by Joss Wood
“Maybe I should go,” Tally said, standing up and pushing her chair back.
Pippa placed her glass on the table next to her and looked up at Tally. “Yeah, I’m sorry, but I’m still not sure why you’re here and how you know about the house.”
Tally pushed her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. “Well, Flick hired me to do an inventory of the contents of the house because Kai found a rifle that’s worth quite a bit of money. She thought that there might be other items that are valuable, so I’ve done an inventory and a lot of research.”
Pippa rubbed the tips of her fingers across her forehead. “I really don’t understand any of this.”
Tally wrinkled her nose at Flick and looked uncomfortable. “Why don’t you go home, honey, and I’ll talk Pippa through it?”
Tally looked relived. “Thanks. Do you need the iPad?”
“No, I think we’re okay.”
Tally looked relieved. “Good, because Kai is going to Skype me later.”
Lucky Tally, Flick thought, her heart bouncing off her ribcage. She hadn’t heard jacksquat from the man. Okay, it had been only a couple of days, but still . . .
Still what? He wasn’t going to call, Skype, email, send a carrier pigeon. They were done, and she was, at best, a memory of someone he’d shared some mattress time with.
She wasn’t special or unique, and she wasn’t someone who he’d think about again. Why couldn’t she remember that?
Tally kicked the porch floor with the tip of her shoe. “Should I tell him that you said hi?”
Flick immediately shook her head. She wasn’t going to come across as pining, needy, or brokenhearted. “No, don’t bother.” She forced a smile onto her face. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Rufus lifted his head as Tally walked down the porch steps, but didn’t bother to get up and give Tally a lick good-bye, as he normally would. Her dog was depressed, Flick decided. Like her, he was missing Kai, missing his runs on the trails around town, missing those big hands rubbing his stomach, his ears.
Flick could sympathize. She missed those big hands on her as well.
“Talk to me, Flick,” Pippa ordered, lifting up her feet to place her heels on the edge of her seat. She rested her chin on her bent knees and looked at Flick, her gaze demanding answers.
“Well, I’m still crying and it still hurts like acid in a stab wound—”
Pippa released an annoyed grunt. “I meant talk to me about the house, about my mother the hoarder.”
Oh. Pippa wanted to talk about her problems.
“Well, in hoarding terms she’s not that bad. Bad enough, but not a basket case. Tally didn’t find thirty years’ of newspapers and mummified cat carcasses.”
Pippa looked like she wanted to heave. “That happens?” she asked, slapping her hand over her mouth.
“Apparently.” Flick tucked her legs up under her and rested her head against the back of the chair. Actually, it felt good to focus on Gina and her problems. It was a nice distraction from thinking about Kai and the hole he’d left in her life.
“What do you think prompted this, Flick? I mean, she never had this problem when I was growing up.”
Flick ran her finger up the curve of her wineglass, thinking about her response. She thought about batting away Pippa’s question but decided that she was never going to lie to Pippa again. “Well, she always liked shopping, liked spending money, but not on collectibles, antiques, furniture.”
“But this? Some of her purchases were totally random. She bought entire estates that were being liquidated. Everything at one time, from linens to guns. That really doesn’t make sense.”
“This won’t be easy to hear, Pip,” Flick warned her.
“Can’t be any harder than hearing that comment I threw at you about your mom.” Pip bit her lip. “I’m so sorry I said that, Flick. I really am. I didn’t mean to.”
Flick blew out her breath. “It was the truth. Mom didn’t love me enough to get help, to want to get better.”
Pippa tucked a cushion behind her head. “Tell me, Flick.”
“Your dad, according to your mom, was pretty controlling. And, according to Gina, not very supportive.”
“Living with Gina wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. She was a perfectionist herself.”
“Hear me out before you react, Pips.”
Pippa started to protest but stopped before forming the words. She gripped the arm of the chair. “Okay, go.”
