Bad for Her

by Christi Barth

  Wait. Rafe cocked his head. Listened. “Is it just at the front door?”

  Flynn nodded. “Sounds like it.”

  “You didn’t look?” Had Flynn forgotten all the basics in their six months out of the business? You had to assess a threat before figuring out how to deal with it.

  “We came to get you. No time to waste peeking through blinds. We need a plan. Fast.”

  “Do you think they found us?” Kellan came closer. The kid looked scared. Hunched over. Frowning. Way younger than his twenty-five years.

  Damn it, Rafe never wanted him to feel that way. Never wanted anything about McGinty’s organization to touch him. Here they were, two thousand miles and five sets of names away, and the ugliness of it was still hurting his little brother.

  “No. I don’t.” The words weren’t just to calm Kellan the fuck down. Rafe grabbed two pairs of sweatpants off the top closet shelf and tossed them at his brothers. “I think if McGinty sent people here to kill us, they wouldn’t knock. We’d already be dead in our sleep.”

  “Then who is it?”

  He tugged on his jeans. Jammed his feet into sneakers. Did the mental math and came up with only one answer. “My best bet is Marshal Evans. She’s the one with the sick habit of dragging us out of our beds in the middle of the night. Did either of you do anything?”

  Flynn whipsawed his head back and forth. “Anything that would set her off? No. I play it clean. Just like I always have. You’re the reason we got pulled from the last town. What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Pretty much. Unless there were security cameras in the hospital? Was it illegal to have sex in an unassigned room? Like they were squatters? Wouldn’t Mollie have said something if there were cameras?

  Shit.

  Mollie. She . . . complicated everything. He needed more. More time with her. More doses of her seeing him as a good guy. More quick, needle-sharp pokes of her wit. More kisses. More laughs. More of everything.

  Just to see what happened next.

  No way could he let Delaney yank them away from Bandon, away from Mollie without a word.

  Not without a fight.

  Rafe walked down the hall. He didn’t creep. He didn’t go on tiptoe. He just walked. Even though he could hear his brothers behind him trying to be all quiet and sneaky.

  It was their damn house.

  Whoever was pounding on the door at oh-dark-thirty should be the one on guard.

  Kellan grabbed his elbow. “You’re just going to open the door?”

  “Only way to find out who’s on the other side.” But he did pause to open a drawer in the table they used to hold their keys and pocket crap. He removed a long knife and held it vertically along his leg.

  Rafe sucked in a breath. Hoped he wasn’t wrong—and therefore dead in thirty seconds—and opened the door.

  It was Mick. Same cap and windbreaker as always. The pissy expression was also, by now, familiar. “About damn time. My fist’s raw from beating on this door. Do you boys know how long I’ve been knocking?”

  “Yeah.” Flynn grunted the word. But next to him, Rafe literally felt the tension leak out of the crowded hallway. Kellan’s hand dropped from his elbow.

  God, he was glad it was the colonel leaning on the doorjamb and not the marshal. Or three goons with Berettas and extra clips. Glad . . . and annoyed. Because it was still four fucking a.m.

  Mick jabbed a finger at him. “Why the hell didn’t you answer sooner?”

  Let’s see, go with the truth? That it took time to mentally run through their makeshift weapons stash? To think about and then reject running out the back door, full bore, for the car and escape?

  Nah. If he went down that road, it’d keep him from getting back to bed anytime soon. So Rafe patted his bare stomach. “Had to put clothes on. Oh, and decide if we wanted to bother talking to whoever would surprise us before the sun’s even up.”

  “If the sun was up, it’d be too late.” Mick pointed up at the still inky black sky, full of more stars than Rafe had ever seen in all of his years in Chicago put together.

  “For what?”

  “Fishing.”

  He and Mollie had left the hospital at around 2:00 a.m. Rafe was dog tired now, but he’d been wide awake on the drive home. He was sure there’d been no half-asleep call to make these crazy-ass plans. Especially since he didn’t touch a damned fish unless it was deep fried and covered in tartar sauce.

