Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "Maybe," Michael agreed, "but this is a freaking vacay for me, Little Mama. No gangbangers, no bullshit." He glanced around him, his brow furrowed as he took in the yard and surrounding forest. "Just some really fucking green trees."

  Lillian snorted, not believing for a minute he got any satisfaction from playing bodyguard. He was simply here because babysitting her was the one job he could do all stitched together. If he'd had a choice in the matter, he'd still be in Seattle and they both knew it. But he hadn't been given that choice. He'd been given the option of watching her or taking more medical leave.

  It irritated her endlessly that everyone was so gung-ho to protect her, but as soon as she asked whether Tristan was also under constant guard, they all changed the subject quick, fast, and in a hurry. He wasn't the only one with a tendency to go overboard when it came to protecting her.

  "Ugh," she groaned, putting her head in her hands and shaking it back and forth. "You're all as bad as Tristan."

  "Maybe, but maybe he wasn't wrong either," Michael said.

  "Seriously, Michael?" She dropped her hands to glare at him.

  "I'm just saying that you think too much," he said, holding his hands up to ward her off. "He did what he thought he had to do. Either you love the fucker and accept that he is who he is, or you don't."

  "We both know it's not that easy."

  "Why not?" He propped himself up on a support beam and crossed his arms. "What'd running back here to Bumfuck Jungle really accomplish?"

  "He's alive, isn't he?" she snapped.

  "Fuck that noise," Michael snorted. "He was alive before you tucked tail and hauled ass."

  "And he'll stay that way now."

  "Ha! There's a big damn difference between living and surviving from one day to the next." He nodded his head in her direction, his eyes on her leg. "And don't tell me you don't already know that."

  "That's different," she mumbled, placing her hand over her leg as if she could hide it from him.

  "Oh?" He cocked a brow. "How so?"

  "Because I didn't have a choice in the matter. I didn't get to decide for myself if I wanted to stop dancing. Marc Rivera and a team of doctors and physical therapists decided for me."

  "Color me confused, but didn't you decide for Tristan?"

  "No, I–"

  He waited.

  "It's different," she mumbled again.

  "Right," he said. "It's always different, Little Mama. And it sucks no matter how you slice it. Riley is who he is. Maybe he had a choice in the matter, maybe he didn't. Who the hell, knows? All I can tell you is that with you, he was different. Maybe you don't see it, but I do. I've known him for a long damn time and if you think he's really going to be better off without you, you're as batshit crazy as he is."

  "I don't know that," she snapped. "I don't know if this is right. I don't know if he's better off or if this will make things worse for him. I don't know! All I know is that I can't be there if being there gets him killed. I can't watch him die, Michael. I can't–" She broke off, her entire body shuddering as tears of frustration pooled in her eyes. "I don't know anything anymore. I just I miss him. God, I miss him."

  Michael crossed the porch as the tears started rolling down her cheeks and sat beside her. "Don't cry, Lil. Please? I suck at tears." He patted her back in an attempt at comfort, which only made her cry harder.

  Everyone kept trying to comfort her. They asked how she felt. If she was okay. Did she want to talk? Or not talk? But no one tried to tell her this was her fault. No one yelled at her or cursed her or told her to get it together. They were simply there. But they weren't Tristan. None of them would ever be Tristan.

  Crap, why couldn't it be easy? Why couldn't it ever be easy?

  "Fuck if I know," Michael sighed. Lillian hadn't even realized she'd spoken aloud. "But nothing worth it is ever a walk in the fucking park. Shit that's worth it is hard. You were a ballerina, so I know you know that's the stone-cold truth."

  "Ballet was never this hard." She swiped at her eyes, but it did no good. More tears spilled over.

  "Probably not," he agreed, patting her shoulder. "It had a script. Life doesn't."

  "Are you sure this is what you want, Tristan?" Davis asked, eyeing Riley across his desk. The stubborn pain in the ass had arrived in his office half an hour ago and, quite frankly, shocked the hell out of him. He looked like hell, but that was merely the icing on the cake.

