by Scott, Kylie
Nothing from Thom.
“I’m excited to try real New York pizza,” I say as my stomach rumbles and I ignore their dumbass staring competition. “What did you get? Because I kind of wouldn’t mind a pepperoni, but on the other hand, I could devour a ham and pineapple right now. Or something different like meatballs could be nice.”
Still nothing from Thom.
Bear’s grin, however, only widens. At this point, it’s taking up his whole damn face. He’s like a toothpaste commercial for people with excessive facial hair.
“Basically, anything you give me I will eat at this point in time, I’m so hungry,” I say. “But you’re not actually listening to me, so I’m going to stop talking now.”
“Huh?” says Thom, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Shit. Sorry, babe. What’d you say?”
“My apologies, Betty.” Bear laughs. “He was too busy silently communicating to me that if I kept looking at you in your current state of déshabillé, he’ll murder me slowly. Make it hurt. Cut me into pieces and hide my bits in the woods. That sort of thing.”
“He managed to communicate all of that with just a look?” I ask.
“It was more like a really intense glare. He put a lot of effort into it.”
“Ah,” I say with much wisdom. “Stop winding him up, please. We have enough to worry about without shenanigans.”
Bear sighs. “Sorry. But Crow was right, Wolf. You are one possessive, overprotective son of a bitch when it comes to her.”
Pretty sure Thom is grinding his teeth. Something has to be making the noise.
“This is why I don’t do relationships,” says Bear, keeping his gaze fixed on the TV. Both gallant and wise of him. “Messes with your head. You need to be sharp to stay on top in this game. Ready to go on a moment’s notice, not worried about leaving someone behind.”
Thom just gives him a look.
“Not exactly fair for them, either. Being away for long periods of time, often out of contact, no idea if you’re dead or alive. And even when you’re home, it’s not like you can talk about what you do. My dad was a SEAL, and let me tell you, it was hell on my mother.” Bear heads for the couch, making himself comfortable. He’s ditched the pilot’s uniform in favor of jeans, a dark hoodie, and sneakers. It fits more with his bearded hipster aesthetic. “Same goes for friends and family. If they’re not ex-services, they don’t really get it.”
“Sounds lonely,” I say.
“Nuh.” Bear smiles affably. “Easy enough to go to a bar, chat with someone about whatever game is on the TV, maybe find a friend for a little adult playtime.”
“You realize none of those things actually equals a real relationship.”
“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”
Thom snorts at Bear’s words. “You’re wrong. We need to stay in touch with all the things we’re fighting to protect. Love. Family. Life. The moment we lose those, we’re just mercenaries.”
“Well-paid mercenaries,” says Bear, correcting him with a smile.
I shake my head. “Right. Well, I think you’re all adrenaline junkies with intimacy issues. But you do you.”
Thom turns and gives me a look this time. His heated gaze takes in my face before sliding down my neck to linger on the sliver of cleavage visible just above the towel. It’s a look that says we’ve been plenty intimate, and quite recently too. Smart-ass.
Heat gathers in my cheeks and I duck my head, concentrating on gathering up some clothes. A pair of black skinny jeans, a long-sleeved black thermal, and socks, and so on. “Sure, traveling the world and doing all of these exciting things may have its moments. But you’re actively putting yourselves in danger all the time.”
“We’re not so different from cops or firefighters,” says Bear. “Someone’s got to stop the bad guys, rescue kittens out of trees, and save the day.”
The man has a point. I just wish the person doing dangerous stuff didn’t have to be someone I might possibly have intense feelings for. A selfish sentiment, but there you have it. If we do stay together, I’m just going to have to pull up my big girl panties and deal with Thom being away often, saving the world. I’m half proud and half terrified. It’s a precarious balance. But possibly he should have gone for someone less neurotic and with a shitty imagination. Because imagining Thom getting hurt makes me hurt.
Oh God, I cannot be falling for him again, not after all this time. So we had good sex once. Us, our history and everything, is beyond complicated and will require more than a few orgasms to set things right. Though they were seriously great orgasms.
