“Christ.” He rubbed his forehead and snagged the bottle to swig a few more sips of beer. He replayed the last few minutes of the hockey game while he waited for his laptop to chime again.
Upstairs creaked. Mama was moving around. Why wouldn’t she sit and watch her shows? Maybe he should check out the celebrity chef’s files. Perhaps there was a recipe or something that he could nab, something nice for his mom—easy to make and tasty. He rubbed his sternum, uncomfortable, as a twinge of guilt needled him. Everything was for family, even when it was hard, and it was always hard.
This—his mother—was just a different kind of hard. He didn’t know what to do. Tanya was never around to help. Shit, he could call her, but he would just get her voice mail.
While he was on his trip, Mama had had a much harder time. Tanya didn’t help as she should, and now Mama was worse. He should hack the celebrity chef’s files. Make his mom a nice meal.
But what was the point?
The stairs squeaked again, and he pursed his lips and sighed, deciding to down the rest of his beer instead of looking up and seeing what she wanted this time. Tossing the empty bottle on the coffee table, he stared at the TV screen until Mama cleared her throat. “Alexander?
“Yeah, Mama?”
“Alexander, do you know where your father is?” she asked as if she hadn’t asked the same thing five minutes ago.
“Yeah, Mom. He’s dead.” Harsh but true. It didn’t matter how often they had this conversation. She wouldn’t believe him—unless she did, in which case Alexander’s night would be ruined. He made the mistake of looking up, and her face twisted as if she half-remembered and half-thought he was a twelve-year-old boy. “Playing, Mom. He’s out hustling pool. He’ll be back later. Are you hungry?”
“Don’t say that about your father.” She pointed a finger and shook it at the kid she probably saw. “And no.”
There had to be some comfort in not remembering tragedies. When Mama’s mind first started to go, one of the first things that she lost was Dad’s death. It was almost as if this disease had a silver lining. She forgot how badly she missed him when she didn’t realize that he was gone.
Alexander looked at the stairs. If she hadn’t gone back, and she wasn’t hungry, maybe tonight was one of the nights when she realized her husband wasn’t coming home. “Do you want to see a cute kid?”
“Sure, whose kid?” she asked in a sad voice.
“It’s my daughter, Alyona. I call her Aly.”
“You’re too young to have a kid.” His mom laughed. “Kids are expensive. You have no idea what Dad and I do to support you.”
Alexander was absolutely a twelve-year-old that night—young enough to be corrupted, yet so young that she might try to parent him. “I know you do a lot.”
In her dementia, Mama had rewritten herself as a doting parent. It irked the shit out of him most times, but that night, when he wanted to see his daughter, when he was doing whatever was asked of him to do so, he could forgive his mother. “She’s cute. Someone once said she looked like me.”
Mama relented, maybe clinging to the distraction too. “Sure, let’s see this Aly who looks like you.”
Slowly, one step at a time, his mom crept down the stairs, giving Alexander enough time to pull up one of the only pictures of his daughter. It was selfish, but he liked having this conversation with his mom every time it happened.
“Ah…” His mom took the phone from him and held it far away. “Look at that little girl.”
Alexander waited, hoping to hear what made the FSB deal worth it.
“That hair and those hazel eyes. That chin. I can see why you kids play pretend. She looks just like you. When you grow up, maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have a little girl this pretty.”
CHAPTER SIX
Even with the window rolled down and the radio volume low, Locke’s headache drilled at the back of his head as the highway mile-marker signs flew by. He called Bishop, but there was no answer, and Locke decided to head toward Bishop’s wife’s office. If he turned out to be wrong about where Bishop was, then he’d kick it in DC. No big deal. He just couldn’t go home alone.
He twisted the top of the water bottle, pitched it back, and guzzled. Locke didn’t want to call any of his military buddies up because Cassidy would come up in the conversation. Not that they would bring her up. But it was as if her name was on the tip of his tongue—he couldn’t help talking about her since they’d returned from Russia.
She was all he could think about. That, and Sadr City. After Parker’s day of video and reports, Locke couldn’t see straight without thinking about the men who’d died. His old wounds were raw, and the burden he clung to was heavy. Maybe he should’ve asked if Thelma could come home with him.
Bishop had a dog too. Maybe he’d ask to borrow him.
Hell, half of Titan seemed to have a pet. Maybe that was a secret to life outside of the military. Get a goddamn dog.
A horn blared—and Locke yanked back into his lane. Shit.
He needed to get his head screwed on straight. Tossing a hand in the air to say he was the jackass, he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.
The trill of his phone stole his attention. Bishop’s name was on the screen. Locke swiped the phone. “Hey, man.”
“Ella and I are getting dinner downtown in a while. You hungry?”
“Vegan froufrou? Yeah, I don’t know about that.”
“It won’t be a steak house.” Bishop laughed. “But probably not froufrou.”
“Early, isn’t it?” He wasn’t in the mood to do an early dinner. “Nah, I’m more in the mood for a beer.”
“Good, so am I,” Bishop said. “I’ll blame you, and we’ll go do that instead.”
“Great. That’s what I need today—Ella chewing my ass.”
