Darkest Night

by Megan Erickson

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Wren! Roarke!” She called to where they sat in the living room, hunched over their laptops. “I’m breaking out the pinot. Who wants a glass?”

  “No thanks!” Wren called.

  “I’m good,” Roarke said.

  Marisol poured three glasses of wine and doled them out.

  “I don’t get one?” Jock said.

  She cut her narrowed eyes to him. “No, I’m annoyed at you.”

  He laughed. “What did I do?”

  “I don’t know. You probably did something, and you’ll do something else soon.” She clinked glasses with Fiona, who seemed enamored by Marisol. “Quit pouting, Jock. If you really want a glass, pour it yourself.”

  Instead, he snatched Marisol’s, drained half of it, and then handed it back to her with a smack of his lips.

  Her eyes widened. “See! I knew you were going to do something that annoyed me!”

  “Self-fulfilling prophecy,” he said as he walked into the living room to join Roarke and Wren.

  They were sitting close, dark heads bent over their laptops. At Jock’s entrance, Roarke leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. Jock took a seat on the edge of a large recliner as Erick joined them, taking a seat beside Roarke and leaning back with his ankles crossed. Marisol’s voice filtered through to the living room in conversation with Fiona. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Jock felt his nerves calm.

  “So,” Wren said. “Update on Darren is he’s awaiting trial, but word is he might take a plea. He’s not really safe anywhere, but he might be safer in jail. Plus he doesn’t want them to look further into him and add charges.”

  “And his crew?” Jock asked. “Was the one I took out in the park working for him? Or hired separately to take out Fiona?”

  “One of his,” Roarke said. “That taken care of, by the way?”

  Roarke didn’t know all of Jock’s past. Or his connections. “Yeah, got a friend. It’s done.”

  Roarke eyed him but didn’t dig. That was one of the things Jock liked most about Roarke. He was a good judge of character, but he didn’t pry. He let people tell him their stories when they were good and ready. The only time Jock had opened up about himself to Roarke was when he had a 2:1 vodka ratio in his blood.

  “Are these guys still active?” Jock asked.

  They’d learned that Darren and his crew had put up a shopping list of sorts on the Dark Web. Buyers placed an order, and Fiona had been one of those orders.

  “Not now, but I think they are just laying low. There are a lot of people making money off this, including Maximus,” Roarke said. “They won’t be down for long.”

  “I’m looking into whether they moved operations. They have to know we found their shopping list. So they might have set up on another site. I’m digging into the coding to see if they left a trail for their buyers,” Erick added.

  “I’m still going through Darren’s phone contacts,” Jock said. On their last mission, Wren had copied Darren’s phone, and Jock was still verifying all the names. “We know they want her so my priority is to keep her safe.”

  “Of course,” Wren said. “And that’s what I want you to focus on. You’re the best at that, and we’ll pick up the slack on finding these guys. I don’t know how far Darren’s network extends, and I’m sure Maximus has cells all over the country.”

  “One at a time,” Jock growled. “We’ll figure out how they communicate, because they are probably all linked, and we can take them all down.”

  The room was quiet, then Fiona’s laugh sounded from the kitchen. Jock let it settle over him, filling him full to bursting. When he met Roarke’s gaze, the man nodded.

  Jock nodded back. Game. On.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jock shifted in the passenger seat of Roarke’s car and cringed when his foot collided with about half a dozen Diet Coke cans. He glared at Roarke, who sat in the driver’s seat peering out the window of the parked car. “Trash can too bougie for you?”

  Roarke didn’t even look at him. “Don’t give me shit. I get it enough from Wren. She’s trying to get me to quit. I explained I could be doing heroin so maybe she should be glad it’s only diet soda.”

  Jock made an annoyed grunt, and Roarke turned his head. “What, isn’t there something you’re addicted to?” He looked Jock up and down. “Camo? Thick-soled boots? Silence?”

  Jock would have smiled normally because that shit was funny, but instead all he could think about was how he had never been addicted to anything. It wasn’t in his personality. He was good at leaving shit behind when it didn’t suit him. He’d never collected things as a kid. He liked to read and play sports. He got good grades. He dated but was never really into any girl. They were just…company.

