What was with these men and refusing to eat at a proper table like a human being?
"Pretty self-explanatory," he said, waving a hand around. "Go on and check on your stitches. If there's an issue, let me know."
"Do you have medical training?" I asked, inspecting him a bit.
"No, duchess," he said, lips twitching. "But I've had to stitch myself up with nothing but fishing line and a sewing needle. And lived. Figure that is more than you can claim."
"Fair enough," I agreed, moving off toward the hallway, peeking into the room to the left, lucking out in finding the bathroom.
My stomach dropped slightly seeing the prominent stall shower with a simple thick white shower curtain. I would have to clean up eventually. This was the only way. It was impractical to be afraid. Out here in the middle of nowhere.
Impractical, but some things were not rational.
Fear most especially.
Taking a breath, I closed the door, moving over toward the sink cabinet where a large mirror was hung, and lifting up my shirt.
No blood, thankfully.
Just red and angry-looking.
I had little individual containers of saline to use on it once a day. Once I had my bags, maybe after I convinced myself to get in the shower, I would clean it out. Maybe that would help with the pain.
"What's the verdict?" I heard from outside the door a few minutes later as I attempted to get myself together.
"It's okay," I told him, moving to open the door. And there he was, with my toiletries and clothing bags. A part of me wondered if he had run out to grab them, so I didn't insist on helping. Which was, well, sweet.
"I want to take a shower, but I'll let you go first."
It must have shown.
On my face.
The fear, the panic.
"What?"
"Nothing," I insisted, shaking my head.
"You're afraid to shower?" he asked, seeing right through me.
"It's just... I..." I was stammering. I never stammered. Something about his light green eyes was unraveling me.
"Fuck that," he said, shaking his head.
"Excuse me?"
"Go turn the water on. I'll get you some towels."
"No, really. I'm fine. It's fine," I insisted.
"It's not fine," he shot back, shaking his head. "And you're not fine. Some fuck came at you in the shower and attacked you. I get it. I do. That's an invasion. It's traumatic. But he wins when you refuse to step back in there."
"You don't..."
"I do. I get it," he said, disappearing. It wasn't until he came back with the towels that I realized he wasn't just going to let me have this. "Don't give me those eyes," he said, voice going a little soft again as he put towels down on the sink vanity, then moved to turn the water on.
Then, he did the oddest thing.
He shut the door.
From the inside.
"What are you doing?" I asked as the steam from the hot water started wafting through the air, instantly making my shirt start to stick to my back.
"If you don't break this now, you never will. So you're going to break this now. How else are you going to start a new life? Explain to new friends or new boyfriends why you are terrified of the shower?" he asked, using reason. And reason, well, it was always the best argument to use to approach me. "So you are going to turn around and get in that shower," he explained, reaching behind his back, producing something from his waistband.
Long.
Black.
Lethal.
"I am going to turn my back on you and watch the door. And you can get in that shower knowing that if by some impossibly small chance someone found us here, that I would take them down before they got anywhere near you."
With that, he turned his back.
And waited.
And waited.
Until I felt so uncomfortable, I finally did what he said. I undressed, watching him to make sure he was facing forward, then forcing myself into the shower.
He must have heard the shower curtain pulling. "See. You can do it," he told me. "You want me to hand you some of your shit?" he added, making me realize I had hopped in without even so much as a bar of soap.
"If you don't mind," I said, shoving my hand out of the shower curtain. It was only a couple seconds before I felt my bottle of shampoo land there. Once I put that down, conditioner. Then soap.
"The fuck is this skin conditioner shit? You need that too?"
I did.
And, for some unknown reason, I felt weird about needing it. But I stuck my hand out anyway.
"Chicks need too much shit," he added, handing me my razor and shaving cream. "How the fuck do you get anything else done with all this grooming?"
"We get up earlier," I suggested, going through the motions of showering somewhat self-conscious about the process, so rushing through it more than usual. "Would you prefer we stop shaving our legs?" I asked, smiling when I heard no response from him. If there was one thing a man - in my experience - loved, it was the feel of silky legs wrapped around them. And seeing as we ourselves loved the feel of the sheets on our freshly shaven skin, I totally got that.
I turned off the water, quickly slathering the skin conditioner on before reaching for the towels. Plural. He had given me two. One for my body, one for my hair. The man clearly had experience with women.
"See?" he asked when I pushed the curtain aside and stepped out. "You did it."
I did.
Though, if I were being completely honest with myself, I think the only reason I could was because of that gun in his hand.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it, feeling weird about being there in a towel that barely fell mid-thigh. And a towel wrapped around my hair. It wasn't my best look, and I knew it.
"Don't mention it," he said, tucking the gun away. "I'll drag in your bag," he added, leaving in an odd rush.
When he came back, he rolled the bag in, refusing to look at me for some reason.
"When you're done, we can talk about the next step."
With that, still not looking in my direction, he was gone.
FOUR
Gunner
The fuck was that about?
