by Tiffany Snow
I could live with that.
“And second, if you quit, they’ll have to find someone to replace you and, well, the devil you know, right?”
Gee, that made me feel all better. Such a charmer.
“Okay then. I accept.”
We drove for a few more miles in silence until he turned off the main road. I’d lost track of what direction we’d been traveling—north, south, east, west were just points on a compass to me—and gazed out the window. We were going deeper into the Carolina woods, which made me apprehensive considering the prevalence of pines. But then I remembered Clark’s shirt.
Trying to be as surreptitious as possible, I ducked my head, pulling at the fabric until it was at my nose, and inhaled deeply. The scent was comforting and my nerves settled.
In another ten minutes, we pulled onto a dirt road, prompting me to finally speak. “Where in the world are we going?”
Clark answered promptly. “My place.”
10
“Oh.” Clark was taking me to his “place.” That was . . . unexpected.
“Were you expecting a safe house or something?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it.” I’d been too busy smelling his shirt.
“It’ll do for now.”
As we rolled into a clearing and the car slowed, I realized it would more than “do.” Jackson also owned a cabin in the woods, but it was definitely a cozy log cabin. This—apparently what Clark called his “place”—was akin to a log mansion in the woods.
I’d seen plenty of nice homes before, but this one . . . this was incredible.
A sprawling A-frame log home, the entire front made of huge windows. A deep deck wrapped around the front and I imagined the back as well, at about the level of what must be the second floor.
“This is your house?” I asked as he pulled up and turned off the engine.
“When I’m here, yeah.”
He got out and I followed. There were some lights outside that shone on the house, but mainly it was lit inside, showcasing the wall of glass. When we stepped up onto the porch, I was stunned. The wooden door was ornately carved and set amid more glass, with an iron chandelier above us.
“Clark . . . I . . . it’s beautiful,” I stammered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He smiled, a real, nonsarcastic smile that reminded me of when I’d first met him and he’d seemed so open and natural. “Wait till you see inside.”
He opened the door and held it for me, which meant I had to step by him. Usually, no big deal. But at the moment, he was still bare from the waist up. Make that from the hips up.
His jeans hugged that sweet spot on his hips that, if a man worked out like Clark did, showed the definition of his obliques (I’d looked it up once—in the name of science—to find the name of that particular muscle). It was a spot my fingers itched to touch, just to see how hard it was. However, I didn’t think he’d appreciate that. And I really didn’t need to add sexual harassment to my list of failures tonight.
Averting my eyes and being careful not to let any part of me touch him, I scooted past him over the threshold. A beeping told me he had an alarm system and I waited for him to punch in the code. When he did, he flipped on the lights and I was amazed all over again.
A beautiful, curved staircase led to the second floor, which had an atrium so you could still see out the windows. A huge stone fireplace dominated the great room, with rich mahogany leather sofas placed around it. There was a matching chaise in the corner. To the far left, I could see a doorway, which led to the kitchen.
“This is amazing. Truly.” It looked as though I’d stepped into one of those architectural magazines. I stopped gaping and turned to Clark. “Thank you for showing me.”
Perhaps it was because I was a private person who had difficulty putting my emotions into words, but I knew that Clark bringing me here wasn’t just for convenience. A hotel would’ve worked for the night.
This place was too unique, too lovingly cared for, for me to believe it was just a house. I’d rank it along the same way I felt about my “office”—where I kept all my collectibles and anything that meant something to me. It was personal, and viewing it was akin to peeking inside someone’s diary. To me, the house had the same feel. It was his home.
Perhaps it was the way I’d spoken, or maybe he saw something in my eyes that said I’d seen too much, but he didn’t reply. He just nodded and asked, “You want a drink? I know I could use one.”
“Yes, please.” I needed a shot of something to calm me, not only from the flashback, but now also an unsettled nervousness from being in Clark’s house.