  Except now? He was addicted to Fiona. The realization hit him hard and fast. He’d been sitting in this car for only five hours, and he was jonesing for her. Sweating, antsy, irritable. What was she doing? Was she okay? Did she miss him? Most of all, he wanted to hold her, feel those firm tits pressed to his chest, listen to the catch in her voice when she settled over his lap and felt how hard he was for her.

  Jock took his eyes off the door of the building in front of them for a minute to stare out the passenger window. Based on the information Roarke had pulled from the forum where buyers could find Darren’s “shopping list” of women, a lot of profiles led back to local IP addresses. On the forum, the dialogue between the men seemed to be familiar, enough so that Jock and the crew believed the men were friends of Darren’s. It would make sense—friends would be less likely to rat each other out.

  So they were working on a file of Darren’s associates, friends, acquaintances. Darren wasn’t the only one bankrolling this operation. He had to have his high-class friends helping. And when they found the money, they would find how to shut it all down. It was only Tuesday, and they’d been at it since Sunday. It’d been too many hours observing pieces of shit who had mistresses, hit on their secretaries, and made a lot of racist jokes to their buddies. Once they had profiles of enough of these guys, they’d sit down with Wren and Fiona and see if either of them recognized the men or their voices.

  Jock was over it. He burned for Fiona. This was unsettling as fuck. He didn’t know how to handle this…desire. Was this what Roarke felt like about Wren? And if so, how did he let her out of his sight?

  “You usually think a whole lot quieter.” Roarke’s deep voice filled the car, and Jock glanced over at him and quickly focused back on the office building. They were waiting for a fucker named Henry Chamberlain II, a friend of Darren’s who they believed liked to shop for women online with his cronies.

  “Guess I got a lot on my mind,” Jock answered.

  Roarke was still watching him. “Probably stupid to ask if you want to talk, huh?” Jock didn’t say anything, and Roarke popped open another can of diet soda, taking a sip immediately. “Uh, okay. So, you want to talk?”

  Not really, but he had things he was curious about. “How did you do it with Wren?”

  “Do it?”

  “Watched while she worked on the undercover mission, while she went out with Darren.” He curled his hands into fists on his thighs as he felt anger swell inside of him. “How the hell did you function when Wren was kidnapped by him?”

  Roarke stared at him for a minute with wide eyes, maybe remembering when he’d been shot and Wren had been taken. They’d found her in a warehouse where Darren’s father and some of his men had held her. Wren and Roarke narrowly escaped with their lives after the warehouse was lit on fire. “I…I’ll answer, but can I ask you where this is coming from? This about Fiona?”

  Jock swallowed and looked away. He tried to loosen his fist, but his fingers wouldn’t uncurl. “Just want her safe,” he heard himself say softly. “Thinking about Wren, and now I think I know how you feel. Don’t know how you did it.”

  “You falling for Fiona that hard?” Roarke’s voice was cautious, like tossing a softba
ll and hoping Jock caught it and didn’t whip it back at his head.

  Jock nodded, his gaze glued to the door because he didn’t know what he’d say or do if he looked at Roarke. The man was one of the few that Jock would consider a friend. He was a good guy, loyal and smart. Blood ties mattered to him so he could understand how Jock felt about losing his own brother.

  Roarke looked at the windshield and braced his tattooed hand on the steering wheel. “If you want to know, I’m not sure. At the time, I just…did it. I got through it because I had to, because I couldn’t come apart. I focused on the mission and getting revenge for my brother. That helped, but I was still sick over Wren being involved the entire time. I also drank a lot.” He gave a husky laugh.

  Jock processed the words. “So I need to focus on the mission.”

  Roarke hesitated before answering. “I mean…yeah. The mission is for her. So you’re taking care of her by doing it, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Roarke was smart.

  “But it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay for you to want to hit something, to yell, to lock her in a room and throw away the key so no one can hurt her. It’s not okay to actually do that, because she’s not a Disney princess, but it’s okay to lose your mind a bit over worrying.”

