Clearly, whomever was listening in at Jillian’s had checked him out, understood his connections and decided to play hardball. Helping her might cost them the contract. The blame would sit with him. Another spectacular screw-up for the golden boy who’d had a rash of spectacular screw-ups.
“Who’s the democrat?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Mike sat forward. “I care about my three-hundred-million-dollar contract. Edwards tells me this greaseball politician doesn’t want people fishing on Stennar Pharm. Whatever the fuck they have to do with anything.”
First priority: figure out who the greaseball politician was. “Mike, it’s me nosing around. One phone call to Watkins on Oversight to see if there was anything on the books about Stennar Pharm. That’s it. One call. And I asked him to do it quietly.”
“I figured. Doesn’t matter. That one call rattled nerves. What’s the deal?”
“Jillian—the one I called you about who needed the alarm?—works there and got caught in something. No idea what. All we know is her house is bugged, there are screwed shipments and she’s being isolated at work. And her supervisor tossed himself off a building a couple of weeks back.”
Mike ran his thumb and forefinger along his eyebrows. “Why can’t the people working for me stay out of this crap?”
Lynx wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Come again?”
“Nothing.” He dropped his hand and flexed his fingers in and out, in and out, in and out. “You think the pharma company is into something illegal?”
“I don’t know. My thought is they’re dealing in the black market and keeping the cash. I could be wrong. The drug that comes up most often is a blood thinner. If it was a narcotic, I could see it. A blood thinner? That, I don’t get.”
Lynx waited. One thing he’d learned in his lifetime was when to speak and when to listen.
“How deep are you in this?”
“Not that deep.” Bullshit. “I’m helping her get info. Whatever it is, they’ve got her targeted and I’m not gonna let her get hurt.”
Mike’s dark stare met his. Sure, he was his boss and they were talking about a three-hundred-million-dollar contract, but Mike was an alpha among world-class alphas. He never ran from problems. Or turned on people in trouble. “Do what you can, but no more fucking calls to D.C. We lose this contract, it’s on you. Unless you can come up with three hundred million, that’ll piss me off.”
Lynx nodded. “No more calls to D.C. I’ll find another way. Is that it?”
Mike snorted. “Should there be more?”
“No.” He should tell him about Janet. He smacked the pad against the desk a couple times and Mike drilled him with the death look again.
“Oh, fuck me. What is it?”
More smacking of the notepad. “I asked Janet and Gavin for help on the info gathering.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“It was after hours and it was done quietly.”
Mike poked his finger. “That’s what you said about Watkins.”
“I know, but this is Janet and Gavin. They wouldn’t compromise us. I wanted to be up-front about it. Only reason I said anything.”
A muscle in Mike’s jaw flicked. The guy was about to lose his cool. In a big way.
“Understood,” he said. “It’s not the first time we’ve used either one of them and I’m having a pisser of a time figuring out why I should kick your ass for it. Now that you’ve blown my day to hell, any other confessions?”
Lynx moved his head side to side. “No.”
“Hallelujah. You better pray we don’t lose that contract.”
* * *
Jillian stormed through her front door, slammed her keys on the side table and flipped on the hall light. After the break-in, never again would she feel safe walking into a darkened home.
The alarm’s annoying, incessant warning beep counted down sixty seconds until launch. Stupid beeping. All she’d wanted was a good job that provided financial security. Now she suddenly had prowlers stealing her stuff, a banged-up face and management accusing her of being a drug user. All day she’d been dealing with this ravaging aggravation and yet, she pasted a smile on her face and pretended all was right in her world.
The idea of quitting floated in her mind. It would be the easy way out. But they’d win. Allowing that to happen would be an injustice she couldn’t live with. She was worth more than that.
She spun to the keypad on the wall and punched in her code. Blissful silence filled the house.
Thank you.
She dumped her laptop and now much lighter camera bag on the couch and kicked off her shoes. Everything ached. Feet, arms, legs, head. She felt like someone had taken a wrecking ball to her body.
To her life.
All I wanted was a good job.
Someone knocked on the front door and she snapped her head toward it. Had she locked it when she came in?
No.
She dove for the lock and flipped it.
“It’s me.” Jack’s voice.
She slumped against the door, rested her head back and found herself torn between laughing and crying. This is what her life had become. Constant paranoia and angst. The very things from her childhood she’d worked so hard to leave behind.
“Jillian?”
She straightened. No need for drama. Take control. Gently, she ran her fingers under her eyes, gave her hair a finger comb and hoped she didn’t look like a bombing site.
Too late for that. She swung the door open and slapped on her much-utilized I’m-a-happy-person smile. “Hi.”
And yes, the sight of him in his dress shirt, no tie and slim pants, his blond hair a little rumpled, instantly gave her a lift. He looked lean and fit and handsome, and if he’d give her that Boy Scout smile, she’d be cooked.
“Come on,” she said. “Let me have it.”
He stared down at his feet a second, shook his head slightly, then brought his gaze back to her, the hint of a smile squeaking from his lips.
