by Becky McGraw
“Are you okay?” he croaked, his voice sounding like he didn’t use it much.
“Other than scraped knees and a knot on my hard head, I think I’m fine,” she replied, her voice trembling. “But I could use a drink, because my nerves are shot.”
“This is not a neighborhood a lady should be strolling in alone,” he grated, a muscle working near his right eye. “Especially one dressed like you are. That fur-trimmed coat is a neon sign saying, please rob me.”
“Well, I stroll here every year to volunteer at the Veteran’s Center, dressed just like I am now, and haven’t had a problem before,” she replied, getting a little miffed at his superior tone. She bent and looked around for her shoes.
“When slumming, you should really try to look the part, Queenie, but I’m sure it would be difficult for you to hide that silver spoon.” His condescending tone was punctuated with a dark, raw laugh.
Lou Ellen spun to glare at him. “You don’t know me, so don’t pretend to,” she snarled, stiffening her spine. “Thank you for your help, but keep your opinions to yourself. I’m fifty-five years old and have been taking care of myself for a long time without your guidance.”
Lou Ellen hadn’t always worn fur-trimmed coats, or wore business suits. She’d had her taste of the hard life, enough to be determined she wasn’t ever going to live that way again. And she wasn’t going to let this man, or the bum he just pummeled, intimidate her.
“So, what are you doing here?” he asked, one wild gray eyebrow raised over his piercing blue eyes. “Trying to pretend you give a shit about the have nots? Salving your guilty conscience for living well when others are living like this?”
She took back her earlier thought that he didn’t talk much—this man had plenty to say and hero or not, he was pissing her off.
“For your information, I’m not slumming, I’m paying my blessings forward by helping heroes like my father and first husband,” Lou Ellen replied, lifting her chin and holding his gaze.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes, upping her anger.
She glanced around him at the man laying by the dumpster, who still wasn’t moving, and didn’t appear to be breathing either. Her knight’s lack of urgency told her he knew the bum wouldn’t be getting up.
Lou Ellen recognized a trained fighter when she saw one. This man was like those she worked with—former military men who were taught those survival skills. And like them, he had the superior attitude that came with those skills, which needed to be taken down a notch.
“Thank you for your help and your service, sir, but I don’t need your bullshit.” She pushed away from the wall to balance on shaky legs. “Go find someone else to judge who gives a shit what you think of them.”
Stiffening her back and her knees, Lou Ellen bent to pick up her shoes, but didn’t put them on when she found one of her heels was broken. As regally as she could, she walked to the end of the alley barefoot.
“Where are you going and who’s going to save you when you get jerked into the next alley, Queenie?” he asked, and she stopped.
“I’m getting the hell out of here before the cops find out you tossed that troll back over the sewage ditch into the great beyond. I suggest you do the same.”
She took a step then stopped again to look back at him, pausing a second to wonder what he looked like under all that dirty hair, and stringy salt-and-pepper beard. “And you might want to stop back by the church for a confession on your way back to the bridge you live under.”
Chapter 3
Tom Griffin had no idea why he followed the prissy, sassy socialite he’d just saved five blocks to the intersection at the edge of the hood, or why he planned on following her to wherever she parked her car or limousine.
There was no sense in killing a man to save her only to let her be attacked again before she got fully out of the neighborhood, he reasoned, as he lingered just far enough back that she didn’t notice him when she stopped to press the crosswalk button.
Griff knew this area like the back of his hand now and the kind of desperate men and women who walked these streets. Queenie was not one of them, and she didn’t have the street smarts to deal with them. He, unfortunately, did.
She crossed the street and he waited at the corner until she turned right to walk under the overhang which connected the entire block of shops and restaurants. When she stopped at Lucky’s Bar, he waited until she opened the door to walk across the street.
He hoped like hell she wasn’t stupid enough to linger there, because it would be dark in an hour or so. Walking these streets in daylight was definitely a different experience than walking them at night. Surely, she couldn’t be that clueless.
Well, she walked them before dawn this morning when she went to the church and then the shelter.
Yeah, he thought she was stupid then too, so he followed her out of the church to the shelter and waited there. Smelling the turkey and fixings cooking inside that building had almost killed him. But Griff knew better than to go inside. The men in that building might recognize him, and that turkey dinner could be his last supper, if one of them did.
You need to be worrying about your own problems, Griffin, not babysitting a woman. No, two women.
He knew that, but he could not help himself. Layla was probably wondering where in the hell he was. Hopefully, she didn’t think he’d abandoned her. Those trust issues of hers would probably be telling her that right now. She, like Queenie, put up a hard front, pretended she could take care of herself, but he knew their shells were made of aluminum, not steel.
Griff found a bench in front of a shop a few doors down from the bar and settled in to wait. He’d stay long enough for her to have one drink, but if she lingered, she would be on her own. He had to get back to the tent to make sure Layla was okay. A fifteen-year-old girl who was alone under that bridge at night was fair prey, even with the pistol he left her with in the tent.
