Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Now his father was reaching out, and, what? Jason was just supposed to forgive him? A snap of the fingers, and father and son would back-slap-hug, then go out for that morning cup of coffee Jason needed so badly. The audacity of it was fuel to his core inferno. “Regretting the choices you’ve made now that you’re in your dotage, old man?” He sneered. “Please, allow me to cry you a river.”

  Spencer’s lips pursed. It was outside of the usual taut seam, and thus totally unreadable to Jason. “You should call your mother,” Spencer said.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Danny does.”

  “Danny’s weak,” Jason flung back. “You made sure of that.”

  “Georgette divorced me several years ago. She needs her sons in her life now. You may not be able to forgive me, but you should forgive her.”

  “Well, sorry. I don’t have the capacity to forgive.” He gave his father a flinty stare. “You made sure of that for me.”

  Spencer’s brows tilted into a patronizing angle. “If that’s truly the case, son, then should you be getting married?”

  Jason lurched back from the car, the blood draining from his lips, leaving them numb. His throat pumped several times around failed attempts to swallow. He clenched his fists until his fingertips ached. Fucking Danny, last time I tell you shit about my life! Now Jason had to face the ultimate round lost. Truth.

  It was over…he was a creature of his father’s making.

  I damn well would have shot Creepy Fuck anyway!

  His mind screamed, his heart burst, his soul crumbled.

  He had lost.

  He was lost.

  A nerve jerked in his cheek. “A nice parting shot, Dr. Vanderby. I commend you.” He issued his father an aggressive salute. “I have no defense against it.”

  His father didn’t say anything—there was nothing more to say. Not to a man of darkness and distance and closed doors.

  A stiff, dry wind tousled Jason’s dirty hair and stung his hot eyes. A Dodge drove by on the street fronting the police station, a snatch of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” drifting back.

  Spencer checked his watch. “I have to catch a flight back to Boston.” His perfect fingers turned the key in the ignition.

  The engine came to life, purring smoothly in the way of a luxury car.

  The window hummed up.

  Spencer backed up and drove out of the parking lot, passing an incoming Toyota Tacoma. Tacoma…it was the Uber car.

  Jason lifted an unsteady hand to hail the driver.

  The Tacoma pulled up beside him, but as he reached for the door, the handle zoomed out of his grip. The Uber car was racing off…

  Probably had something to do with Jason throwing back his head and howling just now.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Farrin pulled into her driveway, shut off her car, then sat and stared at the front door of her house, listening to her engine tick. Her street was quiet and deserted at this time of the morning, her neighbors still sleeping off the effects of Friday night’s festivities. Or just sleeping in—the residents here weren’t exactly partiers.

  The only one up and in her front yard was Mrs. Farder, wearing oversized gardening gloves and a silly-looking flowered hat, the brim flopping about as she worked. She didn’t stop trimming her rose bushes to wave.

  Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Fart-her, are you still feeling a bit shaken by the gunshots and police cars from last night? Well, try spending a day in my shoes, then see how shaken you are.

  It was more than a little rattling, not knowing if she’d been the one to kill Raham or not.

  Who had pulled the trigger last night?

  Did she or Jason?

  She wasn’t even sure what she’d been planning when she leapt for the gun. She’d just acted. Out of fear. Out of knowing that if Raham was turned over to the authorities, Jason’s life would be in danger. As soon as Raham weaseled out of police custody, he would find a way to kill Jason—her former husband’s fury was that murderous, she’d been able to tell, over the thought of Jason having had intercourse with her.

  So maybe… Dear heavens, maybe she had purposely ended Raham’s life. Never would she have imagined her showdown with her husband would end in his death. She hadn’t wanted such an outcome, but now that it had happened, it was difficult to summon regret. An uncharitable thought…although the experience also showed her that, even though she’d been as afraid last night as she ever had during the worst times in her life, she’d survived the fear—even persevered in the face of it. She didn’t need to hide from it anymore.

  It was a redefining thing to discover about herself.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her purse, and she quickly dug it out, checking the screen. Darn. No message from Jason—maybe he used his one phone call to contact someone else—and no message from Mr. Kadivar. Her stupid attorney had better be checking his service over the weekend. She needed his recommendation for a good criminal attorney posthaste. She wasn’t about to let Jason rot for a crime she had probably helped him commit, no matter how much Noble, Heroic Jason wanted to take the full blame for it.

  I mean it, Farrin. Stay there.

  Shoving her phone away, she hoisted herself out of her car, careful not to slam the door, then headed up the walkway. At her front door, she propped the screen against her shoulder, fitted the key in the lock…and caught sight of a remnant of yellow police tape fluttering off the jamb. The rest of the tape had probably been removed early this morning or late last night after the detectives and the CSI team finished their investigation of Raham’s shooting.

  Nothing on the inside would have been cleaned, though.

  Her stomach twisted.

  She’d gone to a hotel last night, after the police hauled Jason away and put her through exhaustive questioning, and that was where she’d be returning this morning. This visit was only a stopover to collect more clothes and toiletries. She wouldn’t come back to live here until a cleaning crew had thoroughly scrubbed down her living room.