He flipped on a lamp and I saw a well-stocked minibar in the corner on a sideboard. Taking out two glasses from the cabinet, he asked, “What’s your poison?”
My experience in varieties of liquor was minimal. I’d only just recently begun appreciating alcohol, so I shrugged. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Sapphire and tonic.”
I had no idea what that was, so when he handed me a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid, I didn’t know what to expect. Jackson always drank bourbon or scotch. I took a tentative sip.
“Well?” he asked.
“I like it. Kind of bitter, but it also tastes . . . clean.”
“Clean?”
“Yeah, like bourbon has all these undercurrents of flavor but this tastes . . . clean.” It was the best way I could describe it. I drank some more and decided it was pretty darn good. When we finished, he refilled both our glasses and handed me mine.
“I feel better already,” he said. “You’re probably hungry. I’m starving,” and headed toward the kitchen.
I followed, more slowly since I was still trying to take everything in, and the kitchen was no less impressive than the rest of the house. Granite counters, top-of-the-line appliances, gas stove with hood . . . it was a gourmet chef’s dream.
“Make yourself at home,” Clark said. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared up a little staircase in the corner that I hadn’t seen. I marveled at how the stairs didn’t creak. I didn’t think I’d ever been in a house where the stairs hadn’t creaked.
My stomach growled. I’d been so nervous tonight, I’d skipped dinner, so my stomach felt as though it was eating me from the inside out. Opening the fridge, I glanced inside.
Considering the way Clark had hogged down that burger and fries right along with me last week, he stocked a lot of healthful foods.
Since when had “healthy” fallen out of favor and been replaced with “healthful” anyway? “Healthful” sounded like someone had just made up a new word when they couldn’t think of “healthy.”
My wayward thoughts on the English language aside, I pulled out a carton of eggs. I found some deli ham, Swiss cheese, and butter. While I was no chef—or even a chef-wannabe like my friend Bonnie—I could make an omelet.
A bit more snooping and I found a pan, spatula, and bowl. Before Clark reappeared, I had the pan preheating and was whisking the eggs in a bowl.
“I see you took my advice,” he said, sitting down on a bar stool on the opposite side of the counter. He’d put on a smoky gray pullover sweater with a half zip in front. It wasn’t zipped up very much and I could see skin underneath.
I paused in whisking. Had I misunderstood him? Had he just been being polite with an often-used societal welcome? “Was I . . . not supposed to make myself at home?”
Suddenly horrified that I’d yet again misinterpreted and unintentionally offended, I abruptly stepped back. “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He was up and around the island in a blink. “Relax, Mack,” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not upset. It’s fine.”
I looked up at him. In the back of my mind, I noticed that color of the shirt made his eyes seem more gray than blue. But I was still trying to puzzle out what I was supposed to do or not do. I was in his home, after all,
which was nice of him to bring me here. The last thing I wanted was to behave in a way he’d find insulting or offensive.
“People don’t always mean what they say,” I said at last, trying to figure out how to put into words something I always struggled with. “Sometimes, they even mean the opposite.”
Clark studied me. “I bet that’s hard for you.”
“It’s exhausting.” And took more brainpower than I was willing to sacrifice.
His lips twitched in an almost-smile at my vehemence. “Okay, then I’ll make you this promise,” he said. “And pay attention, because I rarely make promises.”
Intrigued, I waited to hear what he’d say.
“I promise that if I say something to you, I will always mean it. No guessing, no double-speak, no subterfuge, no lies. I’ll tell you the truth and mean what I say. Okay?”
That was one heck of a promise. “You’ll always tell me the truth?” That part seemed a little more farfetched than the rest of it.
“I didn’t say that I’d be able to tell you anything and everything,” he said. “But if I do tell you something, it’ll be true. Agreed?” He held out a hand.
I didn’t know if I should trust him to keep his word or not, but if he was being sincere, I’d be an idiot to pass this up. But still, rarely was something offered for nothing.