  Flynn made the half-wheezing noise that always meant he was trying not to laugh out loud. Not that Rafe blamed him. Because he was torn between swearing and laughing, too.

  Scratching the top of his head, Rafe asked, “Did you tell me we were going fishing?”

  “Nope. Woke up to pee.” Mick frowned. “That’s what you do at my age. Saw that the conditions were right to drop a line. Thought you should come along. Try out a different side of Bandon.”

  Well, the damage was done. Rafe was awake now. Clearly a guy who showed up, uninvited, in the middle of the night wouldn’t take no for an answer. Plus, he did appreciate the invitation. In a weird sort of way.

  “Fine. I’ll go grab a shirt, be right back.”

  Flynn stayed at his heels all the way back to his bedroom, whereas there was no doubt Kellan had stayed by the door to keep Mick company. The kid had manners as polished as the Stanley Cup at Game 7.

  “You’re fucking joking. You’re going out on a boat? Now?”

  “Scared to be left alone?” Rafe taunted as he tugged on a sweatshirt. Yeah. You grow up with a guy, you learn their weaknesses. Flynn’s was that he didn’t like to be teased. At all. Teasing him was twice as effective as a dare. Way better than reverse psychology. He didn’t doubt that Flynn was still jittery from their scare. Totally imagined, no reason to be scared, scare.

  So as a good, caring big brother, it was Rafe’s duty to tease the fright right out of him.

  Fun, too.

  “Shut the fuck up with that.” The Bears starting linebacker didn’t throw as much defense as Flynn was putting off right now. “But Kellan won’t be able to go back to sleep. Which means he’ll bug me to stay up and play video games with him.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. The couch and coffee sounds like a better deal than smelly fish and a boat.”

  “So why go?”

  Mick wasn’t anything like the club-hopping, heavy drinking players he’d rolled with in Chicago. He liked the guy. Putting down roots meant making friends, and Mick was the closest Rafe came to having a real friend here in Bandon. “Could you say no to the colonel?”

  “Probably not.”

  “It’s a nice offer. One I’ve got no reason to refuse. Aside from being fucking exhausted.”

  “Fucking exhausted?” Flynn punched him on the arm with a sly grin. “Or exhausted from fucking?”

  Not a hard thing to figure out. Nothing else in this town would’ve kept Rafe out so late. Didn’t mean he was ready to talk about it. Or have Flynn talk like that about Mollie. Like she was just a way to pass time. Like she didn’t rate a name.

  No, that wasn’t okay at all.

  “Enough. Don’t talk about the doc like that.”

  Flynn froze, mid-stretch with one elbow cocked. “For real?”

  He wouldn’t get into this now. Laying down the law was enough. Rafe shoved his phone into his pocket. “Delaney told us to get to know and like Bandon. You two are slow off the mark at that, so I’m picking up the slack. Taking one for the team.”

  “By fishing at the crack of ass.”

  “Yeah. You can thank me later.”

  “This here’s your basic, six-and-a-half-foot, medium-action spinning rod.” Mick gave a final tamp with his foot. The thing was jammed into a pyramid of sand, just like the one he’d done for Rafe.

  “Will there be a test?”

  “You have to know the names of your tools. Doesn’t matter if its rods and reels, lug nuts and wrenches, or guns and ammo.”

  The specifics of that list put him
on edge. Hopefully it’d been a callout to the colonel’s own military service and not a dig for info on Rafe’s blacked-out past.

  “Sorry. You’re right.”

  He pulled something dark and small out of a pouch at his waist, then attached it to the line. “We put a motor oil grub on the hook for bait. Surfperch are partial to it.”

  “That’s what we’re fishing for? Not salmon?” The only things Rafe knew about Oregon before moving here was that it had salmon and wine. Nobody fucking mentioned cranberries, that was for damn sure.

  “Not salmon. Have to head into a river for that. Or go out on a boat.”

  Rafe looked out at the darkness churning as far as he could see. His stomach did its own churning at the thought. “No boat. No thank you.”

  “You got the sissy stomach?”

  “I like boats in general. I don’t like the idea of being out on the ocean in the dark.”