  "I'm certain," he answered without hesitation.

  Davis said nothing for long moments. Nothing seemed appropriate. Riley was a pain in his ass, true, but he was also one of those people you wanted on the frontlines in the middle of war. "Let me ask you a question," he finally said.

  Riley glanced up.

  "Why now?"

  "How long do agents usually work undercover?" he asked, sitting back in his chair, the pen still poised in his good hand.

  "Long term? A year, two. Five, tops."

  "I've been at it for four already," he said. "I've spent so long looking over my shoulder, I can't even remember what it's like to walk inside the grocery store and not immediately start memorizing exits."

  "If I fax those papers to Quantico, you can't take them back."

  "I know," Riley agreed with a shrug. "If they fire me, I'm sure someone will find some other use for me somewhere else."

  "It's a big damned decision."

  "It's the easiest one I've made this week," he disagreed. "You, Jase, and the others…if someone has to take the fall for this shit, it shouldn't be one of you. You know as well as I do that nothing any of you said was going to stop me. I was going to do what I had to do regardless of what orders you handed down."

  "You don't believe we're making a difference, do you?" Davis asked. It was the only thing he could figure. Men like Riley didn't give it up. They played their roles until their roles killed them or they no longer believed in what they were doing. That's just the way it worked.

  "Yeah, I do." He pushed the papers across the desk. "And that's the point. This job will kill you if you let it, and there's too much shit to do to let it kill me. If I don't take a step back, it will kill me. And frankly, that's a fucking waste."

  Davis glanced down at Riley's official report and shook his head. Seems Ames was right about the ballerina after all. She was exactly the kick in the ass that Riley required. It'd been a clusterfuck, for sure, but even clusterfucks weren't totally without merit. Who would have ever guessed that it'd be a girl though?

  "I don't get you, Riley. I really don't."

  "You don't have to. All you have to do is sign off on those papers and fax them to Quantico." He stood. "You have everything else you need?"

  "Yeah, we've got it."

  He nodded and headed toward the door.

  "Tristan?" Davis called before he could step out into the hall, making a decision of his own.

  "Yeah?"

  "Come see me when you're ready," he said.

  Riley hesitated and then gave a curt nod before walking away.

  "I have a plan," Michael announced as Lillian slipped her feet into rain boots late the next afternoon.

  She paused and glanced up at him.

  "Let's drink beer and watch bad horror movies instead of trooping out into fucking jungle today," he begged. "I can't take any more peace and quiet, Little Mama. I'm going to lose my shit and start killing fools if you make me. You don't want that on your conscience."

  Lillian regarded him seriously. "You are really strange, you know that?"

  He grinned. "You know you love me. Please, Lillian? Please? I'll even watch a chick flick. Anything but more jungle."

  "You know there isn't an actual jungle in the United States, right?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. With Michael, she never could tell when he was being serious and when he wasn't. He was intelligent as hell, but he hid it behind so many layers, he took her off guard when something profound slipped out of his mouth. Keeping up with him could be a little bit exhausting.


  "Sweetheart, anything that fucking green and mossy is abnormal. And there are raccoons and shit, so in my book? It's a fucking jungle." He huffed and motioned toward the window. "The green is growing green out there, for fuck's sake."

  "You've lived in Seattle your entire life and the green bothers you?"

  "Seattle isn't the middle of nowhere. We have buildings, and smog, and little dudes driving taco trucks to break up the monotony. Here? It's just green. And where that ends, more begins. It's like Godzilla vomited all over the place. I can't take it anymore!" He threw his hands wide in an over-the-top gesture and pouted. "Please save me from Godzilla vomit, and watch people get hacked to little pieces by clowns with me."

  "Clowns?"

  "Clowns," he repeated, poking his bottom lip out a little further. "Please? I'll even drink that fruity shit you call alcohol."

  "'Fine," she agreed. She didn't really care what they did, to be honest. If the last few weeks were any indication, she would miss most of it anyway. She simply existed from moment to moment, trying to keep breathing.