Bishop chuckled. “She’ll be okay if it’s just us. I mentioned Jared was on the war path, and she can appreciate you might need to blow off some steam.”
“Mentioned, huh?”
“She sees things for what they are.”
That meant Bishop had talked about what happened in Russia and at Titan HQ, and his wife was worried. “Whatever you say.” Everyone was worried. It wasn’t like he was just having a moment. He was obviously unraveling at work, and the whole team, plus significant others, were on red alert. Awesome. “Where are you?”
“Her publicist’s office.”
That had been his first guess. At least Locke wasn’t losing his mind. “All right. I’ll see you in fifteen.”
He ended the call and changed lanes to exit 395, ducking off the bridge right in time to cross over into Southeast DC. Locke rolled past the Capitol. Everything about Cassidy he had just watched had happened right near there. Congressional hearings. Depositions.
He slowed to find that protesters blocked his turn onto First Street, and Locke tried to map another way to Ella’s publicist’s office. Two blocks that way…?
They’d had a job over here a few months earlier, and he semi-knew the area, but he didn’t have the DC streets committed to memory, and Capitol Hill police waved him in the opposite direction he needed to go. Fucking hell. His headache didn’t need this.
Rerouted, Locke turned and tried to backtrack to where he needed to go. There was that park he recognized, and a school—the school. He slowed and peered out the window, taking in the high school he had seen a thousand times and never thought twice about. St. Andrew’s. How about that? Where Alex Gaev taught and—Locke’s neck snapped to the side, and he slammed on his brakes. There was Cassidy Noble.
Of all the people, on all the days, there sat the red-haired ghost from his past. She wasn’t close enough to seem like a visitor to the school, but what else was over here? Not much on that block. With her glaring, investigative-reporter stare, Cassidy looked as if she were casing the joint.
“What the hell are you doing?” He let his foot off the brake, craning his neck as he passed. She stared at a back door facing what had to be the f
aculty parking lot. Was she watching for the teacher? Hard to tell in his mirrors.
Locke came to a stop sign and waited longer than he should have before proceeding. Hell, he was curious, so he turned right to retrace his path and come back.
At the corner, across from where Cassidy sat, he waited. She didn’t notice.
“She’s nuts.” He threw his truck into reverse, backed up a good thirty feet to the nearest parallel parking spot, maneuvered into it, and threw his truck into park.
Never once did it appear that she noticed him watching her stare at the school. Yeah, that was weird. The whole thing was odd, and he was going to talk to her.
Locke opened his door and jumped out. Seconds later, he was by the side of her Jeep. Still, she didn’t notice that a man stood by her passenger window. Man, when Cassidy was focused, the rest of the world was an afterthought.
“Hey.” He rapped on the window.
Cassidy jumped, and he chuckled as she let loose every curse word he’d heard in the last two months.
“Are you going to unlock the door?” he asked, mildly amused.
She rolled her eyes and slammed her hand onto the console, opening the door.
At the click, Locke opened the front passenger door. “Cassidy.”
“Why would you scare me like that?” Her wild blue-green eyes narrowed, and her cheeks had tinged red, making her faint freckles invisible. “Do you know how insane it is to sneak up on a person?”
He leaned down. “What are you doing here?”
Her brows knit when she squinted, but she managed to fold her hands in her lap. “Nothing.”
“Nothing. Looks like it.” Locke pulled back and put an elbow on top of her car. Deciding it was best to join her, he folded into the seat, shut the door, and turned to see her taut face all kinds of pissed off. Welcome to my world, Cassidy. I had intel-therapy today…
“What are you doing?” She dragged out each word as if offering him the phonetics.
“I’m joining you. Thought that was obvious.”
“I can see that,” she snapped.
“Good, seeing as you’re a reporter. The observe-and-analyze part of the job would be in danger if you couldn’t pull off—”
“Why are you invading my personal space?”
“This is where that prick works, huh?” Locke turned toward the oh-so-prestigious St. Andrew’s. It looked like any other school, except with nice brickwork and landscaping that Better Homes and Gardens could do a photo shoot at.
Her blue-green eyes deepened inquisitively. “Why do you think he’s a prick?”
“I asked you a question first.”
“I’m not here to play games,” she said.
“But you are here to do something, and I wonder what that is.”
She muttered under her breath and faced forward. What the hell was he doing in her Jeep, anyway? There were two small notebooks with scattered notes written across the pages going all different directions, and he bent over slightly to read one, turning the booklet.
“Do you mind?” She slapped her hand over his.
He laughed at the sting and pulled away. “I’m curious.”
“Don’t be.”
“You look like you’re spying on an ex. Like there’s another girl—”
“God, you’re an asshole!” Both of Cassidy’s hands slammed into his shoulder.
Of all the things that Locke was prepared for, a two-handed Cassidy sledgehammer was not one of them. Then she did it again!
“Hey, hold on.”
“Oh, shove it.” She leaned across his chest—she smelled like honey and sugar—and opened his door. “Out!”
The door closed immediately.
“God,” Cassidy growled. She pushed over him again, cursing, and pulled the handle, throwing the door open a few more inches. “Out!”
