taking out American citizens? I don’t want to believe that.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re thinking about the bigger picture. I’m a pain in the ass they can sacrifice.”

  “Let’s see what Maggie says about the plate number. This could be random. Some drunk kid screwing with us.”

  The plate number. She was right. Once they had the tag info, they’d move to the next step of tracking this fucker.

  “Damn,” Way said. “You’re good. I can’t believe you caught that tag.”

  “My Quantico training is hard to shake.”

  Right now, that training might be saving them.

  At the edge of the road, Maggie exited her cruiser and marched back to them. “Well, kids, we’ve got a problem. Plates don’t match the car.”

  Of course. “They were stolen?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Probably. I’ll contact the owner of the plates and see what I can find out.”

  “So now what? We sit around and wait? He could have killed us.”

  Not to mention that he destroyed Way’s prized possession.

  “Waylon, relax.”

  He gawked at her. Relax? Seriously? He knew his sister, knew this to be her way of trying to remain calm in a toxic situation. Even if this was Maggie’s way of dealing with stress—after all, her little brother almost went careening off a mountain—her attitude pissed him off.

  “No, Mags.”

  “No what?”

  “I won’t relax.” He jabbed his finger to the spot where his beloved bike went over. “That was my bike!”

  “I know. Believe me. But, hey, better the bike than you, right?”

  She didn’t get it. And, yeah, logically, he understood she was trying to get him focused. To wrap his mind around the fact that he wasn’t lying at the base of a mountain in a broken heap for his parents to bury.

  But goddammit…his bike.

  “I know what you’re doing here,” he said, “but back off.”

  His sister sighed.

  “And quit that sighing. That was a 1985 Sportster! A 1985, Mags.”

  “I know what it means to you.”

  “Do you?”

  She slid a gaze to Roni, then back to Way. “Don’t yell at me. And, yes. I do.”

  “Then you’d know that this is killing me right now.” He balled his fists, squeezing so tight the tips of his fingers should have snapped clear off.

  He had to move. Get away from her and burn off the aggravation. He walked away, his steps quick and merciless as his feet pounded gravel.

  Good old, dependable Maggie. Everyone’s savior, ready to fix every damned thing whether he wanted her to or not.

  All.

  The.

  Time.

  Way couldn’t deal with her trying to be the calm in the storm when he wanted to fucking pummel something. Just put his hands around the neck of that driver and squeeze.

  His bike…

  He reached the guardrail and stopped. Halted on the edge of the cliff.

  Jesus. Nowhere to go. He turned, found Maggie and Roni, backlit by the emergency spotlight.

  Great. Now they thought he was nuts. He turned, headed back to the road, and shoved his hands in his pockets just to have something to do with them. He sure as hell couldn’t hit anyone.

  Punching a guardrail would just be fucking stupid.

  Focus here.

  First, his bullets hit the street and now this? The bullets—why did he even
do it? After ten years in the military he knew the risks of getting into bed with the government.

  And now…his bike. He reached the edge of the road, his toes hitting blacktop. Walking there would be yet another stupid idea. Even lit up like this, a car could run him down.

  Nowhere to go.

  Shit.

  He whipped back. Paced the gravel, stopping at the guardrail. Trapped. That’s what he was.

  He tipped his head back, stared at a starlit sky.

  All that open space and peace.

  He’d rebuild the bike.

  Way lifted his head, looking out into the blackness over the cliff. His brother Shep, the expert climber. That’s who he’d call.

  He’d know how to rappel down and collect the pieces.

  Behind Way, the crunch of rocks underfoot brought him from his thoughts. His sister couldn’t help herself. Just had to get into it with him.

  “Mags, you need to give me a second.”

  “It’s me.”

  Roni.

  Excellent. The full fucked-up-ness of the situation descended like the crash of his bike against the mountain. Roni had witnessed the whole thing. His words with Maggie, his meltdown, his storming off.

  Yeah, real mature, pal.