  “I worry so much,” Jock said. “Thinking of anyone harming her…” He shook his head. “Makes me fucking rage.”

  “I get it,” Roarke said. “Do I ever. But one thing that got me through the last mission was not to get too emotional, to focus. I was no good to Wren if I was a fucking basket case. She needed my skills.”

  “Never had to worry about being emotional. Even with—” He didn’t say his brother’s name. Roarke knew. “I was cold about it.”

  “That’s because you weren’t protecting him,” Roarke said, his voice so damn kind that Jock nearly broke. “You were getting revenge. With Fiona, it’s different.”

  It was, and Jock didn’t have experience with this shit so it was going to take some getting used to. “Thanks.”

  “Sure, I mean, you know you can always talk to me, right? Never thought to say that before because you don’t really…talk.”

  Jock snorted, and smiled a genuine smile, the first one in hours. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

  “Good,” Roarke said. He blew out a breath and tapped out a beat on the steering wheel. “So is this guy ever gonna show or what? I’m hungry and want some damn tacos.”

  Henry Chamberlain II was a friend of Darren’s back from their days in the same fraternity while they were business majors at Cornell. Jock immediately disliked him because he couldn’t be anything other than a pretentious fuck with that name. He was currently the COO of Halloran Pharmaceuticals. Again, probably a pretentious piece of shit.

  They knew he’d been at work today because Marisol had called pretending to be a vendor and Chamberlain’s secretary had confirmed he was in the office but couldn’t take her call.

  “Maybe he snuck out or something,” Roarke said, glancing at his watch. “Doesn’t he have minions to work late for him? It’s eight o’clock.”

  Jock didn’t say anything. He wanted to be home, too. But he was focused now on protecting Fiona. And the way to do it was to look into these assholes.

  The door opened just then, and a tall man stepped out wearing a tailored suit and polished oxfords. He carried a leather briefcase and adjusted his tie as the doors closed behind him. Jock picked up the DSLR camera on his lap and began to snap photos. Luckily, the sun was still up so he didn’t have to worry about needing artificial light. They’d found a few photos of Henry online, but most looked dated. Plus, they wanted to record his voice. Fiona was blindfolded a lot and said she’d need to hear voices as identification. That had Jock wanting to punch a wall.

  As he continued to snap photos, Roarke dialed Chamberlain’s cell phone number, which had been easy to obtain.

  They watched as Chamberlain stopped abruptly, furrowed his brow on his pinched face, and slapped at his pockets. The phone rang three times before he pulled his cell from his pocket. His lips moved, and his voice filled their car. “Chamberlain.”

  “Hey buddy, it’s Paul! Paul Wilcox. How are you?” Roarke’s voice was completely different, and Jock smiled.

  Henry was still standing on the sidewalk. “Paul?”

  “Yeah, how’s it going?”

  “You sound a little different. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry, got a weird cold thing. Fucking kids in daycare have got me sick year round.”

  “Yeah, I heard you and Yvonne had two. How are they?”

  Roarke grinned at Jock. Chamberlain believed the ruse. Paul Wilcox had a small family blog on YouTube—each video only got a couple hundred views, but Roarke studied the videos and knew enough about the guy’s life and how he talked to be convincing. That wasn’t in Jock’s skill set so he was impressed at Roarke’s acting ability.

  Roarke, posing as Paul, rambled on about the kids before asking Chamberlain about himself. He made up some party invite as the reason for the phone call out of the blue, after confirming Chamberlain couldn’t attend because of a work commitment. The whole time, they were recording Chamberlain’s voice.

  “So you good? How are things?” Roarke asked just as Jock gave him the thumbs-up. Chamberlain was buying it and talking enough to give Fiona plenty to listen to.

  “Yeah, things are good. You should come up sometime. The guys and I have some parties…you know the kind.” Henry smiled, and it was a smile that made Jock’s back go straight.

  “Yeah? Even with Darren away?” Roarke went out on a limb and asked.

  “Yep, the parties are still going on,” Chamberlain said. “Got one coming up.”

