by Eva Charles
“He’s taking you to visit his friend the crown prince—who, by the way, is a first-class bastard. A trip halfway around the world doesn’t sound slow to me.”
I’m squeezing the limes so hard they’re practically squealing. Matchmaking is her jam, and she’s not going to stop until there’s a ring on my finger.
“Do you have everything you need for the trip? I’m happy to go shopping with you.”
“I’m all set. Gray—bought me some things.” I can barely spit out the words.
“Ugly things?” she asks. “Because from the puckered expression on your face when you said bought me some things, it seems like he picked out some hideous clothes.”
I side-eye Gabby. She’s barely keeping it together. I start to laugh, and she bursts out laughing too. “Pull yourself together, and get me the tequila.”
“It’s right behind you,” she says. “I want to hear more about the clothes and accessories. You can’t go to Amadi without at least one suitcase full of designer clothes and some bling. It’s just the way it is.”
I measure the tequila carefully, until Gabby clears her throat, signaling that she expects some type of response. “The clothes are beautiful, and there’s enough to fill a dozen suitcases. I’m not comfortable wearing things some man paid for, and I’m not comfortable talking about it, either.” My discomfort might dissuade some people, but Gabby will just press on more gently.
She hands me a large wooden spoon and a pitcher filled with ice. “I could tell you that those Wilder boys have more money than they could spend in ten lifetimes. But I’m sure that won’t make you feel any better than it made me feel when JD started buying me things. It gets easier. That I can say.”
I hold out the spoon to give Gabby a taste of the margarita.
“A little more agave,” she says. “Not too much.” She leans across the counter, resting her forearms on the marble. “Lilah, I’ve got eyes.” Lilah. I got the nickname when little Richie Marshall couldn’t say Delilah. Gabby’s one of the few people left who uses it.
“Gray isn’t just some man,” she says with great emotion. “Everything you have inside, you’ll give him. That means so much more than anything money can buy—especially to men like JD and Gray. After their mother died, they grew up with nothing. The money didn’t love them, or tuck them in at night, or dole out hugs when they were sick or heartbroken. It certainly didn’t stand up tall in the foyer to defend Gray.”
A cloud falls over me while I add another ounce of agave to the pitcher and stir until it dissolves. I don’t know if it’s because I’m telling lies to my best friend, or because my relationship with Gray is temporary. “Gabby, don’t get too invested in my relationship with Gray.”
As I collect the used limes for the trash, I feel her watching me the way she does before she calls bullshit. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
“What about you?” she probes. “Are you invested?”
It’s too damn late for me. I’m a lost cause.
“I’m going to see if Gray needs a little moral support,” I say, drying my hands on a dishtowel. As I leave the kitchen, it occurs to me that I didn’t avoid her question. I answered it straight on.
28
Gray
Damn JD. What an asshole. I should have known he’d pull this shit. He’s always trying to get me to spend time with Zack. I thought Delilah being here tonight would spare me. It takes me weeks to fully recover after these visits. Time that I can’t afford right now.
I push through the set of glass doors that separates Zack’s wing from the rest of Sweetgrass. It’s not because JD has him banished to the far corners of the house. It’s so that they can keep things sanitized, and control the spread of infection in this part of the house. Zack is unlikely to survive a bad flu or pneumonia.
Zack suffered a traumatic brain injury in the accident that killed my mother and sister. He’s been unresponsive since then, but JD, and now Gabby, make sure he has everything he needs to be comfortable. It’s never been that easy for me.
After washing and drying thoroughly, I work a dollop of sanitizer into my hands before entering Zack’s room.
“Hey Gray,” the nurse, Maureen, says with a warm smile. She’s hovering over the bed, adjusting the quilt.
“If I’m interrupting, I can come back.” I don’t wait for a response before I turn to leave.
“Don’t go. You’re not interrupting anything. Zack’s ready for bed. Just waiting for his story.”
That’s a lie. He’s not waiting on anything. Not now. Not ever. It doesn’t matter how much my brothers and Gabby and the nurse act like he’s a normal functioning human being. He’s not. And it’s my fucking fault. I did this to him.
“Are you reading to him tonight?”
I nod, avoiding Zack’s curled limbs and blank stare.
“JD started this last night.” Maureen hands me a book.
The Adventures of Robin Hood. My stomach twists into a knot that nearly knocks me over. Zack loved fantasy stories when he was a kid.
“I’ll take my break while you’re here. But I’m right outside if you need me.”
I nod. I still haven’t looked at Zack. I can’t. It’s too painful. After it happened, when I eventually made the connection, I forced myself to look at him for hours. It was punishment, to remind me of what I did to him—and to the others. But I don’t need reminders. I live with the guilt day in and day out.
If only I hadn’t been so selfish. So self-centered. They might still be alive.
It was a warm June day. School had let out the day before. I wanted to hang out with my buddies, and that’s all I could think about. But my mother had other plans. She insisted that JD and I had to attend the cotillion practice later that afternoon. We’d been going to classes all year, and today was a dress rehearsal for the formal.