“You okay?” Thom rubs my shoulder. I kind of want to lean into him, increase the contact. But I don’t. It’s too soon. Of course, if we die it’ll be too late. Like I said, complicated.
“Um, yeah. Fine.”
“Remind me to teach you how to lie convincingly sometime,” he says. “Now go get dressed before you get cold. And don’t worry about my work; I’m good at what I do.”
“He’s one of the best,” confirms Bear, his gaze still set on the TV. “After me, of course.”
“Of course.” I paste on a smile before heading to the bathroom. My life really only has room for one meltdown at a time. First, get this target off our backs. Then figure out the next fifty or so years.
Excellent. I have a plan.
Once I’m dressed, I come out to find Thom squatting in the hallway sliding money underneath the front door. Weird and mysterious. Then, on a small security camera screen embedded in the wall at around eye level, he watches the pizza delivery guy pick up the money and leave a box on the floor in the hallway before walking away. Thom waits for a while longer, monitoring the empty space. Finally, he turns the dead bolt, opens the door, and collects the food.
Nothing in our life is simple anymore. Not even pizza.
“You never open the door for anyone but me, okay?” he says. “Slide the money underneath and make sure they’re gone before you undo the locks.”
“Got it.”
The pizza is deposited on the kitchen counter and yes, pepperoni it is. Awesome.
Something beeps and Thom pulls out his cell, reading the screen. “Shit.”
“What?” Bear sits upright.
“They got Badger. Looks like his house exploded. They’re calling it a gas leak. Body found on site.” His fingers tap against the screen. “Hawk is down too. Caught in the crossfire of a robbery at a liquor store, apparently.”
“Like hell she was.”
“Got a copy of the crime scene pics from a reliable source. It’s the same detective who’s slowing down the case looking into your disappearance.” Thom gives me a look. “Having the ambulance you were riding in disappear did not make our lives easy.”
I shake my head in frustration. “They must be so worried and frustrated. Let me call Jen and Mom and tell them I’m okay. Explain to them that I just needed some me time or something.”
“A couple more days, babe,” says Thom. “Just let me talk to Sinclair and get a better feel for the situation.”
I am not convinced.
“Their phones and computers are being monitored; I can guarantee it. We cannot afford to be traced again. You know what happened last time. If anything, you’d just be putting them in danger by making contact with them.”
The man has a point. Doesn’t mean I like it. “All right. But only a couple more days.”
“Thank you.” His gaze returns to the cell in his hands. “Jesus. Half of Hawk’s face is missing, but it’s definitely her.”
Bear swears up a storm.
“That leaves you, Bear, Crow, and Fox,” I say. “Crow is the only one who hasn’t been cleared.”
Thom stares out the window into the dark. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know anything for sure yet. That might not even have been Badger’s body in that house. Until we have DNA or dental confirmation on the corpse, we wait and see.”
“True,” grumbles Bear. “Has Crow reported in?”
&nbs
p; “No, he hasn’t.” Thom tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. “He could be our leak. It makes a certain sense. He was the one who organized supplies for Betty. Could have easily placed some tracers among all that stuff.”
I frown. “Really? But he seemed so nice. He said he was your friend.”
“Like I said, there are no friends in this business, babe.”
“If it is him, I’m going to kill the fucker,” growls Bear.
“We need to locate him first,” says Thom, heading into the kitchen. He opens several cupboards and starts pulling out glasses and mugs, bowls and plates. They’re all set aside on the counter, out of the way. “Find evidence we can take to command. Something definite. In the meantime, our hacker says the target is apparently holed up in the penthouse suite at The Thornbrook. She’s got meetings with a variety of business and political types for the next two days along with attending a charity event at the Met tomorrow night.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, curious about him carrying on with the crockery.
“We need supplies.”
Once the cupboards are empty, he fiddles with something inside one of them. A false back rises to reveal a selection of shiny knives embedded in a black foamlike surface. The next cupboard has several handguns with extra magazines. The third contains yet more lethal toys.
