The Truth (Butler Ranch Book 5)

by Heather Slade

  A few days. That’s what his note had said. He’d be out of town a few days. What did that mean? More than two, right? But less than five. Five would be several. Wouldn’t it?

  She thought about asking one of the doormen if they knew when he’d return, but he would hear about it, and then he’d know exactly how immature his just-turned-twenty-one neighbor really was.

  Instead, she’d begged off going out, because she’d much rather stay at home, close her eyes, and think about him, than hang out at a crowded, noisy party, where she couldn’t hear her own thoughts.

  “What is going on with you?” Aine asked over the breakfast she’d forced Quinn to go out for.

  Of her four friends, Quinn was closest to her and her twin, Ava.

  “Is it your mom?” she asked.

  That was the second best thing about Mercer, after how heart-poundingly hot he was—when she thought about him, she didn’t think about her mother, at least not as much.

  “I don’t know,” she lied. “I’m just not feeling it.”

  “Feeling what?”

  “Life.”

  That part was true. She’d graduated from college in May, and since, hadn’t done a single productive thing. While she didn’t need to, financially, mentally she did.

  She told herself the reason for her inactivity was because she didn’t know where her mother was, but if she had known, would it have made any difference? Likely not.

  Looking forward to seeing Mercer when he returned was all she’d been thinking about. But what if he blew her off again like he had when she came into the gym? What would she have to look forward to then?

  “I think I need a job,” she finally answered.

  “A job?”

  “God, Aine. Don’t look so horrified.” Yes, a job. Something meaningful to do with her life, so it wasn’t such a vast wasteland of nothingness.

  “I’m not horrified.”

  Quinn laughed. “Yeah, you are.”

  Aine laughed too. “What do you want to do?”

  With a degree in Urban Studies, Quinn had options. She’d interned her senior year with a privately-funded historical preservation group; they’d even offered her a job. She should call them. The position wasn’t supposed to be open until the fall anyway, so maybe they hadn’t filled it yet.

  “Quinn?”

  “Sorry, Aine. I’m thinking.”

  “I know, but I’m worried about you. I mean, really worried.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll be okay.”

  “We’re hitting Amity Hall tonight.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I’ll pick you up at nine. I’ll drag you there if I have to.”

  Maybe going out would be good for her. Better than sitting around here, doing nothing on a Wednesday night.

  —:—

  Mercer had a full day ahead of him. Once he delivered the necessary paperwork to the attorney, there was a great deal of money that needed to be moved. He, Paps, and Razor had discussed it the night before, and the plan was for Lena to ghost within the next few days. To do that, she’d require cash.

  Someone rapped on the door of the bedroom, which served as Mercer’s office when he was on the West Coast. Instead of getting up, he rolled the desk chair over and swung the door open. Both Paps and Razor stood in the doorway.

  “Anything we can do to help?” Paps asked.

  “We need Lena gone as soon as possible.”

  “Agreed,” said Razor. “Been workin’ on it.”

  Mercer decided now was as good a time as any to tell them about him and Skipper. “There’s something I need to tell you about Quinn and me—”

  “We got your six, Eighty-eight,” said Paps.

  Mercer shook his head. Of course they already knew.

  “Looky, looky,” said Razor, holding his laptop. “Skipper’s decided it’s time to grow up.”

  “Let me see.” Mercer took the laptop when Razor passed it over to him.

  Sure enough, Quinn had followed up on a job offer at the same place where they’d arranged for her to intern before she’d graduated.

  “I’m up.” Razor took the laptop when Mercer handed it back, shut it, and put it into a bag he then slung over his shoulder. “Tabon Sharp has an interview to conduct.” He looked at his fingernails. “Maybe a series of them. I wouldn’t mind getting to know ‘Quinn’ a little better myself.”

  Paps rested his hand on Razor’s shoulder. “Knock it off, Tabon.”

  Mercer didn’t remember ever hearing him address Razor by his given name, or in that tone of voice.

  While he and Razor were around the same age, it had been Paps who’d stepped into the lead, or father figure, role after they’d received news of Doc’s death. That wasn’t where he got his code name though.

  When Doc first met him, Gunner Gadot had a habit of raising his hands in the air like guns and shouting “pap-pap,” as he mimicked firing.

  “It was so damn annoying,” Doc had said when he told Mercer the story shortly after he’d joined the team. “Calling him ‘Paps’ cured him of that habit.”

  What had started out, back then, as a four-man operation, now had at least fifty contractors on payroll at any given time. He missed those days, when things were so much simpler. Now, it seemed their sole purpose was to tie up loose ends of things that had happened years before—more like loose pins on a bunch of grenades, and all were potential land mines. Case in point: Rory Calder.

  Doc’s mission hadn’t ended when he was reported killed; it had changed, and was now their mission—him, Paps, and Razor. Instead of looking for one missing operative, they were now looking for two. Whether they found them dead or alive remained to be seen, but no matter what, they needed to be found.

  Calder’s sudden reappearance intensified the urgency of the search. If there was any possibility whatsoever that either man were still alive, the team had to find out why he was here, what he was after, and who else came with him.

