Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  I grinned, looking down into my stew. Striker caught my grin and considered me. “You know where she put it, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  I looked up and held his eye for a moment, the smile lighting my face. “She probably stuck it the same place I would if two macho guys were on my trail.” Everyone turned to me and waited expectantly.

  I looked from face to face, and then back to Striker. “I’d put it in the place every girl knows a man would overlook—the bottom of her tampon box.” I spooned more stew into my mouth. Striker looked over at Randy and Blaze. They wiped their mouths and pushed their chairs back, heading back out the door.

  After dinner, Jack cleared the table. I turned on the coffee maker I prepped earlier with grounds and water. While the coffee percolated, I heated water for Striker’s tea. I made a generous tray for Axel, for when he got back, and set it in the oven on warm. Deep took care of the dishes and wiped down the kitchen.

  At the table, the men pulled out their computers. Jack asked if I wanted coffee, and I shook my head. He brought five mugs to the table with the stainless steel carafe. I poured boiling water into another mug, dunked a peppermint tea bag in, and set it in front of Striker. Striker looked down at the tea, sniffed, and looked back at me.

  I remembered from one of our meetings back in my Alex days Striker never drank coffee at night; he liked peppermint tea. I was amusing myself, playing with his mind a little bit.

  “Not what you wanted?” My mouth quirked into a smile.

  He narrowed his eyes, cocking his head slightly to the side, looking at me from a different angle. “No, this is fine, thank you.”

  With dinner over, the mood shifted back to work mode. All the men seemed to have a military background. Clean, precise, and honorable. They were all “yes, ma’am; no, sir.” Though I wouldn’t say American as apple pie. Nothing light and flaky about their exteriors; nothing obviously warm and sweet about them, either. These men were hard and controlled. Even at the dinner table, where they seemed to be more themselves, joking with each other, they still had the quality of parade rest—a tightness about their muscles and alertness in their eyes, a readiness to spring into action.

  They were reviewing open cases; it was inappropriate for me to listen. I roamed into the living room and folded up my bed linens, putting them on the end of the sofa to make room in case the men wanted to relax. Picking up the remote control, I muted the sound while I surfed through the channels, looking for something to distract me from my thoughts …

  With my hip leaning into the arm of the sofa, wondering when Axel might get back with some underwear for me, I flipped past the local news. There on the screen hung the rendering of my attacker. The lifelike drawing stunned me. My eyes fixed on the picture; with my heart staggering around my ribs like a drunkard, panic twisted my lungs. Stalker leered at me, a big man of mixed racial background with almond-shaped eyes and a flat nose over a wide, full mouth. Two scars disfigured the left side of his face—one ran from his nose to the corner of his lip, and another ran from his eye to his chin. On the right side, he adorned himself with a tribal tattoo showing black against his light brown skin. Horror transfixed me as memories of that night engulfed my brain. My skin stung like a hive of wasps from the perspiration’s salt. I fell to the ground on all fours, panting for air, tears and saliva dripping onto the carpet, moans crawling up my throat as I rocked back and forth.

  Striker barked orders at his men. Firm hands gripped my shoulders. Striker supported my weight as Jack pulled my ankle out straight, and they rolled me onto my back. Randy stood ready with a blanket, which he threw over my legs, allowing Striker to unbutton the bottom part of my shirt and still keep me covered. Though modesty had zero importance to me in the moment. Help me! Make this stop! My brain shrieked.

  Striker carefully reached up under the top button, gently patting my chest, my breasts, my stomach, dipping the cloth frequently into the water and wringing it almost dry. I threw my arms over my face, biting at my sleeve to keep from screaming. Strangled sounds gurgled from my throat. Adrenaline filled my glands and made me stink like an animal fighting for its life. I wanted to battle—to claw and bite to escape the pain. I wrestled those emotions down. The tiny slice of my rational mind still functioning realized that lying still would get me relief sooner. It was a hard-fought internal struggle.

  Soon, the cool cloth lowered my temperature, and I stopped sweating. The water washed away the salt.