Not the forcing her to shower thing. I had meant to do that. That was completely necessary. It was easy for trauma to become full-on PTSD after an event like that. She'd end up like that chick from that Psycho movie who could never shower again. I didn't want to let that happen on my watch if I could help it. I had seen too many men go through things overseas, come home, carry that shit with them forever, leading to their loved ones leaving them, or the men choosing to abandon them, or - more often than I cared to even think about - leading them to eat a bullet.
I didn't want that for her.
She'd done nothing to have to live with that for the rest of her life.
Some fuckhead forced it on her.
It wasn't fair.
I wasn't normally someone who gave a shit about fair. Life rarely was. Everyone who had been born in this world has had something happen to them that was out of their control, that sucked, that forced their life in another direction.
Hell, my job was dealing with many of these people.
Sure, some were criminals who had pissed off other criminals, and needed to disappear.
But just as often, it was innocent people caught up in an ugly situation.
Sloane had done what society believed was the right thing - tried to get a murderer off the street. And in return, she had to leave her entire life behind.
That sucked.
But why I gave a shit was beyond me.
I had just been thinking about that when she had come out of that shower in nothing but a towel.
It was a shocking change for her.
Being that bare.
Not because she wore a lot of makeup or dressed like the Amish or anything, but because everything she did wear from her makeup to her simple jewelry to her very particular type of dress, she wore like a
shield. It was part of an image she wanted to project.
Bare?
It was all gone.
All that was left was the woman.
Oddly, my first thought wasn't about her long legs, the way the towel slit up the front of one of her thighs, the way the knot up top made her breasts press together over the hem, the way her face looked almost innocent without makeup.
No.
My first thought was about wanting to learn more about this woman. Not Miss Blythe-Meuller. Sloane. I wanted to know more about Sloane.
And on that fucked up thought, I dragged my ass right back out of the bathroom, letting her get her armor back on while I went to the kitchen cabinets to pour myself something with a little kick to it. If I was thinking whacked shit like that, my system clearly needed it.
By the time she came out twenty minutes later, her guards were all back in place save for the makeup and the heels. Her hair was styled in some type of braid that wrapped around the lower part of her head, darker now that it was wet, but still distinctly blonde. Instead of her usual slacks and shirts that could only be called 'blouses,' she had on her silk robe from this morning, the material doing nothing to hide the subtle curves underneath. I knew from digging around in her luggage that literally every single pair of pajamas she owned were made of similar silky fabric. The kind that hid nothing. Which was why, even though she had on a robe and something beneath, I could still see the hardened peaks of her nipples through.
It was perhaps a little chilly in here for someone who wasn't used to roughing it.
On that thought, I walked across the room, turning up the thermostat. Even if a large part of me was totally okay with the view.
"You said we could discuss the plan," she reminded me when I said nothing, too distracted by my own thoughts.
"Yeah," I agreed, going to the fridge, checking out what Ranger had stocked it with.
Since he was generally the team member who got the least amount of work, we employed him here and there to help me on my jobs. Like stocking safe houses on my route. He bitched and growled about it, but he did it. I was hoping the icebox wasn't loaded down with goddamn venison and geese and fish he caught in the lakes again.
"Just gonna see what we got to eat. Hopefully, we can throw together some sandwiches or something."
I lived on the damn things.
I never really learned to cook myself, so the only time I got something different was if I went out to eat, or Quin's woman - Aven - cooked for me.
"We could probably do better than a sandwich," she said, moving in closer, and I could smell one of her creams or lotions or conditioners or whatever clinging to her skin.
"You cook?" I asked as she reached for the door of the fridge, pulling it more open.
"It's been a while, but I used to be able to," she admitted, reaching inside to move some things around.
Ranger had been better than expected, with enough fruit, vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese to last us over a week, not just the two days I had planned.
"Fancy shit?" I asked, not exactly excited by the prospect of one of those plates you got at those upscale places with three sprigs of asparagus, a single slice of meat, and half a potato that they dared to call the dinner special.
"Ah, unfortunately, no," she admitted, sounding outright bummed about the fact that she couldn't whip up duck paté like some gourmet chef.
Quite frankly, I could never eat a duck. I once saved a couple of them from a drain at my house, and the fuckers followed me around like their mama for a week until the real one came and found them.
Eating one of those things that used to quack behind me whenever I walked outside? No, thanks.
"Simple shit?" I clarified.
"I was raised on... simple shit," she said, the words sounding odd on her polished tongue as she pulled out the pork chops, green beans, and salad greens, piling them all on the counter. "Would you happen to have potatoes?" she asked, looking around the space, eyeing up the small bowl of fruit.
"Best bet would be the bottom drawer. That'd be where he'd store potatoes and onions."
"He?" she asked, squatting down to look, and coming back with two potatoes - one big enough to feed a family of four, one just barely enough to be considered a side dish.
"Coworker. Ranger. He stocked the place for us."