“Help yourself,” he tells Bear, slipping a magazine into a pistol. The two of them get busy secreting various weapons on themselves. Getting ready to go to war. “Rifles and bigger stuff are in a hidden safe in the walk-in closet, but I’m thinking we stick with more compact gear for this.”
“Agreed,” says Bear.
I square my shoulders. “So what’s next?”
“We’re going to go check out the setup of the place, see if there’s been any increases or changes in security since the last time I visited. Then we’ll figure out our approach.” Thom rattles off the details, ignoring the slight look of surprise on Bear’s face. Guess for an operative, my fiancé is being super open with the facts. “There’s a couple of events happening at the hotel tonight, so it shouldn’t be too hard to blend in with the crowd.”
“Okay.”
“For you, however,” says Thom, “there is staying here, putting your feet up, relaxing, and eating.”
“There’s nothing I can do to help?”
“The best thing you can do is stay here and stay safe so I don’t have to worry about you,” he says, his expression serious. “Can you do that for me, babe?”
“Sure,” I say. And I mean it at the time. I really do.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The hours pass slowly after Bear and Thom leave. I didn’t feel particularly safe sitting on the sofa all alone in the loft apartment. Security might be tight here, but the few bites of pizza I managed to eat still churn in my stomach. Every muffled noise from other apartments, the hallway, the street beyond, makes me jump. It’s nothing; everything is fine.
So fine that I get my gun out and make sure the ammunition magazine is full, even though I checked it just under an hour ago. I’m pretty sure I haven’t shot at anyone in the meantime. It seems like the sort of thing I would remember.
Thom gave me a quick lesson on cleaning the gun earlier today, and my fingers itch to go through the process again. Just to be doing something. But the piece is brand-new and gleaming. If I try cleaning it, I’d probably just make it grimy. Dammit.
For a while, I debate where to put the weapon. Cradling it in my lap isn’t a viable alternative. My nerves are so fried that a knock on the door would have me firing a bullet through the TV. Leaving the gun on the coffee table just seems too out of place. Like I’d need a nice little pile of white powder and a stack of money beside it to pull off the gangster look properly. Perhaps I could put on my shoulder holster.
In the end, I tuck it into the couch cushions beside me. Ready for action, but out of sight.
On the TV, Wonder Woman kicks the bad guy’s ass and then some. I try to feel the empowerment, but it’s just not working for me.
It’s not that I’m terrified of Thom not being here to protect me. Though, come to think of it, I am a little. But it’s the fact he’s out there with an unknown quantity wanting him dead that has me on edge. Bear is with him, sure. And yet…this must be what it’s like for people with family in the service. All of the not knowing and waiting to hear. As if a part of your life is permanently on pause and all of the fear and love forms a tight ball of unease deep inside you, which never quite goes away. I guess you learn to ignore the thing. Cover it up with everyday life and wait for them to come home one way or another. Talk about bravery and sacrifice.
Not that I love Thom. Whoa there. Let’s not go throwing the L word around all crazy-like. So we had good (great) sex for once. He’s being honest with me and showing some emotions. These are all nice things. But it’s still early days. Any attempt at dissecting our relationship is bound to just leave me more confused and it’s definitely too early to get carried away, envisioning shiny happy futures.
The sad truth is, no matter how much I dig Wonder Woman, this movie is not holding my interest. And flicking between the news channels isn’t getting me anywhere either. Since it’ll be a while before I hear from the menfolk, I need to be doing something more useful than just staring at a screen.
Or maybe not.
In movies and TV shows with detectives and stuff, they’re always using CCTV and such to track people down. To figure out their movements. Of course, I don’t have access to that sort of thing. But the internet is everywhere. People are constantly attached to their cell phones. Sure, it’s a little farfetched. I’m probably clutching at straws. Though it’s not like I have anything more pressing to do with my time.