“You need some grease on that smile, mister. It’s not a lot for a girl to ask.”
Finally, he let one loose and it reached right inside her and bloomed. “Thank you.” She waved him through the door. “Now get in here.”
“You’re awfully bossy tonight.”
“I’m in a foul mood.”
“Hadn’t noticed.”
She pointed toward the back door and marched in that direction. Jack followed her, sticking close to her heels. He knew where she was heading and why. Her home, the place that had been her sanctuary, her landing pad, her safe zone, had someone listening to every noise, every movement, every toilet flush happening on the first floor. Not only had her privacy been invaded, her sense of safety had been obliterated. Thinking about it ignited her barely controlled fury.
Pushing open the sliding glass door, she stepped onto her cement patio and moved into the center of the yard before spinning back to Jack, who’d shut the door behind him.
“They’re launching an investigation into my erratic behavior. As if I’m the crazy one. They’re destroying my life and I don’t even know why.”
“How do you know this?”
“Deb—my HR friend—told me.” She paced the yard, propped one hand on her hip and waved the other one. “They’re sending me for testing to make sure I don’t have a substance abuse problem. Can you imagine? Me? A substance abuse problem. With the way I feel about that? Unbelievable! These people are insane.”
Her whole damned life she’d been battling the shame and embarrassment of being the daughter of an alcoholic. All those years she’d come home from school or work to find her father curled up with his favorite scotch. He’d spent her childhood in three modes: drunk and pissy Dad, drunk and affectionate Dad, or unconscious Dad. The simplicity o
f her complicated youth never ceased to boggle the mind. Basically, the only time she wasn’t on edge was when he was asleep. Otherwise, she never knew what mood he’d be in when she got home.
Now someone dared to accuse her, the woman who vowed—vowed—she’d never take a second drink. How incredibly ironic.
“Bastards!”
“Hey,” Jack said. “Take it easy.”
Take it easy?
Did this man not understand there was nothing easy about this? “I have spent my whole damned life battling this—and to have someone accuse me of it? That, I will not accept.”
He held his hands wide. “Jillian, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She stalked the yard again, all that negative, spewing energy propelling her. “Years, I’ve worked to take care of myself and not be like my mother, stuck in her miserable life, married to an alcoholic who refused to get help. And this is what my hard work cost me? An employer determined to destroy my reputation. They could kill my career.” She stopped pacing and jerked her hands toward him. “I’ve been running from addiction my whole life. This is why I refuse to be around alcoholics. I don’t want the blowback. And now I have to put up with this crap.”
* * *
Lynx planted his feet, crossed his arms and absorbed the information. His temples throbbed, but he focused on Jillian’s words and devising a reaction. After all he’d told her about his addiction, she’d never thought it necessary to share her family history?
“Your father is an alcoholic?” No response. Only a blank stare. “Jillian!”
Her eyes locked on his—those big doe eyes he’d loved from the second he’d seen them—and her lips dipped into a frown. Stalling. Obviously formulating some response he would accept. Because, after all, he’d been the asshole who’d been played this whole time.
Finally, she bobbed her head. “He’s a drunk.”
At least she’d been honest. Somehow, in the conversations they’d had about his recovery, about trying to stay clean, she’d failed to mention her father was an alcoholic.
That meant only one thing. “Am I blowback?”
“What?”
“You said you don’t want the blowback. That you’ve been running from addiction. If you don’t want to be around addicts, what am I? Am I useful in helping you with your problems? Am I a usable resource? That’s gotta be it, right?”
Her head dipped forward and her mouth slid open. She was horrified? Fucking priceless.
She stepped closer. “You think I used you?”
He didn’t want to believe that, but the snickering in his head, the one that reminded him he’d eviscerated his life, couldn’t be ignored. “Since you won’t be around addicts, why not? I’ve been honest with you. From the beginning, I put my issues out there. I’d say, on some level, we’ve been intimate. Yet, you never thought to mention that your family suffers from addiction issues.”
Once again, her eyes locked on his. The corners creased in a way that let him know he wasn’t the only one mad. “Forgive me if I’m not comfortable broadcasting it. My father refuses to get help. He’s not like you. He won’t take responsibility. It’s humiliating.”
Screw that. She’d had plenty—plenty—of opportunities to tell him. “My issues aren’t embarrassing? You don’t think it takes a piece out of me every time I have to admit it?”
“I know that. That doesn’t give you the right to accuse me of using you.”
“What the hell am I supposed to think? You came to me with a problem and I helped you. At the very least, you’re screwing with a guy who hasn’t been laid in over a year. How’s that? That about sum things up?”
She jerked her head. “You think I manipulated you?”
“That’s what it’s looking like.”
“Come on, Jack. What am I? Some femme fatale who sways men with my sexual prowess? I barely have friends. I’m inept when it comes to caring about people.”
He scoffed and she jumped all over him, got right into his face and—wow—the woman could blow her top in an outstanding way.