  The men had gathered around, staring down at the crosshatches covering my torso like the blackened stitch lines on a crazy quilt. The mood in the room fell deadly silent. The men’s fists balled and their jaws clenched.

  In a nanosecond, I swung from boiling to freezing. My teeth chattered together so fast and hard my head clanged. My tongue tasted metallic. Striker squatted beside me and slid one arm under my knees and another around my back. Jack steadied us as Striker pushed to standing and carried me up the stairs with Jack close behind him. I draped in Striker’s arms like a rag doll, barely able to keep my cheek pressed into his chest. I felt like Striker had pulled me from the washing machine, after banging around then being spun almost dry.

  Jack opened a bedroom door and clicked on a lamp that dimly lit the room then went over to the bed and turned down the covers. Striker moved toward the La–Z–Boy, and sat down with me in his lap.

  Jack brought a thick blanket, draping it over me, and Striker adjusted his arms so he could hold the cover in place. After a nod from Striker, Jack went back downstairs, closing my door softly behind him.

  I cowered into Striker’s chest and sobbed until exhaustion overtook me. Striker smoothed my long hair back behind my ear to get it out of the tears staining my face.

  “How are you doing?” Striker’s voice sounded like velvet.

  “I’m done in,” I whispered up at him. “I’m better now,” I added. “Thank you for helping me.” Striker pulled me a little tighter to him, in a supportive hug; he shifted under me as he lifted me to the bed. After tucking the covers under my chin, he sat down on the edge of the mattress and looked me in the eye.

  “Detective Murphy said your brain injury causes your problems with vertigo and adrenaline. I was unprepared for the severity. Is this what happens every time?”

  I nodded.

  “He said you’re refusing medications because you’re concerned they might prevent you from being able to react sufficiently if you needed to defend yourself. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  Striker rubbed his thumb and index finger over his forehead. “You were in a lot of pain. To be honest, I’ve never seen anything like what happened to you during the attack. I can’t imagine what you endured then, or now. Is it possible you’re comfortable enough here with us, you’d reconsider taking the medication? Give yourself a break at least from the adrenaline?”

  “No.” I said resolutely. Striker nodded, serious.

  We looked at each other for a long moment. “Thank you, though. You seemed to know just what to do.” I shifted my gaze down to my hands and twisted my wedding ring back and forth.

  Striker chuckled. “I got caught off guard for a second then I realized what was going on. One minute you’re standing there with the TV remote, and the next you’re on the floor on all fours, groaning and grinding like a high-priced porn star. You should have seen the shock on my men’s faces.”

  I guessed I should have been scandalized by his ribald joke; Striker normally acted like the perfect gentleman. But I had been out on enough assignments with him to know that after a tense undertaking, Striker often threw out some completely off-the-wall comment. Something that took us by surprise. The shock usually served to shift the mood to laughter and teasing. I’d never seen him do this with a crime victim, though. When he talked with a civilian, his word choices were always meticulously appropriate. I wondered what made me different? Why was he treating me like he did when I was on the team as Alex? Could he have made the connection? Did he
recognize me after all?

  It didn’t really matter; I had fallen for his shenanigans and grinned back at him. “So, they thought I had succumbed to all of the testosterone in the room? I couldn’t handle it anymore, and I dropped into a spontaneous orgasm?” I smirked.

  “Yeah, something along those lines.” Wariness crept into his voice—I bet he second-guessed his comment and wanted to take it back.

  I laughed to reassure him the remark hadn’t bothered me. “Hah! Well, you didn’t.”

  “I had a heads-up from Detective Murphy, and I saw the guy’s picture on the TV screen.” He narrowed his eyes with his assessing look. “Be honest, are you okay?” he asked softly.

  “I’m okay. I need to sleep a little now.” My eyelids drooped heavily with the weight of my fatigue.

  “I’ll be in the room on your right tonight if you need anything,” Striker stood, smoothed the sheets and blankets over me, and clicked off the light.

