by Victoria Sue
Sam didn’t say anything, so Vance continued, “Then there was Alec, who used to come to us for two, three weeks at a time when his dad was on a bender. Then his dad would sober up and he’d go home. He used to look at it like a vacation.” Vance smiled. Alec still visited and would always send flowers on his mom’s birthday. “My mom belongs to a foster-mothers’ group. She started it after they took Sally away, in case it ever happened again and she needed advice. There’s over three hundred families that are members now, and my mom is talking up enhanced kids with them.”
“I know your mom’s good,” Sam said. “I just meant the whole system is crap.”
“Well, parts of it are broken, certainly—”
“No, Vance. You’re looking at the whole thing through Connie-colored glasses. I would never ever want a kid to go into foster care.”
Vance sighed. Everyone’s pain, everyone’s experiences were different. He knew that. “Well, I think twenty-seven children I know would disagree.”
Sam braked suddenly. “Are you telling me your mom and dad fostered twenty-seven kids?”
“Yeah.” Vance smiled. “And it was complete shit and completely wonderful at the same time.” He laughed. “Cured me of my protective complex, anyhow.”
A car honked behind them, and Sam pressed on the gas. “No.” He sighed after a minute. “I don’t think it did.”
Vance settled back when Sam pulled up to the grocery store. He glanced at Vance. “You don’t want to come in?” Vance looked at him in surprise. “I just thought if you were going to be staying a few days, there might be something special you want to pick out.” He grinned. “It’s your turn to cook tomorrow.”
“You don’t mind?” Vance eagerly opened the door.
“Why on earth should I mind you cooking?” Sam answered. “Unless you can burn water, as the saying goes.”
“No.” Vance hurried to hold the door open as a woman with two toddlers and three shopping bags came out. She looked up to thank him, then squeaked in surprise and tugged her kids closer… like he was going to attack her or something. He wanted to yell that it was okay, he didn’t eat children without cheese on them, but he just politely took a step backward. “I meant me coming in with you,” Vance explained. He’d gotten used to sitting in cars and waiting over the years. He looked over at Sam, who was now holding the door open for him. That answered his question.
Vance inhaled as he walked in. This store was fabulous. They ground their own coffee and even had a little coffee shop in the corner. He’d seen it online plenty of times.
Sam walked straight to the fruit and vegetables. “What do you like?” Vance ignored him because there was an older woman in a motorized wheelchair trying to reach a whole pineapple from the display.
“Can I get that for you, ma’am?” Vance reached up and picked it out for her, ignoring the way she had jumped a little when he spoke.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said.
Vance sniffed at the bottom of the fruit he had picked and then instead of handing it over, got another one and did the same to that. Then he handed the second one to her.
She was beaming at him. “That one better, son?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What are you doing?” Sam burst out.
The lady chuckled. “Sniffing a pineapple’s butt is the only way to tell if it’s ripe. If it smells sweet, then it’s ripe.”
“And if it smells of nothing, it was likely harvested too early,” Vance added. “Let me know if I can help you with anything else, ma’am.” He turned to Sam.
“You were a Boy Scout, weren’t you?” Sam narrowed his eyes.
“Nope.” Vance grinned. “I didn’t have time for anything other than sports. Football and baseball especially, but I loved bowling as well. My granddad got me into that. Of all the kids, I was the only one interested.”
“And you didn’t keep playing ball?” Sam winced as soon as he’d said it. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“No”—Vance touched his arm without thinking—“it’s okay. I take it as a huge compliment you don’t see the mark first, but no. I had to give up any dreams of college ball.”
They carried on for a few minutes in companionable silence. It was ridiculous, but Vance was enjoying himself. He used to love shopping on a Saturday with his mom when Dad worked. Knowing his dad trusted him to help his mom made him feel like he was important. Responsibility had always been a big deal in his house. Being thought of as responsible was like an honor, but taking responsibility for yourself—especially if you messed up—was just as important. If you did something wrong, you owned up right away and took your punishment. Not that Mom or Dad had ever laid a finger on any of the kids. It had never been necessary. None of them wanted to be the one who disappointed his dad or hurt his mom.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Vance came to a stop as a small worried-looking man in a suit and a badge, announcing he was “Hugo Robertson, Customer Service Manager,” interrupted them.
Vance looked him up and down. A bead of sweat broke out on the man’s wrinkled temple, and Vance nodded. He knew.
“Is there a problem?” Sam asked and glanced around as if half expecting there to be a robbery in progress or something.
“I’ll wait for you in the car,” Vance said and turned but stopped when Sam grabbed his arm.
“What’s the problem?”
Vance opened his mouth to answer, but Sam wasn’t looking at him; he was looking at the manager.
“I’m afraid we are going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Why?” Sam asked mildly, but his grip on Vance was tight.
“Oh, not you, sir,” the manager added quickly, thinking that was better.
“He means me,” Vance mumbled, trying to get Sam to let him go. “It’s okay.”