Flick explained Gina’s quest to prove to Roger, and herself, that she could find another treasure, and after she’d finished explaining Pippa looked at her with a what-the-hell expression. “That is such a crappy excuse! Who nearly bankrupts themselves to prove a point to their dead husband?”
“I think she was trying to prove a point to herself, but then the collecting became an obsession,” Flick said quietly. “Eventually it stopped being about the big score, about needing to prove a point, and became more about the pleasure spending money gives her. She gets a kick out of it and she’s very reluctant to sell anything. When I suggested that she sell that rifle, she nearly cried.”
Pippa frowned, confused. “She cried over a gun?”
“A very expensive, very rare gun, and one we need to sell to cover her medical bills.” Pippa now looked calmer and more in control so Flick thought she’d hit her with Bad News: Part Two. “She’s all but broke, Pips.”
Pippa tipped her head back to look at the ceiling. “Crap on a cracker.”
Flick allowed some time for that news to sink in. This was nice, she thought, sitting on the porch talking to her best friend, sharing a bottle of wine. The autumn air was cool, the wine was good, and her dog was between them.
Nice. If she discounted her cracked and battered heart, and the fact that her beloved aunt was a hoarder and penniless, and possibly nuts.
Pippa drained her wineglass and filled it up again. “Tell me about the gun. You said it’s rare and valuable. How rare and how valuable?”
Flick filled her in and Pippa’s accountant brain crunched numbers in her head. “Well, that needs to be sold, and quickly.”
Flick bit her bottom lip and stared at Rufus’s shaggy coat. “Kai will buy it, no questions asked, and at the price you want. You can call him. He knows about Gina and your situation.”
“He knows?”
Flick wriggled in her chair. “Yeah . . . he . . . I told him. I needed to talk to someone and I trusted him to keep it quiet. He and Tally are the only people who know, and they both would rather squeeze water out of a rock than talk.”
Pippa looked past Flick’s shoulder to the road behind her. “Can we keep this quiet? Is that even possible?”
“She’s managed it this far. Having a house on the outskirts of town helped,” Flick answered. “She’s angry that I made her tell you but she’s relieved as well. She was worried that you’d think less of her, that you’d be angry with her.”
Pippa took a moment to answer her. “I am angry with her. I can’t deny that, and frankly, I’m not sure what I think. It’s all just very . . . weird. “
“We have to talk to her about selling her stuff. I’ve brought it up before but she’s very resistant to the idea.”
Pippa’s chest rose as she pulled in air. “I guess. You said we—are you prepared to help me?”
Flick rolled her eyes. “No, I’m just going to hand this over and leave you to flounder. Of course I’m going to help, Pips.”
“Even though I was such a bitch to you?”
“Even so. Though you did redeem yourself by getting up at dawn to hold my hand.” Flick heard the wobble in her voice and told herself that she could not, would not shed another tear for that moronic man! Okay, she was going to try not to shed any more tears . . .
“Have you heard from him?” Pippa asked quietly.
&n
bsp; “Nope.”
A corner of Pippa’s mouth lifted. “At least you’re consistent, darling. You consistently choose badly.”
“Unfortunately, he wasn’t so much a choice as a compulsion. Guess Gina isn’t the only one having problems in that area.”
***
In Aberdeen, Kai watched as the latest group of oil ship workers left the small boardroom and his second-in-charge wiped the whiteboard clean. Mark didn’t really need him here—he had this training course firmly under control. Normally Kai was in the thick of the training but this time, with this group, he’d let Mark run the course. He was doing a damn good job and had only once, maybe twice, asked Kai for his input. He could easily leave Mark to run courses for Caswallawn. The man could handle the smaller groups with ease.
Kai nodded when Mark asked whether he wanted coffee, and when the room was empty, he closed the door. To be honest, these courses bored him; there wasn’t enough action. Yes, they were important, but he preferred to be more hands-on, to be getting down and dirty. Even running that self-defense course for women back in Mercy had been more fun than this anti-hijacking course. He enjoyed doing specialized, advanced training, preparing men and women to serve and protect.