  He leaned carefully over me and whispered in my ear, “How did you know I drink mint tea?” I didn’t bother opening my eyes but let a small, slow smile play across my lips as I drifted off to sleep.

  It hadn’t been late when Striker tucked me into bed. My stay at the hospital, with the nightly poking and prodding, definitely messed up my sleep cycle. Now here I lay, one in the morning, and I fidgeted with the soft satin edge of my blanket, trying not to squirm around and pull at my scabs. Jeezis, but my torso itched!

  If I were at home, I might take a melatonin to help me get back to my regular schedule. I doubted they had anything like that here. I eased out of my bed and wandered into the bathroom to look in the medicine cabinet on the off chance they had something. In between the bottles of Pepto Bismol and Tylenol, I discovered some antihistamines; they should do the trick. I tipped a pill out of the bottle and used my hands to cup some water from the faucet to wash it down.

  I climbed back into bed to wait for sleep to drift over me. The clock ticking by my head made me acutely aware of how slowly time paced. The more I lay there, the more my mind wandered. The more my mind wandered, the more I freaked myself out over every little creak and groan that belonged to an older house. I found myself listening anxiously for someone moving around in the garage or climbing the staircase. I had revved myself into a state, and I didn’t want to repeat my earlier crisis.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I flung my covers to the side and snuck out of my room. A nightlight in the bathroom lit the hallway. Striker’s door stood slightly ajar. My hand rested on his doorknob. What are you doing, Lexi? My subconscious stilled my forward momentum. I glanced back at my door. Which was scarier—the heebie-jeebies and an adrenaline spike? Or this plan?

  I took a minute to breathe. Here was the problem—I couldn’t handle the adrenaline. Or even the idea of adrenaline. And my mind was getting the best of me. Scared out of my wits, I needed some respite—an island of safety. But was going through this door safe? Hell in a handbasket, my inner knowing reminded me. Whatever that meant.

  I didn’t really have a good grasp on Striker. He was largely a figment of my imagination—my teenaged hormones run amuck, I reminded myself as I chewed on my bottom lip. My brows knit together. Past tense. Very past. Angel was my reality. I deeply loved my husband. So, was there really a problem? Did I think going through this door equaled disloyalty to Angel in some way? Unfaithfulness? No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  My Striker emotions were simply mirages and memories messing with my brain. And quite frankly, anything about those feelings that made me awkward or nervous around him—they were nothing compared to the security I experienced when he was near. Striker Rheas was the embodiment of safety.

  “Lexi?” Striker’s voice rasped thickly with sleep.

  I cracked Striker’s door open wide enough to fit through, tiptoed over to his bed, and crawled under his covers, facing him.

  “I have the heebie-jeebies,” I whispered.

  He chuckled softly. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to climb into a strange man’s bed?”

  “More dangerous than the heebie-jeebies? No, I don’t think so. What would I be afraid of in your bed, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should worry about my moral fortitude?”

  “I’m not even the teeniest bit worried about that,” I whispered into the dark. “Maybe if I were any other woman, but I’m convinced I’m completely safe here in your bed, both from any advances from you and from the boogie man.”

  “And why are you safer here than any other woman?” Striker whispered back to me. I could hear his smile.

  “First, I’m a shredded mess, and in no way can that be appealing. Second, you were on the Teams, serving overseas. You get what that means, and Dave told you my husband’s over there right now. The last thing you’d do with a fellow soldier’s wife is lose sight of your moral fortitude.”

  “That’s what you’ve deduced?”

  I nodded against the pillow.

  “You’re pretty good. Who told you I was a SEAL? Have my men been chatting with you?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  Striker waited for me to expound. I still wasn’t altogether sure how to play this hand—what Spyderman would want him to know. I decided that tucking the pillow under my head and cozying in to sleep was the best way to go.

  “Hey.” Striker climbed over me and got a pair of sweatpants from his drawer. He tossed them to me. “You at least have to put something on your bottom half. I am only human.”