  He turned away from the guardrail and spotted her closing the last few feet between them. God, she could have been killed. Maggie was right. The two of them could be dead right now, and he was whining about a motorcycle?

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “About what?”

  He pulled his hand from his pocket, waved it above the rail. “My shit-fit over the bike. It’s a hunk of metal.”

  “Something tells me it’s a hunk of metal that was important to you.”

  “Yeah. A little bit.”

  “I get that.”

  He gazed at her, but in the darkness couldn’t read any facial cues. “Roni?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you head-shrinking me, right now?”

  She snorted. “No. Truly. I had a sweater once.”

  A sweater story. Yeah, totally head-shrinking me.

  “It was my dad’s,” she said. “I had it until I was fifteen. I was in yet another foster home. They were okay people, super religious. They had a rebellious son. He was sixteen and he’d spy on me, do little things to annoy me. Throw my stuff in the yard, bang on the bathroom door when I was in there. Stupid stuff.”

  “What an ass.”

  “He had issues, for sure. Anyway, I came home from school one day and the sweater was gone.”

  Come on? Seriously? “He took your sweater?”

  She shrugged. “I could never prove it, but I went nuts. I stormed into his room demanding he give it back. One thing led to another and I slugged him.” She made a fist and threw a punch. “Bam! Just let him have it right on that hateful mouth of his.”

  At that, Way smiled. Tough little Roni Fenwick. “No way.”

  “Yep. Within two hours, they removed me from that home. I didn’t care either. He’d tormented me. Now, knowing what I know about psychological behaviors, I recognize that he was a predator. When I was in college, I did an Internet search on him. He’s in prison now. Rape.”

  Oh, man. She’d seen some nastiness. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I don’t regret punching him. I regret the violence, but, for every woman he violated, he deserved that punch. And then, on the flip side, I wonder if I fueled his rage. Did my punch make him even angrier at women?”

  Hell no. Way wasn’t gonna stand there and let her take responsibility for that sicko. “You can’t take that on. You know that, don’t you? That whatever was going on in that guy’s mind wasn’t your fault.”

  “Intellectually, I know, but I wonder.” Facing the road, she sat down on the guardrail, hooked her hands over the top and kicked at the stones at her feet. “My point is, I get how material possessions can matter beyond reason. Tell me about the motorcycle. What’s its story?”

  Definitely head-shrinking him.

  Or maybe not.

  He was no expert on vulnerability, but he knew enough to recognize she’d just shared something intensely personal.

  In return, he’d do the same. And maybe showing her that vulnerability didn’t mean weakness.

  He sat down next to her and glanced over at the police cruisers. The swirling red lights bounced off the rock face on the opposite side of the road.

  “I have,” he said, “well, had two bikes. The one we just lost was the first bike I ever owned. A 1985 Harley Sportster. I bought it off a high-school buddy’s dad for two thousand bucks.”

  She let out a whistle. “You were in high school? How did you afford it?”

  “He let me make payments until I paid it off. Took me two years. Besides, when I bought it, it didn’t run and had a ton of rust on it. Back then, I knew a little about engines, but not a lot.”

  “And yet, you bought a bike that didn’t run.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I saw the potential. Plus, I needed something to love.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve mentioned I was alone a lot when I was a kid. At times, I liked the freedom of being on my own. I’d hop on my mountain bike and disappear for a few hours. Ride some trails and explore.”

  “You entertained yourself. I know all about it.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled at her. “And, well, when I got to high school, porn may have been involved.”

  “Oh my God.” She laughed. “Thanks for oversharing.”

  If she thought that was oversharing, Way wouldn’t tell her about going online and showing Shep his first set of tits. Older brothers. Gotta take care of the younger ones.

  He bumped her with his shoulder. “I’d been mountain biking, but as I got older, I wanted more. The rusty motorcycle was the next step. My dad isn’t exactly handy with an engine, but my cousin Reid is. Reid helped me get that bike going and then Dad helped me with the cosmetic stuff. Adding chrome, that sort of thing.”