  Lena came out from wherever she’d holed herself up, holding her phone for them to see. “He’s made contact.” The phone ended up on the floor where she’d thrown it, and seconds later, they heard a door slam.

  Mercer picked up the phone and looked at the screen. “Calder is asking her to meet him.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Paps hissed. “He has her number.”

  “Hold up a minute,” said Razor. “Let me see that.”

  Mercer handed the phone over.

  “Typical Barbie overreaction. This isn’t her burner phone; it’s her regular number.”

  “I should’ve seen that,” mumbled Mercer, as irritated with himself for overreacting as he was with Lena.

  “My bad, too,” added Paps. “We’re all on edge, and it has to stop now.”

  Mercer and Razor both nodded.

  “Let’s get our heads out of our asses and refocus.” Paps pointed at Razor. “You need to be gone.”

  “Yes, sir.” He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Do either of you have time to locate a bunk for me in New York?”

  “I’m on it,” answered Mercer.

  When they’d arranged for the purchase of the apartment in Quinn’s building, they’d originally intended to use it as an East Coast base, much like the house in Harmony was when they were on the West Coast. However, with Mercer’s new relationship with Quinn, and her upcoming interview with Tabon, Razor would have to stay elsewhere.

  “I need a break,” Paps said once Razor was gone. “I’m getting too old for this kind of shit.”

  Mercer was over ten years younger than Paps, but he agreed. The last year and a half had been hell for all of them, and Calder’s reappearance made it exponentially worse.

  “Let’s regroup,” Paps said the next afternoon, pulling a beer out of the refrigerator. “Want one?”

  Mercer nodded and took a drink out of the bottle Paps handed to him.

  “Lena’s meeting with Maddox Butler tomorrow. What should we do about Calder’s request?”
<
br />   “It only makes sense that she’d ignore him. She’d have zero reason to agree to talk to him.”

  “Right. So we do nothing but wait.”

  “Pretty much,” Paps muttered. He stood, looked out of the kitchen window, and scratched his chin. “Head out,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Back to the city.”

  Mercer had no idea what to say, so he waited. It was unlike Paps to call shots, particularly with him and Razor.

  “When things heat up, we’ll get you back here. In the meantime, your time is being wasted.”

  He’d argue, but Paps wasn’t wrong. There was nothing that he wanted more than to get back to Quinn.

  “I saw that.”

  “What?” Mercer asked.

  “You smiled.”

  “Nah. You’re seeing things.”

  If New York weren’t on the opposite side of the country, Mercer would ride the Ducati all the way there. Instead, he’d buy one when he got back. Driving around Manhattan would be a colossal pain in the ass, but once he got out of the city, there’d be plenty of back roads he could tear up.

  He couldn’t sleep on the flight, which was unusual. Threats, while still there, were contained in the sky, so he typically took advantage of the downtime.

  Today, though, anxiety kept him awake. Quinn’s life had been quiet while he was gone, with the exception of her thankfully uneventful time out last night.

  “She’s distracted,” Tom told him when he checked in to report she was secure in her apartment.

  That was his fault, but he didn’t need to say it. Tom knew it as well as he did. He’d been gone three days, but it felt like twice that long.

  He lost three hours of his day traveling from one time zone across three others, but he was back in Manhattan and almost to his apartment. He didn’t have a plan, but somehow, he’d see Quinn tonight, even if it meant he had to camp out in the hallway to feign running into her. Mercer always felt better when he could lay his own eyes on her instead of relying on someone else to give him a report.

  —:—

  Day four. God, this was agony. Quinn had gone from breathlessly awaiting Mercer’s return, to certain that, once he did, he’d have forgotten the note, maybe even forgotten about her.

  She still hadn’t mentioned him to her friends. If he ended up being less interested in her than she’d let her imagination run away with, she’d be humiliated and embarrassed.

  The other thing was…how did she describe him? Of course Aine, Ava, Penelope, and Tara would first ask what he looked like, followed by what he did for a living, who he knew, and who knew him—most of which she didn’t know.

  He’d moved in over two months ago, and the little digging she’d tried to do with the co-op board led nowhere.

  “We respect the privacy of our residents, Miss Sullivan. You know this,” Mrs. Markham, the most likely member to gossip, had told her yesterday.

  She’d pushed harder. “Yes, I understand, but given he lives on my floor, I would appreciate knowing more about his background. I’m sure you understand my concern.”

  Mrs. Markham had literally patted her hand, and then fanned her face. “He’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he? And that physique. My, oh, my.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You hadn’t noticed, and I celebrated my thirtieth birthday last week. Come now, there’s no shame in admiring a good-looking man, my dear. Try getting to know him, and then perhaps your questions will be answered.”

  Mrs. Markham had to be eighty, or close, and Quinn supposed she was right. The best way to find out everything she wanted to know about the man was to ask him herself. She only hoped she’d get the chance.

  —:—

  Mercer looked around the corner, like he did every time he exited the elevator on the eleventh floor, and there she was, leaning up against the door jamb.