  “Roger that.” Mick eased himself into a camp chair with a grunt. “Beach fishing’s easier all around.”

  “We’re just going to leave the rods standing there?”

  “You’ll see it bend when you get a bite. Until then, take a load off.”

  This wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d envisioned. Cold, with the wind blowing straight at them off the ocean. But, yeah, with the constant ebb and flow of the surf, it was peaceful. Rafe sat and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  “Thanks for bringing me out here.”

  “The beach is different this early. You see another side of it. Like watching a woman in her sleep. I like it.”

  “Me, too.”

  Mick swung his head to look at him. “Here’s the straight shit. I can tell you don’t want to be in Bandon.”

  Wasn’t that a kick in the nuts? After all the work he’d put into being a good citizen? He’d mowed the Wicks’ lawn so Frieda’s husband wouldn’t worry about it. Joined a festival committee—and stopped short of slapping Floyd silly. Eaten at restaurants. He was mentoring a teenager. Not to mention sleeping with the freaking unofficial town daughter.

  Rafe opened his mouth to deny it. Then again, why bother? A little honesty wouldn’t blow their cover. The Maguire brothers had been pushed to their limit by all these moves and probably radiated way too much attitude. Mick was observant. Just because he’d figured out that Bandon wasn’t their bucket list town didn’t mean he had any chance of figuring out the rest.

  “It wasn’t our first choice.” God’s honest truth.

  “Still, you’ve got to find a reason to like it here.”

  He thought back to what he and Mollie did in that hospital bed. Didn’t even try to stop the shit-eating grin that stretched across his face. “I’m working on it.”

  Mick took off his cap and ran the brim through his hand a few times to re-crease it. Then nailed him with the kind of look that McGinty used to give a client who claimed they were short with their monthly payment. The kind of look that said I am not buying whatever you think you’re selling. “A reason besides Mollie Vickers. Unless she’s enough.”

  Rafe hadn’t thought about it from that perspective. Hadn’t thought about what would or could happen with Mollie long-term. Mollie, who he’d spent more time texting than even seeing in person. That was a first.

  Was that the secret? After all their insistence on friends with benefits, was the key to why he couldn’t stop thinking about her that they’d become friends? Gotten to know and like each other instead of just fucking each other’s brains out?

  Still. Rafe knew, deep down, that nothing serious, nothing lasting could happen between them. Not when she deserved a man who didn’t lie to her.

  “I can also tell that you’re either running or hiding from something. Lots of us are. This is a good place to stop running.”

  The best defense was a good offense. Rafe fired right back. “What are you running from?”

  For a minute, there was only the crashing of the surf. Too early for any shore birds. No answer from Mick, either. Finally, he sucked in a couple of breaths through the side of his mouth. Slapped his palms against the canvas arm rests. “Oh, the usual. I saw bad things in all my tours overseas. Watched a lot of good men die. Horribly. Because of orders I gave.”

  Rafe knew exactly what he meant. Not to the same degree, to be sure. But guilt weighed just as heavy for every single life you watched blink out. And even though he’d never been the one pulling the trigger, watching it happen still weighed heavy on him. Because life freaking mattered.

  It was a strong, brave admission. He couldn’t let it sit out there without offering something in return. “I’ve been through something similar.”

  “Have you?” Mick didn’t sound the least surprised. A soldier always recognized another soldier, no matter the trappings or circumstance.

  “Nothing as large-scale as what you went through. Enough to wake me up in the middle of the night, though. Sweating and shaking the guilt out.” He’d been in some turf wars. Just as bodyguard to McGinty, but he’d still seen men he knew get shot down right in front of him. Had watched, arms crossed and jaw clenched, as a lower-rank soldier carried out whatever hit McGinty deemed necessary.

  He’d absolutely fucking hated it.

  But it kept a roof over his brothers’ heads. Let Kellan follow his dream and—almost—become a lawyer. So Rafe wouldn’t do a damn thing differently.

  Another long pause. Rafe figured that Mick was battling back the faces of the dead flashing through his head now, same as Rafe. They both stared out at the blackness in front of them.