“Jeez, Cassidy.”
“No, sir. No way.” Back on her side, still smelling like a heaven-sent saint, she laid into him again. “Get out of my car.”
“Cassidy, I was just playing.”
“Get. Out.”
He got out of her Jeep but stayed on the sidewalk. “Okay.”
Maybe what he’d said was insensitive—on a dick-move scale of one to ten, a solid eight. But she didn’t need to throw down like she was challenging him to an arm-punch war. “Calm down.”
“Are you joking me?” Her beautiful, wild eyes bugged as she leaned over the console to yell at him. “You got in my car unannounced. I should call the cops. You had the audacity to assume that it was a relationship problem. You’re a sexist pig, Locke. Shut the door.”
Sexist pig…? Numbly, he closed the door, mumbling, “Remind me never to make a crack about redheads.”
She’d probably deck him, thus confirming that she had that fiery temper redheads were known for. Was he a sexist pig? If his mother heard those words attached to his name, she’d probably fall over dead, only to rise again and lecture his ass. Shit.
The Jeep’s engine revved, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away as she pulled off the curb like she couldn’t wait to get away. Another car skipped the stop sign, and Cassidy laid on her horn, zooming to avoid getting hit.
“Careful, Flamethrower,” he grumbled as she sped away.
What the hell had just happened? Fuck. He wasn’t a sexist pig. But hell, he’d just said things that were borderline sexist. Or maybe not so borderline. Damn it.
A woman approached him on the sidewalk, and the frustration building inside his gut, clouding in his chest, won when he couldn’t contain the urge to explain, “I’m not a sexist pig.”
She stepped off the curb to avoid him.
“I’m not!”
She looked both ways and crossed the street.
Since when did women run and speed away from him? He stormed back to his truck, slamming his hand into a lamppost as he passed it. Sharp spikes of pain ran up his knuckles into his forearm. It hurt like a mother bear, and he gritted into the well-deserved pain. The shit Cassidy had just called him on was true. What was his damn problem with her?
His phone rang, and Locke pulled it out. Mom. He laughed. Fucking A—the woman had eyes everywhere. Locke towered over his mother and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, but she was fierce, opinionated, and had unbelievable timing. Back in the day, his buddies’ moms let them off the hook for cutting school. Not Locke’s mom. In his mind, the lecture still sounded as clear as the ringing phone: “People say boys will be boys. But not in my house. I’m raising a man.”
He swiped the phone. “Hey, Mom.”
“Oh no. I can tell by the sound of your voice. What’d you do?”
He laughed and dropped his head back. “Screwed up at work.” He took a deep breath and straightened up. “Just knocked my fist into a lamppost.”
His mom hummed in the phone. “Not very smart.”
“Not very. You doing okay?”
“Just checking in on my favorite son.”
“Your only son.”
“Semantics.” She laughed.
“That only son of yours might have screwed up.”
“How so?”
Locke turned toward where Cassidy’s Jeep had peeled off. “I said something to a woman who was involved with Sadr City, and you can guess how that went.”
His mom hummed again. “You can’t bring back those boys, sweetie.”
His chest ached, and in one swoop, his mom knew how to boil a problem down to basics. “I know. It wasn’t really about that.” He drew in a long breath and let it out. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you can always jump on a flight and come home whenever you need a break. Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Do good things, Locke. That’s why you’re remarkable at what you do—you step in when there’s not an easy way out. Love you.”
“You too, Mom.”
The call ended, and he pocketed the phone and dropped his head back to stare at the now clouding sky.
A bell
rang at St. Andrew’s, and high school students burst out the door seconds later. They fled to a small lot of expensive cars and grouped on the sidewalks.
But he still wondered why Cassidy had been waiting. Why take that reporting job to begin with? The pay had to be pennies compared to what she could earn for the time spent in Russia. Was she building up her international résumé again? The job was done, though. Maybe she was just moving on.
Whatever. It didn’t matter.
Locke needed to get his head out of his ass and stop making assumptions about things that he thought he already knew. Things like Cassidy Noble. Who apparently smelled like honey and sugar. He shook his head, shocked at everything he’d found out about her that day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cassidy vibrated with annoyance and replayed what just happened. How dare Locke get in her car? How dare he suggest her interest in Alex was based on a personal relationship? Cassidy yanked the steering wheel hard and slammed on the gas, turning—shit. The tire clipped the corner of the curb.
“Whoops.” Her cheeks went hot. “Not my smoothest move.”
But that was what Jeeps were for. Had Locke seen that, or was she far enough away? Not that he’d keep his eyes on her. But if he did, he’d judge her driving skills.
Let him. Cassidy didn’t care.
“Ugh.” What was he doing over there, anyway? Following her. He hated her, even when she tried to talk to him. Except he’d just jumped in her Jeep. What was that?
Flop.
Her ears pricked.
Flop.
Did she run over something? She would’ve seen it, would’ve heard it.
Flop.
Oh, crap. She had hit the curb. Dear sweet God, please tell me there wasn’t damage to my tire. She checked her side-view mirror as if it had some miraculous view of her tire.
Locke and Key (Titan Book 12) Page 6