  He didn’t give himself time to think, he just acted. He dropped his bag on the floor of the hallway and stalked over to where she waited.

  “Hi,” she murmured the moment before he put his arms around her and held her against him, his lips finding hers while he wove his fingers in her hair.

  “Hi,” he answered, pulling back long enough to look into her eyes before he returned to ravishing her mouth with his.

  He rested his forehead against hers, struggling to find a way to explain his impetuous actions. “Quinn…”

  She put her fingertips on his lips. “I missed you, Mr. Mercer.”

  He smiled. “I missed you too, Miss Quinn.”

  “Just Quinn.”

  That made him laugh as he ran his finger from her hairline, down her cheek, to her mouth. He gripped the side of her face, and his mouth descended on hers once again. How many times had he woken to a dream that he was kissing her, each time feeling like a traitor for doing so? He couldn’t stop now, though. Quinn wasn’t his ward, or his charge, or his asset. In the last eighteen months, she’d crawled inside his heart, where he planned to keep her forever, even if it meant leaving K19.

  Quinn took his hand and led him inside her apartment. “Wait,” she said, “your bag.”

  He’d just as soon leave it out in the hallway than bring it into her apartment, but either would be irresponsible.

  “Give me a minute.” Before she could protest, he kissed her again. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mercer left Quinn standing in the foyer of her apartment, picked up his bag, and rounded the corner to the door of his. He entered his code, scanned his thumbprint, and pushed inside when it clicked. He was about to set his bag on the floor when an eerie feeling came over him. Nothing was amiss; there was no sign of forced entry or otherwise, but something felt off.

  If Razor had been in the apartment while he was away, he would’ve known it. A war waged inside him. Every instinct told him to check the surveillance footage, yet a beautiful woman was waiting for him; one who was insecure and treading as lightly as he was, albeit for entirely different reasons.

  This was the perfect example of how dangerous and careless his actions over the course of the last week had been, and illustrative of the consequences of his heedlessness.

  “Mercer?” He heard her voice from outside his door.

  He dropped the bag he was still holding, turned around, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” he answered, leading Quinn away from his apartment.

  “Would you tell me if it wasn’t?”

  He smiled, something even he acknowledged he did rarely, but so easily with her. “No.”

  “What are you up to, Mr. Mercer?”

  “Right now, I plan to take a beautiful woman to dinner.”

  She studied him, looking first into his eyes, and then from head to toe.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking, Quinn.”

  “I’m starving.”

  “How’s Indian sound?” he asked.

  “Ajento?”

  Mercer nodded and followed her into her apartment.

  “In that case, it sounds fabulous. Let me…um…change.”

  He motioned for her to go ahead, and then closed the door behind him. “Go,” he told her when she stood in the foyer as though she were waiting for permission.

  She took a step forward. “Kiss me again, first.”

  Instead of her lips, Mercer kissed her forehead and turned her around so she was facing the direction of her bedroom. He smiled when she folded her arms and huffed. “Go, little one, I’m starving.”

  She walked away, but looked back over her shoulder. “I prefer ‘precious’ over ‘little one.’”

  Mercer shook his head, and walked in the opposite direction, to her kitchen, where he found both his note from a couple of days ago and the card that he’d included with her roses. There it was, all the evidence she needed to confirm he’d been the bearer of the birthday flowers. He wondered how she felt about that, whether it made her uncomfortable, what kind of questions she�
�d level at him during dinner.

  While she changed, Mercer sent a text to Razor, asking him to check the surveillance footage for the building, the eleventh floor, and the apartment. He didn’t need to explain why, or ask him to sweep each and every room, nor did he need to ask him to check out Quinn’s apartment while he was at it.

  “Are we taking your friend’s fancy car?” she asked once they were in the elevator.

  “Let’s walk,” he answered.

  The elevator came to a stop in the lobby, and Mercer stepped forward, putting his back against the open door, and motioning for her to go ahead of him.

  “Everything okay?” she asked again once they’d exited the building.

  He nodded. “Yes, why?”

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you avoiding someone, Mr. Mercer? An ex-girlfriend lives in the neighborhood perhaps?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he answered, taking her hand in his and squeezing it lightly.

  “It’s either that or you’re a spy on some sort of secret mission.”

  “Even sillier,” he said, stopping at the crosswalk and pulling her into him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and brought his mouth close to her ear. “You have an active imagination, Miss Quinn.”

  She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Light’s green,” she said, pulling him toward the street.

  Mercer held back, though, waiting until the other pedestrians left the curb, and then looked left and right for cars.

  Quinn shuddered.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “You were very paternal there for a minute,” she laughed as they stepped up on the opposite curb.

  “Yeah? Well, this isn’t.” Mercer backed her away from the crowded sidewalk, inside the narrow enclosure of a walk-up, and kissed her hard.

  “That did the trick,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll never think of you in that way again.”

  He brought his mouth near her ear. “Damn, woman. What you do to me.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  He ushered her back out onto the sidewalk. Fortunately, the restaurant was less than half a block away, and the aroma was making his stomach growl. Otherwise, he’d take her home instead.