I couldn’t understand why we needed to go to a stupid rehearsal when I could be playing video games in the playroom. JD complained too, but I nagged relentlessly. She wouldn’t budge, and by the time we were ready to leave, I was a pissy little brat.
Olson, my father’s henchman, stopped me on the way to the car, where the others were already waiting. “Bring your mother this sandwich. She hasn’t eaten all day and your father’s worried about her.” I looked at the tuna sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Tuna salad was her favorite. She ate it for lunch several times a week.
“Don’t tell her it’s from your father. They had a little spat, and she might not eat it if she knows it’s from him. But he wants to make sure she puts something in her stomach.” What I didn’t know at the time was that the little spat was about my mother catching a young girl with my father in his office. “Tell her Lally sent it if she asks. Okay?”
“Yep,” I answered, taking the sandwich from him, and jogging out the back door like a little asshole, thrilled to pull one over on her. To punish her for making me waste the afternoon doing dumb things, when I could be hanging out with my cool friends.
“Lally made this for you,” I said, handing her the wrapped sandwich, while holding the glee inside. She didn’t even ask where it came from, but I lied to her anyway.
The last thing I said before slamming the car door was don’t forget to eat your tuna fish.
It was the very last thing I ever said to her.
The mayonnaise in the tuna sandwich was mixed with sodium soltrite, a compound mixed at Sayle Pharmaceuticals. Our family company. My mother’s family company. It incapacitated her, causing her to drive off the road into a ravine with my siblings in the car.
She died on impact. My siblings weren’t as lucky. Chase was in the car for six hours, unable to move, surrounded by death, and Zack screaming in pain. Each time I visit, I hear those screams for days.
“Hey,” Delilah says softly from the doorway.
“You can’t be in here without washing your hands.”
“I know,” she replies, walking into the room. “I’ve hung out here before with Gabby and Zack.”
She goes directly to the bed and pats Zack’s hand gently. “Hey Zackie, it’s Delilah. Remember me? Gabby’s friend. I’m Gray’s friend too. How are you?”
I draw a breath as she has a one-sided conversation with my brother—the one I can’t bear to look at. “He can’t hear you.”
“Sure he can. What’s Gray reading you? Something good, I hope. He likes soulless writers, like Hemingway. I hope he’s not making you listen to that crap.”
“Hemingway’s not soulless,” I mutter.
“The man didn’t believe in using adjectives. That’s what gives language color.”
“He believed they complicated sentences. He used verbs to tell his stories.”
“Spare me the literature class, frat boy. The night’s slipping away. I’m starving and we don’t get to eat until you read, so get a move on. Zack and I are waiting.”
She sits on the floor and peers at me until I begrudgingly open the book to the page with a stamped leather bookmark. I focus on the words, on the smell of Delilah’s perfume, and on her calming presence, which I feel from several feet away. But none of it dulls the memory of Zack running around the backyard chasing the dog, dragging Chase, the quieter and smaller twin, along for the fun. He was so full of life.
As if she senses my anguish, Delilah crawls over, and sits at my feet with her head resting against my leg. There is something so visceral, so pure in her actions. They’re a quiet reminder that I’m in control, born of strength—not of weakness. I slide my hand into her hair and let the silky strands comfort me as I read to my little brother.
There’s nothing I can do to bring my mother or my sister back, or to make it right for Zack. Or even for JD and Chase, whose lives would have been dramatically different if my mother had lived. I can’t change any of it for them, but there’s one mistake from the past that I can correct.
I didn’t intervene when Kyle bragged about his abusive behavior. I called him out, told him he was a fucking dirtbag, but I took no action. I didn’t contact Delilah and tell her to get the hell away from him. And I didn’t kill the sonofabitch on the spot, which is exactly what he deserved—and what he eventually got—although not at my hands.
It might be too late for the others. But it’s not too late for the woman at my feet.
When I’m through reading, we say good night to Zack. Actually, Delilah says good night, and I grunt when she urges me to say something.
With that behind us, supper is lighthearted and fun. We laugh more than usual with Gabby and Delilah here.
No one raises an eyebrow at our relationship. They’ve always believed we were destined to be together. Except JD. He’s as much as said that I’d rather be alone and miserable, hanging out in a sex club, where everything is fantasy.
Maybe he’s right.
29
Delilah
We had our last team meeting on American soil this morning. Gray, Trippi, Baz, me—and Foxy. For the life of me, I still can’t figure out why she’s sitting in on team meetings, and Gray hasn’t given me a satisfactory answer. It’s not that we discuss anything classified in front of her, but it’s unusual.
I always liked Foxy, although I never bought into the idea that she’s some sweet mamaw. She might have grandchildren, but she can’t be much more than fifty and she’s in great shape. The granny act is a carefully crafted persona so she can catch you off guard and go for the jugular if you mess with Gray. She didn’t get the name Foxy for nothing.
But in the team meetings, there’s something about her, the way she takes notes and winces quietly when she disapproves of things she knows nothing about, and that are, frankly, none of her business. It rubs me the wrong way.
“You almost ready?” Gray asks from the bedroom doorway. He looks young and carefree in a pair of jeans and a casual T-shirt, much like the day we left for the beach. It seems like an eternity has passed since then.