Except apparently he hadn’t done such a good job at that, since the sheikh was dead . . . Dammit, he should have insisted on more training, or that the sheikh employ Caswallawn PPOs.
Kai picked up his phone and hit speed dial two. Axl answered immediately but the video feed didn’t show his face—rather a distorted view of his laptop monitor. “Will you please stop bugging me? You are not doing rescues!”
“What?”
On the screen Axl’s face came into view. “Kai. Sorry, I thought you were Reagan. Again.”
“Nope, just me.” Kai sat down in a chair and propped his feet up on the corner of the desk. “How is she enjoying her gig with Callow?”
Axl scowled. “Far too damn much. Apparently his film shoot is wrapping up but the threat is escalating and he wants to temporarily relocate to a place where no one will find him and his kid.”
“He has a kid?”
“Yeah, a four-year-old son he’s raising. He keeps him out of the limelight. Our favorite girl suggested that he relocate to Mercy, that he rent a farmhouse outside of town. She’s moving in with him.” The muscle in Axl’s jaw clenched.
“That’s what PPOs do,” Kai pointed out, his tongue firmly in his cheek.
“It’s still a stupid-ass idea.”
For Callow’s safety, it sounded like a damn good plan to Kai. But since Axl looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth, he changed the subject.
“Have you spoken to Sawyer lately? How’s he doing?” he asked. He was missing his friends, missing Mercy.
Axl frowned. “He’s stressed. He’s blaming himself for not keeping Doug on the straight and narrow, for not keeping him off the drugs.”
Kai shook his head. “That’s so stupid. He was a kid—it wasn’t his job to protect Doug or to look after him. He should give himself a break.”
Axl cocked his head and looked at him. After a moment a small grin touched his lips. “That’s kind of how we feel about you. Sawyer and I both wish that you’d give yourself a fucking break, dude. Stop beating yourself up and give yourself permission to be happy.”
Kai stared at him, feeling as if Axl’s fist was clenching and squeezing his heart. “Low blow, Rhodes,” he muttered.
“I don’t care if it’s low as long as it’s effective. Later.” Axl disconnected and Kai tossed his cell onto the desk, feeling his heart thumping in his chest.
Axl didn’t understand—the sheikh’s death wasn’t on him. It was Kai’s fault. But Sawyer didn’t blame him, and neither did Axl. Flick agreed with his friends. They all accepted that he’d done his best, that he’d tried to dissuade the sheikh from relying on his guards for protection. Had he?
I’m pretty sure that you did. If I know you at all then you did, often and loudly.
Flick’s voice in his head stopped him in his tracks and he turned the words over. For the first time since the sheikh’s death he took stock of what she’d said, picked apart her sentences. He had insisted, loudly and vociferously. He’d even put his concerns in writing, sending the sheikh at least three emails on separate occasions—the last one just after he concluded his training—telling Aban that he wasn’t satisfied, that he was taking a huge risk. The sheikh had dismissed his concerns, had said that he was overreacting. Kai had done his job and he couldn’t be held responsible for the sheikh’s death. Choices had been made and the sheikh had paid the price. Kai hadn’t made that choice, and in fact, had advised against it. He was, if he allowed himself to be, off the hook.
Kai linked his hands behind his head and stared at the whiteboard, his breathing erratic. He liked punishing himself, he realized. He also liked denying himself, and was far too comfortable with the notion of being alone, being unloved, believing that was what he deserved. And he was far too quick to take responsibility for events that were out of his control. Mike’s death, the sheikh’s death, his mother’s death.
Give yourself a fucking break, dude. He heard Axl’s voice in his head and, probably for the first time ever, he listened to it.
Mike had died when a bullet hit his femoral artery and he’d bled out. They were in the field, and the tourniquet Kai had wrapped around his leg hadn’t helped. Surgery might have saved him but they were hours from a medic, a day’s drive from a hospital. He’d tried his best, but Mike had still bled out in less than ten minutes. The sheikh, well he’d covered that. Not his choice . . .