  Roarke met Jock’s gaze and swallowed. “Well, sounds good. I gotta go. Family calls, but I’ll give you a buzz if I want to come up.”

  “You do that. Nice catching up with you, Paul.”

  “You too,” Roarke said. He ended the call and leaned back in his seat. They watched Chamberlain walk to his car, a silver Lexus, and get inside. With a slight roar from his engine, he pulled out of the parking lot and drove away.

  “So it doesn’t matter if Darren is away,” Roarke said. “I know he was the boss. Wren showed me her research. So I’m thinking a new boss is in place, or some big players banded together.”

  “Something like that. A venture that makes that much money, they got some plans in place. Always. A way to keep that money rolling in,” Jock said.

  Roarke nodded. “Yeah. Fuck.” He started the engine. “Well, tomorrow is another day.”

  “Another profile. Another piece of shit,” Jock muttered.

  Roarke sighed, and Jock closed his eyes, glad as hell that he was on his way back to Fiona.

  * * *

  Fiona knew what Jock had been doing all week. He didn’t talk about it to her, but she knew. He’d leave early in the morning—she’d get up with him and make him coffee. He’d drink it silently while she babbled on about random shit. Then he’d kiss her forehead, ruffle Sundance’s ears, and leave. Sometimes he came back early afternoon, sometimes around dinner, and other times, he’d be in the kitchen in the morning when she went down to make coffee.

  So she kept herself busy. Wren came over a lot, but she couldn’t be there all the time because she had her own life and was busy on a freelance job with Erick for money. Marisol also swung by a lot with food and alcohol, which was appreciated.

  So Fiona made a home. She didn’t know what else to do, and she’d always wanted a house to fill with love and pretty things. She had a ring on her finger, a fiancée with massive biceps, and a dog in a townhouse. So she ordered wall decor. She went to the flower shop nearby and made planters. The first day they were on the porch, she watched out the window for when Jock came home. He walked down their sidewalk, checking out his surroundings like he always did, jiggling his keys. When he saw the planters, he stopped, walked around one and then the other. He stepped back to eye them both, cocked his head,
and then, so quick she almost missed it, he smiled. She lived on that smile for a solid twenty-four hours.

  She also baked. A lot. She dug up her late grandmother’s recipes and made cookies, brownies, pies, and a peach cobbler.

  Tonight, she was making blueberry buckle for no other reason than that she liked blueberries, and it could be reheated for breakfast or dessert. Blueberry buckle was a dense coffee cake with a blueberry layer and a sweet, crunchy streusel layer on top. Fiona thought it was delicious, and she knew Jock would, too. He was a sucker for fruit desserts.

  She’d eaten dinner with Sundance and made the buckle. The timer on the oven beeped, and she hopped up from the couch where she’d been reading, grabbed a mitt, and pulled the dish from the oven.

  Her eyes rolled into the back of her head—it smelled that good. She placed the plate on the stovetop and grabbed a toothpick to stick in the cake to test if it was done. The toothpick came out clean, and she grinned. Of course, she’d prefer to eat it with someone, but she was alone. Again.

  She needed to quit whining about this. Jock wasn’t actually her fiancée. He wasn’t really even her boyfriend. She had no idea what they were. She knew she trusted him and he wouldn’t hurt her. But she didn’t know anything about him—how did he have money? Where was his family? Did he even like dogs? He could have a lovely life in Wisconsin with a Midwest accent and two kids. Fiona had no freaking idea who Jock really was. She knew he was great at knowing her body and said a lot of nice things. But that didn’t make a boyfriend or a lasting relationship. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine not being with him. Her heart was twisted up inside, and she hadn’t talked to Wren about it because Fiona was a little scared about what Wren would say.

  So Fiona just needed to eat her blueberry buckle, finish her book, and go to bed. She opened a cabinet and drew a plate out just as she heard the car keys jingle in the front door. Jock must be home—he’d left in Roarke’s car. She placed a square of the dessert on a plate just as Jock walked into the kitchen. He tossed the keys on the table and made a beeline for her so quickly that she backed up against the counter.