  "Thank you, Baby Jesus!" he cheered, whooping like he'd won the lottery.

  Lillian stepped out of the boots she'd donned before following him into the living room. He was already in front of the big screen, a Blu-Ray case in hand. She made her way to the recliner and eased herself down.

  Killer clowns.

  It'd almost be funny if the pain in her head would let up. So far, the headache showed no signs of disappearing any time soon. She had gone over everything repeatedly in the wee hours, and somewhere around dawn, the truth in Michael's comments had hit her like a wrecking ball.

  Tristan was alive. He hadn't died, and that had as much to do with her as it did anything else. Maybe she was the reason he had gone after Vetrov alone, but she was also the reason he'd kept fighting. He'd spoken her name when he woke, wanted her above anything else.

  Didn't that count for something?

  Shouldn't it?

  What was she waiting for?

  A guarantee that Tristan would come home every day? That he'd never do something stupid ever again? That was stupid, and she knew it. There were no guarantees. Life didn't work that way, and no matter how long she waited, it never would.

  "You're far too serious for killer clowns," Michael said, tossing a piece of paper at her. "What are you thinking about?"

  She brushed the paper off onto the floor. "Life."

  "Oh?"

  "It's like you said yesterday; ballet is scripted. You know exactly what you're going to do. You know exactly what your role is and how it plays out. When to leap, how to land, and when to let someone catch you. Every movement is planned and executed down to the second. I guess…well, honestly? I think I've been waiting for reality to work that way. But it doesn't, does it?"

  "Don't ask me," he laughed, turning the sound down on the television. "I was just trying to get you to stop crying. Besides, I work for the DEA. Those bastards are all about telling my fine ass what to do and how to do it."

  She smiled at his response. "You know what I mean."

  "Yeah, life's a mystery and all that bullshit."

  "Right." She bobbed her head in agreement. "It's not about having all the answers or being in control. You have to figure it out as you go along. Make mistakes, learn from them, and then get up and do it again."

  "Sounds like dancing to me."

  "Maybe a little," she agreed. "But the thing is, I don't want the rigidity of that life anymore. I want the rest of it. I want the uncertainty and the messiness and everything that goes with it."

  "O-kay." He looked at her askance, as if she weren't making any sense whatsoever. And maybe she wasn't to him. But it made sense to her. Living was all about fear and what-ifs. In ballet, the only thing that held you back was fear. You could perform or you could freeze.

  She'd never frozen on stage. Not once had she missed a cue because she'd hesitated. But she'd done nothing but miss cues and hesitate lately. She'd given up because giving up was easier than stepping out onto the stage and dancing without a script. Turning off the music and hiding was easier than taking a leap of faith with no clue where she would land.

  Her career had ended in devastation, and facing the possibility that things might end that way a second time absolutely terrified her. But not facing that fear wouldn't make it go away. It would be there no matter if she stayed here and hid from it now or went back and faced it. She couldn't guarantee Tristan would never get hurt again. She couldn't promise life would be easy. She couldn't say where they'd end up or how they'd get there.

  But she did know that if she stayed here, she'd already lost him. If she stayed, she'd never see him again. Never hold him or kiss him or argue with him or lay quietly beside him. If she stayed, that life was over for her. And she hadn't even given it a chance.

  She wasn't a ballerina anymore, but she was still Lillian, and Lillian didn't give up. She went after what she wanted and she danced. No matter what, she danced.

  It was beyond time for her to tie up her shoes and start dancing again.

  Tristan stared at the phone in his hand, certain his mind played tricks on him. Lillian's name flashed across the screen. So did her picture. But she hadn't called him at all since she'd left. She called Zoë every day. And sometimes she even called Rachel, but she'd never once called him.

  It had to be a mistake.

  He fumbled the phone to his ear, his heart pounding. "Hello?"

  "Tristan?"

  Oh God.

  "Lillian," he breathed as her sweet, sweet voice sounded in his ear. "Beautiful." He sank down into the chair, his legs shaking too hard to hold him up. She was really there, talking to him. He wasn't dreaming.