His mother. God, his mother. For the first time ever, he faced that memory head-on, watched the video play out on the big screen in his head. He squared his shoulders and watched the memories as they rolled on in. He could see the paint falling off the walls, the filthy mattress on the floor, feel the gnawing hunger in his belly. Jo had been huddled in a corner and he could hear her slow, labored breathing, her grunts of pain, the movements of her hands as she tried to massage the pain from her legs. She’d been in the worst stage of withdrawal symptoms and had been off her head. She hadn’t slept for days and her default method of communication had been to scream at him. She’d looked like a corpse. He recalled her bony fingers reaching down her dirty tank top and removing a couple of crumpled bills.
He’d felt a flare of excitement because the bills meant food, something he hadn’t had for two days running. She’d begged him to find some heroin for her, telling him that she’d die if she didn’t get a hit. He’d absolutely believed her.
He’d also thought that he might die if he didn’t eat something, and soon. So instead of walking ten blocks to find Jo’s normal dealer, he’d scored some cheaper heroin from a sleazebag dealer on the corner and had used the money he had leftover to buy bread, some milk, some eggs. Jo hadn’t noticed the food. She’d just reached for the drugs and pumped them into her system.
She never knew what hit her . . . and she’d never woken up again.
You didn’t kill your mother. He heard Flick’s voice in his head again, was surprised that it was so clear, and that he finally, on a cellular level, got what she was trying to say.
It was Jo’s choice to use drugs, to send her child to buy drugs, to ask her eight-year-old son to choose between drugs and food that had killed her. He did not.
Bad choices were made, and very bad consequences followed. But Kai was only responsible for the choices he made, the life he led. Yeah, he hadn’t been a choirboy, and he probably had some bad karma to work off, but he’d done the best he could at the time, and he’d survived. And when the opportunity arose to make better choices, he’d done that too. He wasn’t noble or honorable but he tried to a good man . . . Surely that counted for something?
All his adult life he’d made good choices . . . except for the one that had him running away from Flick
like the hounds of hell were nipping at his ass. Love, and loving Flick, terrified him, so he’d bailed. He’d chosen solitude and loneliness over love and companionship and, asshole that he was, amazing sex. He couldn’t be more stupid if they cut off his head. He knew he should fix this, change things, but he didn’t know how, and he wasn’t sure if he was brave enough to humble himself and risk rejection.
Bullets, knives, and bombs didn’t scare him, but saying “I love you” and not knowing if the sentiment was reciprocated had him wanting to change his underwear.
He’d say it anyway. But first he needed to get back to Mercy. Excited for the first time in weeks, he grabbed his phone and pressed the speed dial number to connect to Sawyer. And where the hell was Mark with his coffee? He needed a solid hit of caffeine to re-fire all his synapses. Soul searching was hard work.
“Hey.” Sawyer was sitting behind his desk. Kai zoomed in on his face and saw that Sawyer looked tired and stressed.
“Hypothetically . . .” Kai said and stopped.
“Hypothetically what?”
“Hypothetically, if I wanted to base myself in Mercy, what could I do there?” he asked, holding his breath. He needed to work, to pull his weight. If—it was such a crazy thought and he couldn’t believe that he was giving it headspace—if he went back home to Mercy, what would he do?
Sawyer smiled. “You can always do the community self-defense classes. Mac is pissed that he has to do them now.”
Kai raised a middle finger to the screen and resisted the urge to demand that Sawyer be serious. This was his future they were discussing.
Sawyer’s expression turned speculative. “Okay, let’s think this through. You’ve always said that there are corporations, security outfits, private armies who want specialized, individual, super advanced training to give their operatives a bit more of an edge.”
“Yeah, but the bigger courses generate more income. Economies of scale.”
“That was before you had Mark to run those courses. If Mark can do the run-of-the-mill stuff, then you can provide the specialized service, at big money. Kind of what you did for the sheikh. At the sheikh’s rate.”