He really needed to scout out a safer location for them to set up camp. There was a preserve he’d checked out, a government owned woodland area, but was afraid the cops would find and arrest them. Under the bridge, there was safety in numbers and it was pretty much accepted as a homeless encampment. The police only came around if there was a fight or murder, which happened about once a week.
He’d heard rumblings, though, that a local politician was fighting to have them evicted from under the bridge, so it would probably be better to move now and claim a place before that happened. When three-hundred people and animals were looking for a new place to pitch their tents, it would be hard to find a piece of ground.
Forty-five minutes later, the bar door opened and the spunky platinum blonde emerged with her shoes in her hand, looking much calmer. Holding her coat closed, she turned toward him, took a step, and her back stiffened. She looked back inside the bar, then again at him. Her chin dropped as she strode toward him, her eyes sparking.
“What are you doing? Stalking me?” she demanded, stopping beside the bench.
“No, I’m keeping you from getting yourself killed,” Griff replied, trying to keep his tone even as he met her stare.
When the florescent light under the canopy suddenly came on, he got a closer look at her and felt like he took a punch to his gut. How had he not realized before how much she looked like Glynna? That platinum hair, those eyes, that mouth. Other than a few years older, she was a dead ringer for his dead wife. His chest tightened around his heart, making it hard to breathe.
“I don’t need you to protect me. Bruno has that firmly under control now.”
Bruno? Griff averted his eyes and shook his head as he sat up straighter to expand his rib cage. “You have an imaginary friend?” he asked with a snort, because he sure didn’t see anyone with her. “I sure hope he protects you better than he did in that alley.”
“That bum caught me off guard. I assure you it won’t happen again, because Bruno is now in my pocket and I promise he isn’t imaginary. If you keep following me, you’ll meet him.”<
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Griff’s eyes flew to hers then darted to the pocket of her camel-colored coat. “Are you off your meds or something?” he asked, his eyes touring back to hers.
She pursed her lips and tilted her stubborn chin. He flinched when the corners of that mouth eased up into a familiar grin. He was a masochist because, even though his insides felt like they were being shredded by razor blades, he could not drag his eyes away from her mouth. A longing so deep he felt hollow inside ripped through him.
Those luscious lips moved and he was mesmerized. “I can take care of myself now, but I’d like to invite you back into the bar for a drink and a sandwich. I know you didn’t come into the shelter to eat today, so you have to be hungry.”
Griff managed to drag his eyes to hers. “I don’t drink.”
When he first got back to the states, he did. A lot. To numb the pain of having nothing left of his former life. But once he met Layla, who came from an alcoholic home, it was easy to conquer that beast.
“Well, that’s a very good thing,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m sure you eat? Please let me buy you dinner as a thank you.”
Griff looked down at himself, and for the first time saw what he was wearing. When he had extra money, he and Layla washed their clothes at the laundromat near the bridge, but that hadn’t been in a couple of weeks. Thank goodness they could walk to the truck stop and at least grab a shower twice a week. He ran his hand over the shaggy beard that covered his face both for convenience and cover.
“They’d probably throw me out on my ass,” he said with a sigh, as his stomach growled.
She harrumphed. “Trust me when I tell you they will do no such thing.”
Trust me. That was something Griff hadn’t done with anyone in a very long time. But he was hungry. And against his better judgement, he wanted to know more about this woman.
“Okay, tell me that Bruno is not your boyfriend, and I’ll let you buy me dinner,” he said, holding his breath until she laughed.
“I’m single and Bruno is my forty-five. I trust him more than any man I’ve ever met and keep him closer.” She edged her hand out of her coat pocket to show him the butt of the weapon, then pushed it back inside.
Surprise filled him as his face stretched into an unfamiliar smile. He met her eyes as he pushed up to his feet. “I guess I’ll have to take you up on your offer then, since you’re making it at gunpoint.”
“I’ve never had to convince a man to have dinner with me at gunpoint and I’m not going to start now,” she replied, her eyes on his mouth. “You shouldn’t kick a gift horse in the mouth.”
No, but Griff was damned tempted to kiss one right then.
“Lead the way, Queenie,” he said waving at the door as a weird feeling swept through him. “I accept your generous offer, but if they kick me out or call the police, you’re going to have to bail me out.”
Chapter 4
Grandma Wells would’ve kicked Lou Ellen in the ass if she knew she was having dinner with a man whose name she didn’t even know—especially one who looked as down and out as her silent knight did. She probably was the fool her mother would have called her too, but she technically owed this man her life, or at least a portion of her sanity.
The only one who’d probably understand her decision was her best friend, Allison Rooks. Allie believed in going with her gut instinct, which had served her well many for years with her no-account ex-husband and now in Washington as a Texas Senator.
Allie would appreciate this man’s well-seasoned snark and way of speaking as much as Lou did, and would be just as intrigued. Like Lou, she would also want to know why this obviously educated man was living in the shadows of humanity.
If the cost of a dinner got Lou Ellen those answers, she would count it well worth it. As long as she was inside the bar, she knew Joseph, the barkeep, would keep an eye out for her. She’d been coming here a long time now, stopping in for a nightcap after she volunteered at the shelter twice a month. Bruno would handle things outside, if something went awry.