  Bracing herself, she turned the key and pushed inside her house. The sickly scent of organic deterioration hit her, and her esophagus cramped. She darted straight up the stairs in front of the door. It was one thing to see blood inside a body during antiseptic surgery. Another thing altogether to see it inside one’s home—splattered on walls, ceiling, furniture, and carpet. She’d seen enough of that last night.

  She’d seen enough of it to last a lifetime.

  She aimed for her closet, then stopped when she heard the screen door clack downstairs.

  She stood still, listening to a person tread through her living room, dining room, kitchen… The defeated-sounding footsteps headed up her stairs, then Jason stepped into her bedroom doorway, looking bedraggled, hollow-eyed, and pale. He appeared worse than his most wretched day in Pakistan.

  She touched fingers to her lips, grief for him moving into her chest. “Dear heavens, are you okay?” How was he even here? He wasn’t supposed to be arraigned until Monday.

  “No.” His voice scratched like a needle over a scarred record album. He staggered forward a step, then stopped, looking unsure of her reception.

  Her stomach dropped. How could he doubt her feelings? Didn’t he know he was Noble, Heroic Jason?

  “I need… P-please, Farrin, don’t…God, please don’t leave me.” He walked haltingly forward to stand right in front of her, his eyes endlessly haunted. “I’ve seen the man I am…seen how much anger is still inside me…seen my future without you in my life. I’ll keep stewing in rage for years and years, until my next implosion, if I don’t have your love to save me. Please…” He went down on one knee, took hold of her hips, and pressed his forehead to her belly. “I’m a man down, on his knees, begging you to still marry me.” He was shaking. “God, please…”

  “Jason, stop.” Her heart wrenching, she drove her hands into his hair, the short brown strands sticking straight up between her fingers. “You’re not a horrible person. You’ve just had too
much pain to deal with in your life.”

  He peered up at her, his soul showing nakedly on his face. “You know the man I am. You saw me kill your ex in cold blood.”

  “Did you kill him? Can you be sure of that, Jason? My hand was on the gun, too. Maybe I’m the one who shot Raham.”

  He shook his head. “I would have killed him anyway.”

  “Well, good. Then you would have saved me.”

  Jason blinked a few times.

  “Raham was absolutely obsessed with possessing me. He would never have stopped hunting me—him or his men—until I was his…or dead. Before you arrived, he threatened to never let me go. And he wanted you dead, too.”

  Jason shook his head again. “He was just a broken old man…”

  “You have no idea the man he was! But I’ll tell you who.” She pulled Jason to his feet and urged him to sit down on the foot of her bed.

  She sat next to him, noticing for the first time a bruise like a portobello mushroom encircling his left ear. This man has dealt with so much violence in his life. Sadness lodged in her throat. “I know you’ve had to kill men, Jason, in Pakistan and maybe last night. But they were all bad men, I swear this to you with every inch of my soul. Not one of them was old and broken.” She glanced out her bedroom window at the cone-laden pine tree in her backyard, taking a moment to gather courage for what she needed to say next. It was force of habit, really. There was nothing left to hide from. “No one knows the story of how I escaped Iran, not even my adoptive parents. Only the CIA knows.”

  One of his eyebrows flickered.

  “Eighteen years ago, I found bank statements incriminating Raham in the funding of Osama bin Laden’s training camps. Bin Laden was planning an attack on the US, and I was able to trade that knowledge for asylum. Unfortunately, the information didn’t prevent the attack entirely, merely delayed it. Two years later, the tragedy of September eleventh happened.”

  She put a hand on Jason’s knee and squeezed. “It’s very important for you to understand what I’m saying here. My husband was intimately involved in bringing about the most devastating terrorist attack on American soil in history. He contributed to the murder of countless innocent people. That is the man you and I shot. A very bad man. I hate to sound spiteful or bloodthirsty, but I really can’t bring myself to regret his death.” Shaking her head, she sat back, feeling winded. “And I hope you can convince your conscience not to waste a single moment of guilt or regret on behalf of Raham Reza Behzadi, either. A man with no morals doesn’t deserve it.”

  Jason sat silently, his shoulders slightly hunched. He still appeared beyond exhausted, both emotionally and physically, but his eyes were clearer now, like he’d taken in at least some of what she’d said.

  “And as far as making yourself out to be some kind of raging monster because you think you might’ve shot Raham in any case, well…that’s just plain unfair and untrue. I saw the look on your face while you were holding a gun to Raham. You weren’t committed to the decision. You were struggling. Please give yourself credit for that. Now, come on.” She stood. “We need to get going, if we don’t want to be late.”

  Jason gave her a startled look, his eyebrows popping up. “Go where?”

  “To the courthouse. They close early on Saturdays, so we’ll have to hurry.” She smiled. “Because I want to marry you today.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sprawled on his back, loose-boned and relaxed, Jason woke to the sound of birds trilling, the feel of snuggly human warmth against his side, and Farrin’s earthy scent tempting his nose. He broke into a huge grin, and launched into some serious self-congratulations over last night’s performance. He’d rallied to the occasion with impressive vigor—impressive even by normal standards, but all the more so when weighed against the fact that he went into his wedding night utterly battered and exhausted.

