The Ghost (Professionals Book 2)

by Jessica Gadziala

  If Gunner was going to avoid me, I figured I had to at least put a little effort in getting to know my new area, my new life. Soon, sooner than I wanted even to think about, I would be on my own in this. It would go better for me if I weren't completely clueless.

  I drifted into the local convenience store, or maybe it was called a general store, back home I would have called it a bodega, picking out granola bars, peanut butter, jelly, bread, and a small bunch of bananas, figuring it would work as a makeshift dinner once I got back to the hotel.

  After that, I walked into an antique store, doing so not because I had any interest in antiques, but because I knew if I stayed at the hotel, I would obsess.

  In the end, I found a vintage Brooklyn watercolor, faded with age, which I found made it more charming, that I bought and carried back to the hotel with me.

  There was nothing from Gunner.

  Not as I got back into my room and made my makeshift dinner, as I scrubbed the tub with some cleaner I had bought a few states back, then took a long bath. Not as I pretended to watch TV.

  And not before I finally went to sleep a few hours before sunrise.

  I should have expected it.

  The burning daylight banging on the door.

  Only there was just a quick rapping before the door opened, making me shoot up in the bed, a scream stuck in my throat, my bad dreams clinging to my mind, making me think he had finally found me.

  "Just me, duchess," Gunner's voice called, doing the soothing thing, even if there was a bit more of an edge to it. "You okay?" he added when my hand slapped over my pounding heart. "Nightmares again?" he asked, coming toward the bed, but stopping at the foot, keeping his distance.

  I should have been pleased by that.

  The distance.

  It would be simpler.

  Less confusing.

  Easier to let go.

  But all I wanted was for him to come to me, pull me into his lap, hold me, tell me not to harp on it, that he would make sure nothing could ever happen to me again.

  But as the seconds passed, I knew that was never going to happen again.

  "Yeah. It's okay," I insisted as I flicked on the light, watching as his eyes went to the nightstand, taking in the wrappers and banana peels there.

  "That's what you had for dinner?" he scoffed.

  "I didn't know where to order from. I don't have a cellphone yet," I reminded him. "I couldn't look anything up."

  "Duchess, you could have asked someone," he told me, brows drawing together.

  "I come from the city," I reminded him. "No one wants to be asked annoying questions all the time."

  "This isn't that city. I bet people would have liked to point you in a direction of something good. It wouldn't hurt to try to start making connections now."

  "I went shopping," I told him, watching him even though he was keeping his gaze away from me. Which maybe had something to do with my slinky light pink chemise... and the coolness in the room.

  "Oh yeah?"

  "I got a painting for my new apartment," I told him, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my words for reasons I didn't understand myself.

  "I see that," he agreed, jerking his chin toward the painting. "Get to have a slice of home here," he added.

  "So, what is on the agenda today?" I asked into the awkward silence following the picture conversation.

  "Car. Furniture."

  "Everything okay?" I asked.

  "Fine," he insisted, but neither of us was buying it.

  "Have you looked into places to get furniture and cars?"

  "Yep."

  "You are quite the conversationalist this morning," I remarked, voice dripping with a sarcasm I wasn't usually known for. I guess he was rubbing off on me a bit.

  "Didn't sleep," he said, getting up, moving across the room to the windows, yanking open the blinds to show the first few rays of sun peeking through the dark sky. "You wanna catch a shower before we go down for breakfast?"

  "I'm fine. I took a bath last night."

  "A bath, huh?" he asked, seeming to understand without my having to tell him that there was still an issue with the shower thing. When he wasn't around at least. But I guess he was done telling me how to live my life. Because he was about to be out of it.

  For good.

  My hand went to my stomach where a knot was forming at the exact moment he looked back at me. "Yeah, we should see if we can take those out too," he said, shrugging.

  "Isn't it a little soon? The doctor said two weeks."

  "We'll check it out. Usually, you don't need the full two weeks. Depends on how quickly you heal. It would just be better if I do it."

  "So there isn't a record of me getting stitches out of a stab wound to my stomach."

  "Exactly."

  "Okay. Do you want to check now before I get dressed?"

  He looked almost pained as I climbed out of bed, but he gave me a small nod. "Better to get it over with."

  "Do you need some supplies?" I asked when he didn't move or say anything else.

  "Yeah, I'll be back," he said, leaving without another word, giving me a minute to hop into the bathroom to brush my teeth and straighten my hair up.

  "Nah, just stay in there," he told me when I went to walk out to meet him. "The light is better," he added, spreading a small medical kit out onto the counter. "Pull up your shirt."

  Those words normally would have sent a surge of desire through me. But right here in this bathroom with that deadness in his tone, it made me feel cold all over. Goosebumps actually rose up across the skin on my arms as my hand moved down to pull up my shirt.

  His hands were warm on my chilled skin, making a shiver course through me when they touched down on the sides of my stitches.

  I could have sworn he exhaled a barely audible curse when he felt it, but he kept his head ducked, making it impossible for me to see if I was right or not.

  "I think we're good. I can take these out. If you want me to leave them in, though, I will. You heal fast, duchess."