“What do I have to do in return?” I asked, wary.
He dropped his hand. “What do you mean?”
“Quid pro quo, right?”
Shrugging, he said, “Fine. Then you agree to do the same.”
I was a crappy liar so it wasn’t a difficult promise to make. “Deal.” Now it was my turn to hold out my hand and we shook on it.
“You get the plates, I’ll make the eggs,” he said.
It was his kitchen, so I didn’t object. Soon, the aroma of cooked ham and eggs filled the kitchen and my stomach growled again. I remembered where the plates and utensils were stored and set them out. Then wandered to find a bathroom to wash up.
Given the lateness of the hour and the stress of the day, I was feeling the wear of exhaustion. Setting my glasses aside, I splashed some water on my face to wake up a little. Tugging the elastic band from my hair, I ran my fingers through it, sighing as I rubbed my scalp. My hair was heavy and long, but a ponytail grew tiresome after so many hours.
I still wore Clark’s shirt and I hesitated before tugging it over my head. It had been exceedingly kind—and intuitive—for him to give it to me, which made me start wondering . . .
“Food’s ready,” Clark said when I returned to the kitchen. He set the two plates, now filled with a steaming omelet each, on the bar. Glancing at me, he paused for a moment, and I wasn’t sure what he was looking at. I pushed my glasses up my nose and hopped up on one of the bar stools, a bit of a production given my height.
“Need a booster seat?”
I shot Clark a look at his wisecrack and he snickered, taking the seat beside me. Digging into the eggs, I wolfed down the food in minutes.
“’s really good,” I mumbled, my mouth full. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I finished my second “sapphire and tonic” and sighed. I was feeling much more relaxed now, and sleepy. But still, I was the guest, so I slid off the stool and rinsed our plates, taking the lead in cleaning up. He had done the cooking, after all. As I was loading the dishwasher, I asked, “How did you know I was having a flashback? Or how to help me?”
“Lots of people have them. And it wasn’t like I needed you to do an interpretive dance to figure out what was going on.”
I turned, confused. “I don’t know how I could’ve—” Then I saw his face. “Ah. Sarcasm.”
He touched his finger to his nose. “Now you’re catching on.”
I smiled, because in retrospect his joke had been amusing, and wished I had that innate ability to immediately know if someone was joking or being literal.
“Have you ever had a flashback?” I asked.
For a moment, I didn’t think he’d answer. “We’re going to need another drink for that conversation.”
That sounded good to me, so I picked up my empty glass and followed him back out into the great room. He made us more of the “clean” drink, then flipped a switch on the side of the fireplace, causing flames to suddenly appear.
“Oooh, fancy,” I teased, settling onto the leather sofa. I frowned. Had I just teased Clark? The sapphire elixir was magic. I suddenly felt like Raj on The Big Bang Theory—alcohol made me normal.
“I don’t like getting ash on my clothes,” he said, settling on the couch as well. “Are you cold?”
“A little.”
Reaching to the side, he produced a fluffy blanket and handed it to me. Pulling my knees to my chest, I cuddled into the softness, tucking the fabric around me. The leather was cold, but the blanket helped.
“Well?” I prodded him once I was settled.
“It’s not a nice story,” he warned.
“If you’ve had flashbacks about it, I didn’t really think it would be.”
He still hesitated, taking another drink, and I suddenly felt bad for making him tell me. “It’s okay,” I said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.” But he shook his head.
“It’s nice to know you’re not alone when these things happen, so I’ll tell you.” He took a deep breath. “It was years ago and I’d just started in human intel. I was new to the job and to Iraq, and not as cautious as I am now. I recruited someone, my very first. A woman. Her name was Sayeeda.”
Clark was staring into the fire as he spoke, his voice low enough that I had to listen closely to hear. He still held his drink in his hand, but seemed to have forgotten it.