  A long shower, fresh clothes, a little first aid administered by a new wife’s loving hands, some good, home-cooked food made by those same loving hands, profound joy at being married to the only woman who’d ever known the secrets of his soul…it was amazing how restorative such things could be to a man. Plus a new attitude. I hope you can convince your conscience not to waste a single moment of guilt or regret on behalf of Raham Reza Behzadi, otherwise known as the terrorist-funding-Creepy-Fuck.

  Yeah, conscience convinced.

  And as far as making yourself out to be a raging monster because you think you might’ve shot Raham anyway… Well, maybe Jason was still a rage machine on the inside, stewing toward more implosions, but wasn’t the main point that he didn’t want to be such a man? He wanted to be better, was prepared to struggle to get there, and something had to be said for his willingness to duke it out with his psyche.

  Please give yourself credit.

  Yeah, so he was doing that too.

  “Are you in the mood for pancakes and bacon?” Farrin murmured.

  Hmm, the wifey’s awake, too. He glanced over at her through saggy lids. She was lying on her side, the bedsheet draped low on her back, displaying the neat steps of her spine. He’d probably kissed every inch of them last night…though, to be sure he covered all important territory, he should have another go at them tonight. “Go out to breakfast or stay in?” he asked.

  “Stay in, for sure.” She yawned. “I think I spied a griddle in your kitchen somewhere.”

  Following their brief but extremely nice civil ceremony at the courthouse, he and Farrin had landed at his new two-bedroom single-family rental, where moving boxes were still stacked everywhere. His stuff arrived from San Diego last week, but he hadn’t unpacked yet, first busy with dating Farrin, then out of town on a cross-country, and then, you know, he’d been a tad occupied with shooting a man and going to jail.

  The definition of a fun-filled week.

  In spite of all that busyness, he did manage to unpack the basics for his kitchen, stock the fridge and pantry—ever since his starving days in Pakistan he kept plenty of food around—and set up his bed, of which he made use of four times last night. Yeah, that’s right, four times. Ha! I am da man.

  One of those times had been when Farrin decided to get experimental with her mouth. She hadn’t had any idea what she was doing, and it’d been the best blow job of his life. During it all, he grunted and groaned to let her know when she was doing great stuff, although, really, how could any part of lips/tongue/mouth on his dick be bad? Especially when they were Farrin’s. Especially when she’d been so damned eager to figure it all out.

  Between the sex, he slept like a felled log, snacked on any food Farrin put in front of him, snuggled with her, lolled in the bathtub with her, and once they danced together in their underwear to “Cake by the Ocean”…which, upon seeing Farrin’s nearly-bare bottom do the boogie, turned out to be inspiration for his fourth, impossible, boner.

  With warmth stealing into his chest at the memory, he propped himself up on an elbow and gazed down at the lovely shell of his wife’s ear. “You sure you’re not too worn out from last night to cook?” Said with pride.

  She rolled onto her back and smiled up at him. “It was pretty exhausting.”

  Oh, ho, such a sweet, sweet smile that was.

  She stretched, arching her back. “I had no idea a man could manage so much in one night.”

  He chuckled. A part of him was going to miss her inexperience when it was gone. The other part of him was going to really enjoy corrupting it out of her. “What can I say? I was very motivated by the task you set before me.” He pulled the sheet down her naked body and went straight for her belly, kissing the tender flesh, then calling out, “Hello!” to her womb.

  She giggled.

  “I’ve already put a critter growing in there. You know that, right?” He angled a pleased look at her.

  “These things take time,” she countered, but her gaze got all melty. “Don’t start anything while you’re down there, by the way.”

  “Excuse me?” Don’t, as in Do Not?

&
nbsp; “I have company coming over.”

  “What?” He narrowed his eyes. “This morning?”

  “For a surprise, yes. Besides, I’m sure you need sustenance. And coffee.”

  “Cooking and brewing take time, wife…”

  “There’s already coffee in the pot. I set the timer on the coffeemaker last night.” She sweetened her smile. “How well do I know my husband already?” The doorbell rang. “Ah.” She slipped past his hold and hopped out of bed.

  “Who the hell is this company?” He sounded grouchy. Well, he didn’t want to share her today.

  Farrin bent over to gather up a pair of cotton shorts from the floor, and so gifted him with a wonderful money shot of her ass and womanly curls.

  He made a grab for her, but she twirled out of his reach.

  He growled.

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  “Ignore it.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s my wedding gift to you.” She tossed him a pair of his own shorts. “Now get dressed, so you can see what it is.”

  Wedding gift? Oops, he hadn’t bought her anything. His fun-filled week keeping him busy and all, plus their wedding coming upon him so suddenly. But before he got the chance to apologize, she was out his bedroom door, and he was rushing after her, hopping and shoving his legs into his shorts, trying to keep up with her down the stairs.

  The bell rang for a third time just as she opened the door.

  Shane Madden was standing on the front porch, a large, open-topped cardboard box in his arms. He took in Jason’s bare chest and partially undone shorts, and leered. “Interrupting something, am I?”