“No, it really isn’t.” Sam was horrified. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
The manager leaned a little closer to Sam, as if he was going to share some confidential information, but Sam took a determined step away from him, which brought Sam flush with Vance. Not that Vance minded in the least.
“Are you the manager?”
They both turned, and it was the lady in the wheelchair.
“Yes, ma’am,” the manager said. “I will be with you in one moment.”
The lady smiled sweetly and then dug in her purse, got out a card, and handed it to the manager. He read it and flushed immediately, breaking out into a flustered smile. “Mrs. Vine, I am so honored to meet you. How can I be of assistance?”
Vance looked at her with interest. That couldn’t be a coincidence. The store was called Vine Street Produce and was owned and operated by the Vine family. It was a huge operation in the Southeast that had started—he thought—from a single market stall in Atlanta, like, sixty years ago or something. His mom loved their goods because they were always careful to locally source. In fact he was pretty sure she had some contacts with their personnel department and often arranged internships for ex-foster teens.
“You can explain to me why you were asking this gentleman to leave my store.”
Yep, definitely not a coincidence.
“We have had some complaints from customers,” Hugo said, like he had a nasty taste in his mouth.
“I’m not surprised,” she countered. “The customer service in here is abysmal.”
Hugo blanched. “But—”
“As you know, even though I retired some years ago, I make it a habit to do spot-checks on all our stores. My driver is waiting for me outside while I visit this one. I have been unable to get around easily for three years, and I am interested in seeing what challenges our stores are for someone in my position.”
Hugo blustered, “We have had all the appropriate parking lot spaces reserved and have accessible restrooms.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but that is easy, is it not?”
He very wisely kept his mouth closed.
“I have been in the store for th
irty minutes, and I deliberately chose to select from displays that were impossible for me to reach without help. Apart from a delightful girl called Shannon on the deli counter and one other customer, the only person to notice I needed help was this young man.” She gestured to Vance. “I counted at least four members of the staff who didn’t even seem to see I was struggling, and that is giving them the benefit of the doubt. I would hate to think they were ignoring me deliberately.”
Hugo opened his mouth, but her raised hand silenced him. She turned to Vance. “Young man, my name is Elspeth Vine, and my father started this business over fifty years ago. You are exactly the sort of customer we need in this store, and should you ever be looking for work, please know this company would be glad to have you.”
Vance smiled widely and pushed out his shoulders. “Thank you, ma’am, but I actually work in law enforcement.” He glanced at Hugo. The man turned another shade whiter.
Elspeth smiled and put out her hand. “And your name?” She leaned in. “Unless you’re undercover, of course.” Even Sam laughed at that.
“Vance Connelly.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Any relation to Connie?”
Vance grinned. He noticed she’d left his mom’s last name off. His mom always declared she nearly called the wedding off when she first realized she would be called Connie Connelly. The jokes were legend in their family. “My mom.”
Elspeth beamed. “Of course she is.”
She eyed Hugo, who still looked like he was going to be sick. “And now, Mr. Robertson, we are going to have a conversation about how you are going to save your job.”
Vance and Sam both shook hands with her. She pressed Vance’s for a long few seconds. “I lost my son when he was a baby, and I was never blessed with another, but if I ever had been, I would have hoped he would turn out just like you.”
Vance swallowed around the huge lump in his throat and watched her go.
Chapter Five
SAM DECIDED it was a bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one could be that… nice. There had to be something wrong with Vance. Sam had been ecstatic when they’d been paired up because Vance seemed so easygoing. He definitely didn’t want someone like Talon, or Jake—even if he didn’t have a mark—because he doubted anyone made either of those two guys do anything they didn’t want. No, as Vance’s partner, Sam could steer things in exactly the way he needed to go. It got him into the FBI, which was like all his lucky numbers coming up in one go. In fact, if he’d won the lotto, he couldn’t have been happier.
And it had gotten him out of the DEA and from under Ramirez’s thumb nearly instantly. He wasn’t even sure if Gregory knew he’d applied a couple of years ago for Quantico and been turned down, but it didn’t matter, because he was in now, and of the bunch, he definitely had the best partner. He was thinking two, three years max. Then he’d take his experience and see what else he could do, what he could get, because he was never ever going back to what he had come from.
No more take this, carry that. No bag exchanges in dirty little alleys. No driving someone else’s car when he was too young to get a license. No pretending he enjoyed big rough hands that made his skin crawl, and no pretending he loved someone just to try and get fed.
Especially her.
Vance thought his life had ended when he turned thirteen, but at thirteen Sam had still been waiting for his to start. Sam shot a glance at Vance when they pulled into his parking space. He seemed to be squirming. “Itching?”
Vance huffed out. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll start supper?” Very domestic.
“You sure?” Vance had his arm over his back, trying to scratch it.
“Yes,” Sam said. If nothing else, the guy was entertaining.
Sam came to a complete standstill as he got out of the car. Entertaining? Sam blew out a breath as shame heated his skin, glad Vance had gone to the entrance. Vance had saved his life. He wouldn’t be standing here thinking about the next rung on the ladder, because he would be six feet under it. Sam ignored the attention they got from the group of teenagers all clustered around the door until he saw the wad of cash quickly stuffed into the oldest one’s pocket, and Vance paused. “Keep going,” Sam muttered and nearly pushed Vance through the door.