  “It was more than a bike to you.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It gave me something to do. Kept me out of trouble. Over the years, I’ve spent a ton of time customizing it.” He glanced behind him to where his beloved bike tumbled to its demise. “I love that bike. It’s a classic.”

  In the darkness, he met her eye and something in his brain snicked.

  He’d devoted years of attention to a motorcycle because, well, it didn’t expect anything from him. No questions about where he spent his time, who he was with. Yet, it had always been there on a bad day or when his family made him nuts. He’d hop on the bike and disappear.

  The bike, in short, became his lover.

  And how fucking twisted was that? That he’d let an object fulfill what he’d been missing on an emotional level.

  It had to stop. This kingdom of one.

  Roni Fenwick.

  Headshrinker.

  “You’ll rebuild it,” Roni said.

  He blew air through his lips, then jerked his head. “I’ll rebuild it. For fun. Because it’s a cool toy.”

  She smiled at him. “You don’t need it, Way. Just like I didn’t need the sweater. I liked having it, but it didn’t make me who I was. I made me who I am. I suspect the same about you. You’re a good man, Waylon Kingston. You don’t need a motorcycle to prove it.”

  * * *

  Roni followed Maggie to her cruiser with Way lagging a step behind. She glanced to her right where, ninety minutes earlier, Way’s motorcycle had gone hurtling over the banged-up guardrail.

  Lord, it had been a wild night. Adding Maggie and her curious glances wasn’t helping. The woman wasn’t stupid. Her brother and her friend—a CIA agent who’d shown up in town unexpectedly—had almost been killed.

  Yes, Maggie had questions. She was also too much of a professional to ask them. But Roni had to handle it or wind up alienating one of her few trusted friends.

  Except, Roni had no answers. Zip, nada, zero. Add her attraction to Way and things
got…complicated.

  An assignment.

  That’s all this should have been. A damned investigation into secret ammunition with a distant tie to Jeff Ambrose’s unsolved murder.

  That was a few days ago. Now? She still intended to solve both crimes.

  She also wanted to bang the hell out of her supposed prime suspect.

  Who was she kidding? With Way, it was more than sex. From the second she’d seen him, she’d been curious. Looks aside, the man had an edge. A charming, sort-of-rough edge that didn’t allow him to get spooked by an expert at pushing men away.

  The absolute pull of him, that down deep attraction to his determination and lack of fear in taking on the CIA, might literally destroy her.

  Corny as it sounded, this was a man of honor.

  And she sure as hell hadn’t had many of those in her life.

  As they reached the car, Maggie shot her a look before sliding into the driver’s side.

  Complicated.

  “You take the front,” Way said to Roni.

  She nodded and joined Maggie in the front seat of the cruiser.

  When Way settled into his seat, Maggie met his eye in the rearview mirror. “I’ll take Roni back to Mrs. Tasky’s first.”

  Roni didn’t know Steele Ridge all that well, but she knew it would be more efficient to drop Way off and then head into town.

  Which only meant big sister intended on having some sort of talk with her brother. Not happening. Roni was done with people in power excluding her from conversations. If Maggie wanted to talk about her, she’d do it in front of her.

  No discussion.

  “Seems to me,” Roni said, “it would be easier to drop Way off first.”

  “I don’t mind the extra driving.” Maggie shifted the cruiser into gear, punching the gas with the confidence of someone all-too-familiar with the winding road.

  “Maggie,” Roni said, “what’s on your mind?”

  Her friend kept her eyes on the road, shooting through darkness and roaring around a curve. “I have a lot on my mind. Guessing you know that. I’m not sure this is the time.”

  “Well, when is the time?”

  “Christ,” Way said from the backseat. “Someone kill me.”

  Maggie glanced in the mirror. “After what just happened, not funny, Waylon.”

  “Bad timing. Sorry. How’s about we all just shut up?”