The first thing she was going to do, however, was find out his name. He surprised her by grabbing the door to open it for her. Once inside, she stopped and turned to hold out her hand.
“I’m Lou Ellen Wells,” she said, and his eyebrows pinched together as he stared at her hand.
He glanced at the bar then his gaze moved around the room before he looked back at her and wiped his hand on his pants. He clasped her hand with his as his blue eyes held hers and the heat of his palm melded their hands together. The gentle squeeze he gave her fingers sent warmth spreading up her arm to radiate through her body. He pulled her arm to bring her closer, then leaned down.
“Just call me Griff, and it’s nice to meet you, Ms. Wells,” he whispered near her ear.
Lou Ellen’s knees melted like butter as the delicious tenor of his voice rumbled through her. She pulled her hand away, but it still tingled as she took an unsteady step back.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Griff. Now, let’s get you some food,” she said, turning to walk to the bar. When she stopped to remove her coat, Griff was behind her, helping her. She folded it over her arm and leaned on the bar.
“Hey, Lou—I thought you were going home?” Joe asked, as he walked up to the bar.
“I was, but I met this nice gentleman outside and convinced him to try one of your Kitchen Sink burgers. Bring fries with it and a slice of Emma’s apple pie. I’ll have another cider, please.”
Joseph glanced over her shoulder at Griff and frowned. Lou Ellen opened her mouth, because she knew that look. Joe had used it more than once to corral an unruly drunk. But he wouldn’t be using it today. It was Thanksgiving, and this man was her guest.
“What’ll you have to drink, bud? Whiskey? Gin?” Joe asked snidely, fisting the bar towel. “Shot or a double? Or should I bring a bottle?”
“No, iced tea, please. I don’t drink,” Griff replied evenly. The men stared each other down for a minute more, before Joe nodded and turned away. “This was a bad idea, Queenie. I know that look, so he’s probably in back calling the police.”
He better not be, or there will be hell to pay.
“Let’s find a table,” she said, ignoring him to take his arm and lead him to an open table near the end of the bar.
He pulled his arm away to slide a chair out and waited for her to sit. God, how long had it been since a man pulled out a chair for her? Too long, she thought, draping her coat over the chair beside her, before casting him a smile as she sat down. Griff took the chair to her left at the round table and huffed out a breath.
Lou Ellen reached out to put her hand on his forearm. “Let’s pretend we’re doing this before whatever happened to you, okay? Just relax and enjoy your meal.”
He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “How do you know there was a time before? Maybe I’ve always been a homeless, worthless bum.”
“Because I’m a good judge of character, and I’m not judging you based on what I see now. I’m judging based on the man who jumped into a situation that wasn’t his business to protect me. That man is a hero and worthy of respect.”
Griff laughed. “Jesus, woman, you’re making me blush.”
“But you sure didn’t hesitate to judge me, did you?” she asked, tilting her head as she pulled her hand back.
“What’s to judge?” His eyes dulled and his brows drew together, forming a crevice between them. “I see a beautiful, obviously wealthy, woman who’s showing mercy on a worthless bum. I’m still working out the why of it. Maybe I’m just another of your Junior League social projects. You’re wasting your time if that’s the case. I don’t want to be saved.”
Anger surged up to choke her as she folded her arms over her chest. “I haven’t offered to save you. I offered you a meal. Stop being an asshole and dig deep to find your forgotten manners, or I’ll leave you here to eat it alone.”
That muscle by his right eye ticked again and she imagined from the sway of his beard, he
was grinding his teeth but Lou Ellen didn’t break eye contact.
“I apologize for being rude,” he said, looking away. “Thank you for the meal.”
Joe came around the end of the bar and set a mug of cider with a cinnamon stick in it in front of her, before placing a glass of iced tea in front of Griff. “Burger will be up in ten minutes,” he grumbled as he walked away.
“So, tell me about it,” Lou Ellen encouraged, as she stirred the cider with the cinnamon stick. She had a feeling getting anything out of this man would take patience, so she would go slow. “What was your life like before this? From your actions in the alley, I know you’re former military. Let’s start there.”
“I can’t tell you,” Griff replied, bringing his glass to his mouth for a long sip. He set it down, then looked at her. “If that’s the price of this meal, I’ll be going now.”
“There is no price for this meal.” It was her turn to frown at him. “Did you forget your social skills as well as your manners? This is called conversation.”
“I guess I have forgotten. Five years is a long time,” he replied soberly.
“At least tell me where you’re from, what you did in the military and for which branch,” she said with a sigh.
“Georgia, Army and classified,” he replied shortly.
“So you were spec ops,” she surmised.
Cade Winters, soon to be Dr. Cade Winters, who formerly worked with Deep Six, had the highest classification there was in the Army, then he served in Delta Force before he joined the CIA. She highly suspected this man had a similar background. All of the men she worked with were former special operators.
His head whipped on his shoulders and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “How in the hell would you know that? Why would you think it?”
“The way you move, your attitude. I work with a team of former special operators,” she replied and his eyes widened.