“But—”
Sam shook his head and quickly jogged up the two flights of steps to his apartment with Vance hot on his heels.
“But they were dealing,” Vance burst out as the door closed.
“Yes. Terri and Jacko are runners for the local dealer. Very small-time, but they’re not happy. I put them in touch with Sergeant Akeeda from the Tampa DEA. They’re her problem now.”
“But—”
“They shouldn’t be on the streets? Should be tucked up with their hot chocolate and a bedtime story? Don’t be naive, Vance. Real life doesn’t work that way.”
“I know that. I—”
But Sam continued, “Terri looks after his mom. His dad walked out after she got cancer. She’s in a wheelchair, and Terri is her main caregiver. He doesn’t have the time or the money to go to school. Jacko has been in five foster homes in the past eight years. He ran away from the last one in Orlando after it was made clear that if he wanted to eat, he serviced any men the bastard brought home. He still does the men, but now at least he gets to keep the money himself.”
Vance didn’t try to interrupt this time.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, turning away and pulling the frying pan out of the cupboard. “I know you know all this happens, and yes, you are absolutely right. I get frustrated when my hands are tied.” He wasn’t going to get sucked in here. Akeeda had made it abundantly clear she wanted him for her team. He looked up as Vance walked into the bedroom without replying. Fuck.
What was it about Vance that rubbed him the wrong way? He sighed and leaned against the counter. He thought about his steadily growing nest egg, which was why he was still living in this pit. He’d recently been looking at apartments because he could afford something better. When he first arrived, he’d just rented the first thing he came across that wasn’t a million miles away from the field office, but the area was shit. He had a plan, and he needed the nest egg because apartments in Washington were expensive. He originally wanted a few years on a joint terrorism task force, which would look good on any résumé, but then this had dropped in his lap. He fully intended on being an ASAC before he was forty.
“You okay?”
Sam jerked and twisted around. Vance stood with his shirt clutched in his hands, his uniform pants still on, and his feet bare. “What’s the matter?”
Vance grinned, whatever words they had exchanged obviously forgiven. “That was my line. I just wondered where the towels were.”
Sam shook himself. “There’s a couple of shelves behind the door in the bathroom. In there.”
Vance smiled and turned around.
“Jesus,” Sam swore and hurried toward Vance. “What the hell?” In the space of around three hours since they’d left the doc’s office, Vance’s skin had become red, raw, and peeling. Sam reached out to touch it without thinking, and it was only Vance’s shudder when he put his hand on his skin that made him realize what he was doing. Sam dropped his hand like he’d been burned. “You’re scratching the hell out of that, and you need to get that cream on.”
“I guess,” Vance said quietly and took another step toward the bedroom.
Sam rolled his eyes, realizing how thoughtless he was being. “Get showered and then give me a shout. I’ll do it for you.”
Vance stopped. “Okay.” And he disappeared into the bedroom.
Ten minutes later, Sam had browned the chicken, and the pasta was boiling. “Hey.” He looked up. Vance stood awkwardly. He had another pair of shorts on and was clutching a towel to his bare chest. Sam washed and dried his hands.
“Lie on the bed,” he instructed and followed Vance back to the bedroom. Vance lay down on his front. Sam smiled at Vance’s f
eet, which were hanging off the bed, and picked up the tube of cream from the doc. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to do this before. I noticed it bothering you a couple of times.”
“Sorry,” Vance mumbled into the pillow.
“Stop that,” Sam scolded. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. If anything, it should be me apologizing for being a shitty partner for three months.”
The words seemed to hang in the room, and Sam wondered which one of them was more surprised—Vance because he had said it or Sam because he had meant it.
Vance turned his head so he was looking at him. “It wasn’t your fault you were needed in Baton Rouge.”
“No,” he sighed. “But it made things awkward for you.” Sam thought about all the times Vance had tried to help and he’d shot him down. “I just didn’t want you getting all banged up on someone else’s bust.”
Vance just looked at him.
“Not that I want you getting banged up at all, and”—he waved a hand at Vance’s back—“I didn’t do such a good job of that anyway, did I? I just wanted to get in there and done as quickly as I could.” Working in the DEA had felt like a huge step backward. He wanted out of that life for good, and as far away from Ciudad Neza as it was, it would never be far enough.
Vance was still looking at him expectantly, and Sam focused on Vance’s skin, squirted out some cream, and rubbed it between his fingers to warm. At the first touch on his shoulders, Vance seemed to relax, and his eyes closed. Sam searched around for some topic of conversation. Something to normalize things. Something to distract his body from the fact that he was smoothing his hands over warm skin and some very hard, very strong muscles.
I need to get laid.
“You never told me if you have any brothers or sisters,” Vance murmured. He hadn’t? “I mean, I know you said you were on your own,” Vance added hurriedly and opened his eyes, obviously worried he’d been thoughtless or something.