  Twenty

  The sky hung gray and heavy when Striker maneuvered out of bed, holding the blankets to keep the shock of cold air off me—probably trying not to wake me up. I lay with my eyes closed, playing possum. He moved quietly, gathering some clothes from the drawers and his dock kit from off the bureau. He headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Snuggled under the covers, warm and a little sluggish, I wondered if Axel had brought clothes in for me last night. I hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs. Under Striker’s protection, I had slept very well.

  I wandered to my bedroom, and sure enough, I found bags piled on the floor next to the chair. I opened the first one from Victoria’s Secret. It held tons of panties—different colors, fabrics, styles. I guessed Axel didn’t want to choose what would be comfortable to me, so he told the sales lady he wanted one of everything. I searched the tag for the size. He’d gotten that right, and they were all the same. Hmm, confident, I thought. No bras—good, I couldn’t wear them anyway, which I’m sure he understood.

  Pulling off Striker’s oversized sweats, I put on a pair of white cotton low-rise bikinis. Funny how secure I felt right away.

  I opened a bag from a shop unfamiliar to me. Inside were lounge pants and T-shirts of the softest material imaginable. One hundred percent bamboo, the label read. I had heard of bamboo material, but had never worn it before. I rubbed it against my cheek. Yum! This was beyond luxurious; it felt like an emotion—like kindness. I stepped into a pair of blue and green striped pants. They sat low on my hip below the scabs. I pulled out a shirt that matched the blue stripes, tore off the tag, and pulled it carefully over my head. The cloth settled against my skin. It didn’t bind, nor was it so loose that it rubbed. It slid over my crusty torso and didn’t catch on the glue and dried blood. Wonderful, Axel. The fabric was thick enough for modesty, even though the girls were going unsupported.

  In the bag from Bellisima Beauty Supply, I found a manicure/pedicure kit, hair styling products, and appliances. The first CVS bag held tampons and panty liners (such a good man), Midol, and a bag of Dove chocolate. I laughed. Axel must have a wife or a serious girlfriend. Someone had trained him well. The second CVS bag had hygiene products and some basic makeup items: black mascara, tinted lip-gloss, and translucent powder—ah, and a new purple toothbrush. When I peeked in the last bag, a pair of fuzzy pink bunny slippers poked out their ears. Too funny. Axel seemed to hit all the bases; I was pretty darned impressed with his selections.

  When I got up thi
s morning, I made the conscious decision to keep my thoughts light. Fluffy interior, fluffy exterior. I wouldn’t process any of my challenges. My thoughts went to the Buddhist monks who practiced mindfulness and would sit blankly for hours at a time. Blank was beyond me, but maybe I could manage mundane. My goal? An adrenaline-free day.

  I made my bed while waiting for Striker to finish up in the bathroom. When his bedroom door shut, I slipped in to brush my teeth and use the toilet. I brushed my hair back in a loose braid, swiped on some mascara, and used a little gloss. With a critical look in the mirror, I examined my forehead, where the wound over my right brow had turned greenish-yellow and purple. I had a large gash with twelve black stitches. The plastic surgeon said the slight scar would blend into my hairline and become unnoticeable with time as long as I stayed out of the sun. Easy enough, no sun shines in the safe house. After I’d done the best I could with my appearance, I went back to my room for the bunny slippers and hopped myself down the stairs for some breakfast.

  Striker, dressed in a sharply pressed Iniquus uniform, leaned against the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He glanced up when I came into the room. His eyes took me in from head to toe. “Morning, Lexi.”

  “Morning.” I returned his smile shyly. I had just slept next to this man, how was I supposed to act now? I took my cue from Striker and moved on.

  Food had appeared in the fridge overnight—probably Axel’s doing as well.

  Randy looked over at me from the stove, where he was scrambling eggs. “Breakfast will be done in a minute, ma’am. Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

  “I would love some, but the doctors tell me it’s a no-no until I have my head screwed back on right. I think I’ll have some tea, though.” I went to the cabinet and reached for a mug. My darned head started to spin. Striker caught me from behind and supported me as he moved me toward the table.