  The idea of them getting taken out was making me light-headed. I imagined the sensation would be even stronger if it were a stranger who was doing it.

  "Let's get it done."

  His head tilted up then, likely hearing the trepidation in my tone. "Just close your eyes, grab the counter, and take a deep breath. It will be over in just a minute," he promised, tone just the tiniest bit softer all of a sudden, a sound I had genuinely missed. "This is gonna be cold," he told me as I followed his instructions. "Just to numb you a bit," he added as he sprayed something that made my body jolt at the cold. "Breathe," he reminded me as he seemed to set to work.

  I kept my eyes closed.

  And while I was mostly cold-numbed, I could feel a slight tugging sensation as he moved down the stitches, snipping, and, presumably, pulling them out.

  "Alright, duchess. You're all done," he told me as I felt something sticky sliding over my belly. "Just some antibiotic cream," he told me. "You won't need to reapply it unless you see some infection or something. But if you keep it clean, you should be fine."

  I took a breath, looking down at the skin that had once been smooth and unmarked. I had managed to avoid stretch marks during puberty thanks to the fact that I didn't do much stretching in the hip or stomach area. But now there was a deep red, puckered, angry-looking scar.

  "It will fade," he assured me. "I won't lie to you. You're gonna be living with a mark there. But it will get lighter over time. Less angry-looking. Trust me. I got a lot of them."

  "Like on your chest," I guessed.

  "Yeah, duchess, like on my chest."

  "Are those from bullets?" I asked, unable to help myself.

  "Yeah."

  "The tattoos cover them pretty well."

  "Yeah, guess they do. But I wasn't trying to hide them."

  "I think they would need smelling salts if I tried to get a tattoo," I confessed, shivering a bit at the idea of all those needles poking at my skin all th
ose times. "Though I understand the desire to cover scars."

  "You could get it lasered if you want down the road. You still might not be able to get it to be completely gone, but you could lighten it more."

  "I think it would be different if a different story were attached to it," I mused aloud. "Some people have scars with good memories. Or even funny or careless memories. This one is just ugliness from start to finish."

  "Duchess, there's not a fucking ugly thing about you," he told me, turning to toss the paper towel with my stitches, then putting his kit back together, refusing to look my way at all. "Get dressed. We have a long day. If you own a single thing that doesn't scream 'corporate,' that would be great. We're gonna be doing a lot of lugging shit around today."

  With that, he left me alone.

  I rummaged until I found the most casual outfit I could - a pair of black, wide-leg, linen pants and a plain black and white striped three-quarter-length shirt. I paired it with the only pair of flats I had which were luckily black, tied up my hair, and met him out in the hall after I found he had already tidied my room, left a tip, and repacked my bags.

  I grabbed my painting and purse, and followed him downstairs. After stowing my luggage, we had a very awkwardly silent breakfast with me just occasionally trying to remark on mundane things - the food, the weather, the town. I mostly got grunts and one-word answers from him.

  "Car first," he told me, the first time he had strung two words together all morning. "That way, we have two vehicles to jam house shit in."

  It was sounding more and more like a chore by the minute when it should have been something at least a little exciting - setting up my house. Even if the situation wasn't ideal. I should still have found some small sense of enjoyment in it.

  His attitude was just making it impossible.

  "Lots of cupholders," the used car salesman told me gleefully, making my already surly mood sour further. Because the only thing I could have possibly wanted in my car was more cupholders. He also mentioned the lighted mirror. But he talked about the all-wheel-drive and cylinders with Gunner.

  It wasn't a Nevada thing, the thinly veiled sexism.

  I had experienced it more than my fair share in the business world. Getting interrupted while in meetings. Being told I was getting emotional when all I was really getting was pissed off because I knew I wasn't being taken as seriously as some of the suits in the room.

  It always grated.

  But for some reason, I just wasn't having it this morning.

  "Are you also going to tell me how the steering wheel is nice and thin for my delicate, ladylike hands?" I asked, cutting off his speech about where all six of the cupholders were located. At his dumbstruck look, I could finally see Gunner's wall falling a bit, his eyes lighting, his lips curving up. "Or how it is an automatic because my feeble lady-brain couldn't possibly figure out how to drive stick?"

  Standing slightly to the dealer's back shoulder, Gunner raised a hand, curled it into a claw, and made a silent rawr at me.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to offend."

  Ugh.

  A 'ma'am' too.

  It was that kinda day.

  "Alright. Work up the papers. I'll take it," I said, waving a hand at the pearl-white SUV that was bigger than anything I had ever driven before, but pristine, had low mileage, and a brand both I and Gunner trusted.

  "That was... interesting," Gunner said when we walked out forty minutes later with the keys in my hand.

  "He was being condescending."

  "Yeah, a bit. But you went all ball-buster on him. I'm impressed. It's rare you lose your cool."

  "I have a short fuse today, it seems," I said, stopping beside my new car. Which, again, should have filled me with excitement. But, again, just felt like another task checked off a list.

  "That's my warning then, huh?" At what had to be a blank look on my face, he went on, "Not to piss you off."

  "Well, you could certainly try," I said, smirking a little. "But I think we both know you're going to fail."