“Her grandfather was the head of the Iraqi police. And he was nuts. Her father was even worse. She was terrified of them, but she was twenty and naively thought she could help her country. The Iraqi police were prone to bribes, and they were just as likely to help you as shoot you in the back. Her father liked to play both sides of the fence—supposedly working with us while also keeping alive his ties to the insurgents—so when he’d meet with the Iranians, she’d take photos and names and bring them to us.
“She was . . . incredibly brave. But back then, everyone was suspicious of everyone else. I guess they still are. One night we met and used the intel she gave us to blow up two depots where the insurgents were storing stolen arms. They went crazy on her father, believing that he’d been the one to betray them.”
He paused and I saw the Adam’s apple move in his throat as he swallowed heavily. I didn’t speak, just waited.
“He figured it out, knew it had to be his daughter.”
A feeling of dread filled my chest, and when he didn’t continue, I almost didn’t want to ask. “What happened?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“He gave her to them to save face. I won’t tell you what they did to her. They dropped off her body in front of the base, left her just enough alive so we’d see her die. So I would see her die.” The bitterness and self-loathing in his voice was hard to miss.
There was a rancid taste in my mouth and I took a long drink to get rid of it. I could well imagine what they’d done to her. It horrified me and I hadn’t even seen it, unlike Clark.
Reaching out, I rested a hand on his arm. “I’m really sorry.”
My touch seemed to startle him from his reverie and he turned to look at me. The firelight was reflected in his eyes, mesmerizing me. I could feel his muscles beneath my fingers and my mind drew in the picture of what Clark looked like underneath his shirt.
The moment seemed to stretch, turning from poignant into . . . something else. Something heavy and holding its breath.
Clark abruptly stood and took my glass from me. “I think that’s enough sharing for one night.” He headed for the kitchen without another word.
Suddenly, I was embarrassed. Had he thought I was coming on to him? That would be mortifying. But how do you ask that? So
, if you thought I was making a pass at you, I just want you to know that I totally wasn’t. No, that wouldn’t be awkward at all.
Exhaustion swept over me, physical and mental. I wanted to sleep so badly, I could just curl up here on the couch. Come to think of it, that was probably the plan. It wasn’t as though I was going to kick Clark out of his bed.
Scooting down the couch, I readjusted the blanket and closed my eyes. Counting backward was the scientifically proven best way to go to sleep so I started at one hundred.
99 . . . 98 . . . 97 . . . 96 . . . 95 . . . 94 . . . 9 . . . 3 . . .
I woke and didn’t know where I was. It was that strange sense of displacement where it took a good five seconds or more before memory returned.
No longer was I on the sofa, but alone in a bed. Trying to remember how I’d gotten there, I had faint recollection of being carried. Clark must have carried me from the sofa to a bed. How . . . thoughtful of him.
It wasn’t yet light outside and I wasn’t sure what had woken me. I lay there for a minute or two, then I heard something.
Flashes of the Iron Man attack went through my head, but I wasn’t at home and it would be a very slim coincidence if Clark also owned a life-size replica.
The noise was a moaning sound . . . Clark?
Jumping out of bed, I immediately stubbed my toe. I started muttering fiercely under my breath as I rubbed the bruised digits. “Fucking shit. Shit fuck.” My repertoire of curses wasn’t very creative.
The room was really dark with barely any ambient light, but I managed to feel my way to the door. It opened without a sound and I stood in the hallway, listening.
The moans came again from my right. I followed the sounds to a room two doors down, but hesitated before opening the door. What if Clark wasn’t having a nightmare? What if he was having a good dream? Like one of those dreams? Interrupting that kind of dream wouldn’t be awkward at all.
Cautiously, I eased open the door. There was a bit more light in here and I could see Clark lying in the middle of a king-size bed.
He was thrashing in the covers that were twisted around his legs and torso. Sweat glistened on his skin and his chest was heaving. The expression on his face was one twisted with pain and anguish.