“Maybe I screwed up by not telling you about my family, but you don’t get to accuse me of prostituting myself. The way I see it, you’ve immersed yourself into this process. All I asked from you was help getting a security system. That’s it. You couldn’t resist strapping on your cape. Not that I don’t appreciate it—” she poked him in the chest, “—but you don’t get to call me a whore.”
“I didn’t call you a whore.”
She slapped her hands up. “I’m done. I’ve had a truly sucky day and I don’t need you accusing me of despicable things. Thanks but no thanks. You can leave now.”
When he didn’t move, she marched past him toward the door.
“Jillian.”
“Let yourself out. Thanks for all you’ve done.”
Lynx stood in the yard, half shell-shocked, half pissed that she’d walked out on him. Damned women. To think he’d gone almost a year without this kind of turmoil.
Sure he missed the familiarity and comfort of climbing into a warm bed with a woman he cared about, but this? Forget it. Who needed the bullshit? This is what all the recovery books warned about. The emotional upheaval, the quakes that rocked a solid base and sent a building crashing to the ground.
This was why he should have waited the goddamned year to get emotionally involved. Too late now. The calendar in his head bitch-slapped him. Again.
A car door slammed from the front of the house and then an engine started. Not only did she walk away, she was leaving her own damned house.
“Great,” he yelled, sounding like an idiot. “I’ll lock up for you.”
Get to a meeting.
That’s what he needed. Routine. If he focused on the end goal, he’d make it. He’d been telling himself that for almost a year. For the most part, he believed it.
Except, right now, between this and possibly blowing Taylor Security’s three-hundred-million-dollar contract, he was so aggravated he could see how popping painkillers might even him out. Take the edge off.
Get to a meeting.
He ripped his phone from the front pocket of the pants Mike’s tailor had forced on him. Everything was fucking changing. Even his clothes. The closest meeting was on the West Side in sixty-three minutes. He had an hour of dealing with whatever this emotional shit storm breaking him down was. Had he stuck to the one-year plan of staying away from women, he wouldn’t be trying to justify Jillian’s lie by omission.
Did it matter?
Obviously, she’d been using him for his contacts. For what he could do for her. Too bad he’d deluded himself into thinking it was more. He should have listened to his instincts. The ones that had warned him three months ago that she’d rip his heart out.
Screw that. He marched into the house, locked and bolted the back sliding door then went out the front, making sure to lock that door as well. Good thing the damned lock wasn’t a double key lock. Then he’d really be screwed and have to wait for her to come back because he damned sure wasn’t leaving the house unlocked.
How did he always get sucked into these messes and then wind up feeling like shit? Because he was an asshole who had to take on everyone’s frigging life, that’s how.
He stopped in her driveway, breathed in and out a few times and let the cold air douse him. All he needed was to refocus. Get himself back on track.
He drove out of Jillian’s neighborhood and headed downtown.
At a red light, he rested his head back and closed his eyes because—son of a bitch—what kind of sign was it that had him stopped at a red light in front of an urgent care where he could hobble in on a bullshit knee injury and score some meds?
He closed his eyes and swallowed. All this emotional torture could be gone. After a year of being clean, it woul
dn’t take much to get him numb again. Just a few pills would let him forget. Then he’d start over. He’d done it once already, he could do it again.
Now, though, he needed something to deaden him.
The red light switched to a green arrow and Lynx snorted. A fucking green arrow. Pointing into the parking lot. Message received.
He pulled into the first spot he saw, the one farthest from the building. Maybe he’d talk himself out of it while schlepping to the door.
That didn’t happen. Nope. He marched through those sliding front doors, limping a bit for effect. The antiseptic, closed-in scent brought back memories of rehab. It had been over a year since he’d first experienced that caged sensation, but clearly the feeling would never go away.
The young woman at the reception desk glanced up. “Uh-oh,” she said, smiling up at him. “Someone has an injury.”
You’re not kidding, honey.
“Yeah,” he said. “I had knee surgery and I just fell. I think I screwed up the doc’s good work.”
After ascertaining that he’d never been there before, she handed him a clipboard with paperwork and a pen. “Fill these out and get them back to me.”
He turned to the waiting room where a handful of people sat. Terrific. Time to kill.
He took an open seat and started in on the paperwork. The voice in his head hissed at him, but he shut it down, focused on his personal information because he couldn’t think about a year of sobriety now. He needed relief and it was at the end of this paperwork.
Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. Was it that hot in there? He glanced around. The woman across from him still had her coat on. Must be him.
Shit.
He went back to the clipboard and checked no in all the boxes asking about everything from heart disease to cancer to diabetes.
Perfectly healthy. That was him.
Except his stomach rolled with nausea and sweat poured down his back and—goddammit—this was not the way this should be.
His phone rang and he dug it from his pocket to silence it. Vic’s name on the screen. Can I not get a break tonight? He pushed the ignore button and shoved the phone back into his jacket.
Opposing Forces Page 14