“I think so,” I say with some hesitation, peeking into the sack with the small compacts I brought along for gifts. “I’m just double-checking my carry-on to make sure I have everything I need on board.”
“This isn’t a commercial flight. All our luggage is carry-on.”
“Right,” I mutter, only half-listening. My focus is elsewhere. Checking and rechecking every tiny detail before a mission is my thing. It centers me, and gives me the opportunity to walk through the entire plan sequentially, scene by scene, reel by reel, one last time. If there’s a snag, I often catch it at this stage. It’s why I’ve been valuable to Smith’s team.
The twist here is that not everything has been planned. While we know a lot about the crown prince, and even the king, Princess Saher has been sheltered from the public eye for years.
I check the inside pocket of my bag, the one that holds my compact. The case with a false bottom that contains a note for Saher in the event there’s no safe place to talk. I can’t risk being seen writing the note there. The note I carefully packed is written on stationary ordered from France that can’t be traced back to us. The paper was treated to repel fingerprints and identifying fibers.
Until we get to the palace, we won’t know for sure how to approach Saher. I won’t know how to approach her. Certainly we’ve discussed the possibilities, but possibilities are all we have right now. Gray will keep the crown prince busy, but the final decision about how to approach the princess is mine alone. It’s too risky for Gray and me to discuss the particulars once we’re there. But maybe a go-between could work if we used some type of code, although that has risks too.
“Do you have a handler?” I ask, sliding my iPad into the zippered side compartment.
“Why do you ask?”
Gray is somewhat aloof, and doesn’t bother to glance up from his phone. It’s almost as if he’s blowing me off.
Although it’s not as if I asked some crazy question. Covert agents have handlers. I don’t care which agency you’re with. “If something doesn’t go as planned, it would be important to have a contact.” He whips up his head, and I now have Gray Wilder’s complete attention.
“I have a handler,” he replies cautiously. “But my handler is not your concern. You’re an asset, not an agent. You don’t have a handler.” He pauses for a beat. “You have me if there’s a problem.”
“What if—” I can barely form the words. “Something happens to you? Should I contact Foxy?”
“No,” he answers curtly, and much too quickly. “Do not call Foxy. Do you understand me?”
I nod, watching him stew from the corner of my eye. His reaction is more than a little strange, especially since she’s been sitting in on the damn meetings.
“I left the final details for the plane,” he says before I can ask any more about Foxy. “But since you brought it up, call Smith if I’m incapacitated. I don’t care whether Trippi or Baz are in perfect health. If I go down, you call Smith.”
Smith? What? “Smith’s been read in?” I’m surprised, but also annoyed that I’m just hearing about this now. I’m sure there will be some bullshit excuse they expect me to buy. I’d like to bang their hard heads together.
Gray bends over to pick up a stray thread from the wood floor. “Smith’s been read in on some parts of the op. But if something happens to me, tell him everything you know so he can help you.”
“Gray—”
He stalks over and grabs me by the shoulders as if to shake me. “Look at me.” His voice is stern, but not as stern as his gaze. “Do not fight me on this. I don’t plan on checking out, but if I go down, do not contact Foxy. But you figure out how to get a message to Smith right away, and tell him everything. Every. Fucking. Detail.”
Smith’s clearance goes a lot higher than mine, that’s for damn sure. But still. Purposefully divulging classified information is a crime—a treasonous crime. Not to mention a risk to national security. I’m no Girl Scout, but I took an oath not to betray my country, and even though representatives of my country have betrayed me, I’m not a traitor, and neither is Gra
y. “Surely you can’t mean everything?”
He scowls at me. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
His eyes flit over my face, as if searching for assurances. “Am I clear?”
Crystal. And you’re deranged too. But we’ll save that part of the discussion for the plane. “How long has Smith known about the mission?”
Gray pulls away, not just his body, but his eyes too. “He knew before you. He first learned about it during that meeting at the Pentagon sometime early in the summer. I filled in some of the details later.”
I lower myself to the bed. He knew before you. He first learned about it during that meeting at the Pentagon early in the summer. I filled in some of the details later.
The knife wedged into my back is akin to torture. I take a deep breath and lace my fingers together to control the pain. Otherwise, I’m going to fly around in a blind rage, destroying everything in this room that Gray Wilder holds dear. Then I’ll deal with Smith.
Gray places a hand on my shoulder.
I swat it away. “You and Smith conspired behind my back.” I don’t need a response. I know it’s true.
“I went to him first because I wanted to pave the way for your conversation with him. He agreed to let you go because he knew you needed the challenge, and an opportunity to live out your dream, even for a single mission. He wants you happy and fulfilled. He cares a lot about you, Delilah. And just like me, he’s on your side.”
The risk of cavorting with men who require absolute control is precisely this. Not just Gray, but Smith too. There’s never a real partnership with them, because their patriarchal bullshit doesn’t allow for partners.
“I’m so happy that you and Smith had a little soiree to decide what was best for me even before I had a chance to weigh in.” I glower at him, with his chin up and shoulders squared. He doesn’t want to upset me, and I’m sure he’s sorry about that part, but otherwise, the bastard is entirely unrepentant.