  The chair creaked as Mick rearranged himself. “You can’t change your memories. You just have to learn to live with them. Somehow.”

  “Bandon fixed that for you?” Because Rafe would give just about anything for the same fix. It was true he’d thought a lot less about the past in the last twelve days. Wasn’t that just because he’d been so busy? Getting settled, the new job, taking on Jesse, keeping watch over his brothers, joining the festival fucking committee, falling into a habit of these chats with Mick, and of course, Mollie.

  Mollie of the big laugh and bigger heart.

  Mollie, who thought everyone deserved a second chance.

  Mollie, who didn’t know jack shit about the old version of him and seemed to really like the new version.

  Mick riffled through the backpack he’d stashed between their chairs. Pulled out two thermoses and handed one to Rafe. “My wife and I talked for years about where we’d live once the Corps spit us out. When you’re posted to the ass-end of nowhere, it’s a nice escape to dream. We thought the mountains would be nice. North Carolina, where there’s enough military folk for us to feel comfortable. But Barbara died before my retirement papers came through.”

  “I’m sorry.” He’d assumed Mick was a widower, from the lack of mention of a wife coupled with the ring on his finger. Still sucked to be confirmed.

  “She was my rock.” The older man took a long, noisy slurp. “Suddenly everything I knew was gone. My wife, my job, my friends, my whole life. Nothing made sense.”

  Yeah. That was exactly how Rafe felt when they first joined WITSEC. At least he’d had his brothers. As pissy and unhappy as they were with him, it’d been a million times better than going it alone.

  “Sounds hard.”

  “Living our dream by myself . . . well, it just didn’t work. I tried three or four other places across the country. Nothing felt right. Nothing worked for me. Until I got here.”

  Was the guy inside Rafe’s head? Digging out his own carefully blocked off feelings about their other pit stops across the country? And was he acknowledging that Bandon did feel right to him now?

  Rafe unzipped his jacket, needing the coolness of the wet breeze. “Everyone’s friendly here. A little too friendly and nosy, sometimes. But accepting.”

  “They don’t care that I talk to my dead wife.”

  Rafe froze, the top only half unscrewed from the thermos. “Okay. That’s pretty accepting.”

  “I�
��m not crazy. I know Barbara won’t answer me. But I spent so many years running things by her, the habit’s too hard to stop. It makes me feel better.”

  “Whatever works.” Because who was he to judge?

  “The people here don’t give me any guff about it. Don’t try to lock me up, either. They let me be who I am. That’s why it works. That’s why Bandon is home.”

  “I miss my old home.” Rafe hadn’t intended to say that. But he had to hide that pain around his brothers, around the marshal. It felt good to say it out loud. Like ripping off a Band-Aid to give a scab some air.

  “I miss what was, too. Doesn’t show it any disrespect to like where you are now, though.”

  Was that it? Had Rafe spent all these months making himself miserable? Fighting to not let go of Chicago? Even though it was his own idea to jump ship and leave?

  He twisted sideways to look at Mick. “I want to make it work here. You have no idea how much I want this to work for us.”

  “So stop with the comparisons.”

  Shit. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I see you watching. You size everyone up. Size every situation up. The only explanation is that you’re comparing every thing, every person, every place against your old life. You’re putting what used to be up on a pedestal. Throw a tarp over that thing. Move on.”

  It was damn good advice. The same thing the marshal had been yammering at him this whole time, but from a different tack. He wasn’t cheating on Chicago. They’d broken up. For all the right reasons.

  “I want to like Bandon. I don’t like cranberries, though,” he admitted.

  Nodding, Mick took back the thermos. “You hate the jelly stuff in the can, don’t you?”

  Finally. Somebody in this town who hadn’t drunk the cranberry-flavored Kool-Aid. “It’s disgusting. Like eating snail slime.”

  “Ever had cranberry apple pie?”

  “No.”

  He slapped a palm on the canvas arm of his chair. “I’ll ask Norah to make you one.”

  “I don’t want any—”