  Ah, fuck.

  Maybe this was a nightmare.

  "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he demanded, his hand clenched around the phone as old, familiar fear coursed through him. Something was wrong, it had to be. Why else would she call him after how monumentally he'd screwed up?

  "Nothing's wrong. I just–" She cleared her throat on the other end of the line and went silent.

  "Beautiful?" Hs heart was in his throat. He was terrified she'd hung up or was going to hang up or say she shouldn't have called and picking up the phone was one big mistake. And he wasn't ready to hear any of that. God, he so did not want to hear any of that. He was a miserable bastard, he knew that. He'd made so many mistakes trying to protect her from his own demons. But he fucking needed her. He, literally, couldn't do this shit without her anymore. She'd changed him, just like he'd known all along that she would. And he loved it. He loved her.

  "I miss you," she whispered finally. "I miss you so much."

  "Oh, baby." His eyes fell closed, that confession reverberating inside of him like a gong, shaking loose things he hadn't felt in weeks. Hope. Relief. Calm. "I miss you too, beautiful."

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm so sorry, Tristan. I'm so sorry I didn't stay. I'm so sorry you got hurt. I'm so sorry for all of it." She was crying, sobbing her apologies into the phone in gasping shudders.

  "Baby, baby, shh," he soothed, wishing like mad that he could reach out and drag her into his lap and wipe those tears away himself. He'd give anything to have her in his arms right now. Anything. "It's not your fault, beautiful. None of it's your fault. Don't cry. Please, don't cry."

  "Please tell me you don't hate me," she begged, still sniffling into the phone.

  "I could never hate you," he vowed. God, how could she ever think that? "I'm so sorry, beautiful. So fucking sorry." Christ, he wanted to be there with her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her, not tell her any of this over the phone.

  But Elijah…didn't really matter, did he? This did. Lillian did. What she required mattered. Hell, what he needed mattered. And right then, what they both needed was to talk. To really fucking talk and put things back in order. That mattered, they mattered, a whole hell of a lot more than anything else.

  He wanted her here with him, and
he was now more certain than ever that she wanted the same thing. She needed him. In the grand scheme of things, that really did matter more than his fears. He could deal with the fear. He would deal with it. But he didn't have to deal with hearing her cry for him and being too far away to wipe her tears away.

  He could fix that now.

  "Where are you, beautiful?" he asked.

  "My dad's."

  Five hours. He could be with her in five hours. All he had to do was let go. Just, for once in his life, let go of all the heartache and grief and guilt he'd been carrying around. He'd given up enough already. At some point, it had to stop. He had to stop. He could punish himself until it killed him, but he couldn't change the past. He couldn't shelter everyone and hold them at arm's length so he never had to get too close. None of that would bring his parents back.

  He knew that. He'd known that for a long time.

  It was time to let go.

  "I'm coming," he whispered into the phone. "I'm coming to get you, beautiful."

  Her sob was all he needed to know that he'd made the right decision.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tristan had never been to Bend, but as he sped toward Lillian, he felt as if he were coming home. Nothing was familiar, and yet everything was. The streets he drove were uncharted territory for him, but the loosening of muscles and the growing sense of anticipation were as familiar as the kata he'd tried to lose himself in daily since he'd forced his sorry ass out of that hospital bed.

  He felt breathless and as if he could finally breathe all at once. His skin crawled with the desire to be pressed to hers, but still seemed somehow less raw than it had for weeks. The world around him seemed faded and washed out, but bright and new, too. A thousand little dichotic sensations pointed him toward her like a roadmap. It'd been far too long since he'd last held her, and she was finally there, within reach.

  When he saw her as he stopped the car on the curb, his heart hammered and his palms sweated. The first time he'd set eyes on her, he'd thought her beautiful. Now, he found her radiant. Her hair shone like silk in the setting sun, deep reds and lighter browns tumbling freely down her back as she stood on the sidewalk, staring at him. His eyes roved everywhere. Over her face, down her torso, across her scar, and then downward.