She made some kind of acknowledging noise as she rummaged around, finding pots and pans, setting them on top of the range.
And me, well, I fucking watched her. As weird as that was. I watched as she warmed the pans, put water in the pot, found spices to season the pork, sautéed the potatoes with an onion and garlic, then went in search of plates for us as the small space filled up with the scent of home-cooking, something I couldn't claim to know very well, but was fond of nonetheless.
It was strange to realize this woman, this person who I never would have thought even knew what a stove was, could cook something that smelled as edible as her meal did.
At some point, she mumbled about tables and decent human beings, leaving me to go fetch a fold-up table and chairs that were kept in the bedroom closet so she could have her proper dining experience.
"Leave it," I said when she went to start to wash out the green beans pot while the pork finished up. "You cooked. I'll clean. What?" I asked when she sent me an odd look.
"I'm not used to having people do things," she admitted, surprising me.
If you'd have asked me, I'd have thought she'd had a staff working for her, never having to lift a finger but to hit a button to summon them.
"What? No private chef?"
She gave me that look again, that confused and slightly offended look she had given me a few times in Quin's office the day before. "I usually ate at the office. Ordered in," she clarified, but didn't elaborate. "Do you want more whiskey?" she asked, gesturing toward the bottle as she put potatoes on the plates.
"I got it," I said, feeling a bit odd to be waited on myself. "You want something? Got a practical liquor cabinet up there. Or, knowing Ranger, there is likely a bucket out back loaded down with drinks to keep cold." They would too, with the temperature barely getting above 35 most days still. Even though we were already into fucking March.
"I'm just going to have water," she told me as she brought the plates and salad bowls over to the table, placing mine in front of me with what actually looked like a shy smile.
"Duchess, grab that file for me," I demanded after she'd gotten her water. "It has our plans in it," I added when she gave me that odd look of hers again. "So, just because Rodrigo Cortez is such a ruthless sonofabitch," I started, flipping open her file to his mugshot. I'd known a lot of shitheads in my life, and they always had this common hollowness in their eyes. Cortez might have had them all beat. "We need to do a few stops."
"Stops?" she asked from where she was picking at her salad.
"Hotels. Just to make sure. Quin and the team, we lock this shit down tight, but we don't want to take any chances. So we will hit a few places before we permanently settle you."
"Will I be staying in the country?" she asked carefully, making me realize I wasn't giving her nearly enough information. Usually, clients were grilling me endlessly about every small detail. It was exhausting, irritating. There was so much that it was important they not know sometimes. But she was right, I wasn't giving her much of anything.
"I think we can keep you here," I said, taking my first bite of the potatoes. A low, groaning sound that I didn't intend to make escaped me. "Maybe I will set you up as a cook somewhere," I complimented her, watching as she did that shy smile again, the one that seemed so at odds with her usual calm, confident, collectedness.
"If I have any say in the matter, I would just as soon not."
"I already have you all set up. Name and resumes and everything. I hope you like warm weather," I added. And, for once, I actually meant it. It wasn't some bullshit pleasantry I was throwing out there.
I wanted her to like the new life I had set up for he
r. Hell, maybe she could even unwind there a bit. Let her hair down. Literally and figuratively.
She paid a fortune to start over.
I could only hope it was for the better.
Even if she couldn't see it right now.
"We're here for another day. Then we are starting out west," I told her. "Hopefully, giving your stomach a day off will help seal you up better for the next leg of the journey. They're gonna be long days in the car."
"I'll be fine," she assured me, still only poking at her food even though I'd heard her stomach rumbling before.
I guess having a murderer after you, and losing everything that mattered, had a way of fucking with your appetite, no matter what your stomach wanted.
"How many of those pills did your doctor give you?"
"Sixty."
Damn. No one ever gave that many out anymore. Not in a single prescription anyway. I guess money talked in a lot of ways.
"That will get you through. It will just be the first week that is bad. Especially with the driving. But you should be in the clear then."
"What about them?" she asked, making my head shoot up. "The stitches," she explained. "I would be on the record somewhere if I went to get them taken out, right?"
Right.
Unfortunately.
Which left her with one choice.
"I'll take them out. Don't worry; I have everything I'd need. No pain. Just weird to watch. No big deal."
"Okay," she agreed, exhaling slowly. "I don't do well with medical stuff. I think I half blacked out after getting, ah..."
"Stabbed," I supplied bluntly.
"Yeah. I never saw Heiro's man scare him off. The only thing I remember after the pain was him putting a towel around me, then carrying me to the car. And then," she went on, seeming to need to share the information. Given that she had seemed to go right from the hospital, to her apartment to pack up, to our office, she'd likely never gotten the chance to talk this out to anyone in more than a clinical way. "At the hospital, I was just..."
"Freaking out," I supplied.
"On the inside," she agreed, a distinction she oddly needed me to hear. She didn't want anyone thinking she was the sort who lost her cool... on the outside.
The Ghost (Professionals Book 2) Page 4