I switch over to the cell Thom left me in case of an emergency. Easy enough to search #thornbrook and let social media give me an update on Thom and Bear’s whereabouts. Instagram seems the easiest to access without actually logging into an account. Or at least it comes up first. Helpful that the place Thom and Bear are checking out is so popular. There’s a PR pic of a bellboy wearing a black uniform with shiny gold buttons, busy at work with a broad smile. Another of the hotel florist grinning maniacally as she places an arrangement on the front desk. It’s tagged #MollysFlowers and #lovemyjob. Her enthusiasm seems a little hard to take. Floristry’s not a bad job; don’t get me wrong. About the worst part of it is washing buckets and dealing with difficult customers. But no florist I’ve ever met has ever been quite this ecstatic. Maybe she’s on drugs.
Next is two women taking a selfie in a cool-looking bathroom with a Jacuzzi. A nighttime view from a window with the lights of New York. So pretty. Two men beaming at the camera dressed in tuxedos. I tap on this one. It says “Holy matrimony, guys!” and is also tagged #SteveandDae. Here we go. Plenty of pictures of the two grooms with and without assorted family and friends, all looking delighted. Except for the woman caught shoving a giant shrimp into her mouth. Awkward timing. Don’t get me wrong; seafood is great. But I wouldn’t be down with this particular shot being spread about the interwebs. A three-tier wedding cake, plain red-rose boutonnieres, and elegant table centerpieces in autumn colors. I approve. Lots and lots of delighted guests.
I study each of the pictures, yet nothing stands out. It was an interesting idea, but this isn’t going to work. Insert heavy sigh here. There’s no sign of Thom or Bear since the bulk of the shots are taken inside a ballroom. Everything else recent and tagged with #thornbrook is either older than tonight or about an organic farm in New Zealand or a men’s shoe designer.
Time to get more specific. I move on to #thornbrookhotel, and yes, we have a winner. A conference is in full swing and the attendees are apparently filling the bar to overflowing. Bonus points for them being addicted to social media. According to the hotel website’s map, the Uptown Bar opens onto the huge, extravagant marble lobby/reception area. Plush red velvet seating, crystal chandeliers, and lots of people coming and going.
I study every shot, enlarging them to the point where the pixels go fuzzy. No sign of Thom or…wait. Maybe one of them is in the back of this shot. Yes, there’s Bear. Or at least I’m pretty sure it’s him. The height kind of gives him away. In all likelihood they’re trying to avoid getting caught on camera. Though I’m guessing they’d be more worried about the hotel security system than someone taking a happy snap. After all, it’s hard to be on the lookout for everyone all of the time.
The shot was posted an hour and a half ago. Perhaps Bear wandered in, sat down with a drink or something, checked out the situation, and reported to his partner. At least, it’s what I’d do if I were an international person of mystery.
But what the hell do I know about doing reconnaissance (“recce,” I remind myself)? Nada. Hence why I’m here fiddling on Instagram.
Still no message from Thom on the new clean and secure cell phone he gave me. Of course, it’s only for emergencies. Like someone knocking on the door or a bomb going off. The man even made me pinky promise not to call anyone. As tempting as it is to shoot Mom or Jen a text (which wouldn’t be breaking my word, strictly speaking, because it would be a text, not a call), I don’t.
After examining dozens of pictures for further signs of my fiancé’s continued existence, I’m about ready to give up. Go back to surfing the news channels or attempt another movie. Maybe just stare dejectedly at the apartment walls. Sounds like fun.
I reload the screen one more time for good luck. Three new pictures have been posted. It’s a busy night at The Thornbrook Hotel. An expensive bottle of champagne resting in a bucket of ice. Very fancy. An older couple posing in their hotel room, arms around each other’s waists. They look so happy. I wonder if Thom and I would be all loved-up and gracious if we were still together in fifty years. Though who knows if we’ll even be together next week.
And the final pic is a couple of dudes hanging out in the lobby. On their way to a concert, apparently. Lots of people wandering past in the background of this one. Along with a figure who seems oddly familiar. Lanky body, sloped shoulders, hands stuffed into his jean pockets. There’s a certain air of skulking. Much nefariousness. His clothes are dark and damp from the rain, hoodie pulled up to cover his head. But his head is turned as he looks over his shoulder. Most likely to check he’s not being followed, or to avoid the security cameras at the entrance to the hotel. Whatever his reasons, he’s almost full-on facing the camera.