  "Sounds about right," he agreed, running a hand across the back of his neck. "Alright, so you wanna follow me to the store for furniture?"

  "Is this the kind of place where I have to order and wait?"

  "Nah. I mean, we can hit one of those up too, but I figure you'd want as much as possible as soon as possible."

  "Sounds like a plan," I agreed, hopping in my car, waiting for him to get in his, then both of us driving off.

  Another bit of distance.

  More separation.

  It was all becoming very real.

  "You're serious?"

  The look of pure, undiluted, masculine disgust was enough to finally lift my ever-falling mood as we stood in the stark lights of a big box store, staring at the living room set on display.

  "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "It's hard as a fucking rock, for one."

  "And for two?" I asked, knowing that wasn't all.

  "It's white."

  "It's cream," I corrected, running my hand over the streamlined, tufted loveseat.

  "You can't eat or drink anything on it. It will stain if a fucking plain noodle falls on it."

  "And that is why people are supposed to eat at the - and I know this is such a foreign concept - dining table."

  "You don't have room for a dining table," he objected.

  "There is room to put that," I said, waving a hand to a white and gold console table. "I can just get a couple of chairs."

  "And, what? Butt it up against a wall?"

  "If I have to."

  "You should have looked at more apartments."

  "This one is fine," I insisted, grabbing one of the free-standing lamps, and putting it in the cart.

  "You're compromising."

  "Everything in this new life is going to feel a bit like a compromise for a while," I told him, shrugging. "But I will get used to it."

  He shook his head at that, clearly not liking it. "Alright. I will have them bring me the couch, coffee table, and that fake dining table thing up to the front. Why don't you go pick out some dishes and shit?"

  And, again, we went different ways.

  In the end, I got basic kitchen things, bathroom supplies, a TV and Roku, some books, what few art supplies I could find, and some items for the pantry.

  "I don't need anything here," I said when Gunner stopped his cart - since we each had one at this point - beside the women's clothing section.

  "Yeah, you do, duchess."

  "I have clothes."

  "You have about a week's worth of clothes. And they're too fancy for running errands and shit."

  "I used to... run errands and shit in these clothes all the time."

  "In the city."

  "I have other clothes."

  "But I don't know how soon I can get them to you. Just pick out some shit. I promise that it won't make your skin melt off. Besides, I think some of this shit is like designer."

  He wasn't wrong.

  Big designers were getting more and more into retail markets.

  It wasn't really about the name on the tag for me, just the quality, the style.

  But, I decided as I took a deep breath, he was right; I needed more clothes. And I likely needed more laid-back clothes.

  So then I spent nearly an hour picking out basics, shoes, and pajamas.

  "Not a word," I told him as he gave me an almost pained look when I stopped to grab socks. "You were the one who told me to get clothes."

  "I was wrong. Incredibly, impossibly wrong."

  "It's too late now. You can't get the time back," I told him with a smile as we finally made our way to the check-out, claiming our bigger items, then pulling our cars up front to load it all in.

  By the time we were done, there wasn't an inch of space in either of our cars, and we were heading toward my new apartment.

  "I owe you dinner," I told him after we had finally hauled everything up, and he assembled what needed to be put togeth
er as I gave the whole space a good scrub.

  "And dessert. And a drink," he agreed, reaching up to wipe some sweat from his brow, something I never would have found sexy before, but was finding it hard to stop myself from panting over right then.

  "If I run to the market real quick, I can get the supplies to make you something."

  I had a feeling it would be the last time I would ever have the chance.

  I was settled.

  That was the deal, right?

  Get me here.

  Get me a car and an apartment.

  Help me fill it up with things.

  All that was done.

  His part was done.

  There it was again, that pang.

  Sharp, deep, insistent.

  Ridiculous, sure.

  But there.

  I wondered how long I would have to live with it.

  "Mind if I take a shower while you're gone?" he asked, looking tired and sweaty.

  "Go ahead," I agreed, trying hard not to picture that. Failing epically. Then taking myself to the store to pick up supplies for dinner.

  "Why am I seeing so many vegetables?" he grumbled at me when he finally came out of the shower, dressed in something he must have run down to his car for, jeans and a white tee that looked way too good stretched over his wide chest. "And no cheese?"

  "Your arteries will thank me," I told him as I steadily chopped up four different colors of peppers, simply because I thought it would look pretty. "I'm making a beef stir-fry," I added, waving a hand to the wok we had picked up earlier where the beef was simmering, waiting for the other ingredients.

  "Alright. You earn back some points for the beef," he told me, standing way too close, smelling way too intimate with my bath products sticking to his hair and skin.

  "I also got alcohol, and I stopped by the bakery to get dessert. I don't have a lot of baking experience," I admitted, shrugging it off, but I was suddenly really sad about that fact. It was very Susie Homemaker, and therefore not at all like me. But I found myself wanting to bake for him.

  "What'd you get?" he asked, pouring a glass of whiskey for himself, then putting vodka in another glass, presumably for me, reached into the fridge, and got some cranberry juice he had seen me pick up earlier.

  "Brownies and cupcakes. You'll just have to run an extra mile or two tomorrow to work it off."