“Fucktard?”
At Rick’s voice, I turn to find him leaning in the archway, his big, broad shoulders devouring the little ole doorway, in the most delicious of ways. “You heard?”
“Every word,” he assures me.
His lips, those punishing, perfect lips, curve with approval. “I’ll be sure and call him a fucktard right before I remove his balls. In a highly complex surgical procedure, of course.” He laughs. “Loved it, baby. I really will be waiting in the kitchen this time.”
“Did you come back for a reason?”
“Apparently to hear you call him a fucktard.” He winks and disappears into the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Candace
The magic of Rick Savage is that hell could be burning at my feet and he could still make me laugh. Which is why I’m laughing when I turn to the bathroom sink again where his shaving cream and razor sit beside his cologne. It’s surreal and unbidden, my laughter fades into memories, surreal good memories, at least momentarily. One minute, I’m thinking of me and Rick right here at this sink every morning together, and the next, I’m thinking of us having breakfast with my mother.
Only, that didn’t happen.
That was his mother.
My mother was dead when I met Rick. I was denied the opportunity for the two of them to meet and love each other.
I grab the counter, and suddenly I’m back in the past, not to the day I heard she’d been killed, but to the funeral. There was rain. It seems every beginning and end in my life is drenched in rain.
I squeeze my eyes shut and I’m back there now, living the hell of the rifles cracking through the air, thunder roaring in reply. Anguish. Pain. It’s like a blade is cutting me over and over inside. And then the flag. They gave it to me. God, they gave it to me at my father’s direction. “I don’t deserve it,” he’d whispered to me.
I open my eyes and think about the guilt I’d heard radiating in those words: I don’t deserve it. I’d thought that was just pain speaking, and guilt because he hadn’t been with her. But was it more? No. No, I refuse to believe that. My father didn’t do anything to get my mother killed. I grab my purse and slide it over my shoulder, but then I’m flashing back again, lowering my lashes.
I’m back at our family home, right here in this neighborhood, with friends and family everywhere, all present to honor my mother. I remember it so very well. My father was missing. The rain had faded into a haze of gloom and I’d thought maybe he’d gone outside for air. I’d stepped onto the porch and spied a black SUV across the street. My father had exited the backseat. He’d started to walk to the house when another man had exited as well, behind him. My father stopped walking as if he’d heard his name, and there had been fury in his face. So much fury. The man had touched my father’s arm and when my father turned, I’d seen the other man, a big man, a bulky man who was dressed in a black suit as if he’d attended the funeral, though I don’t remember him, but there had been so many people there, too. My father had shoved the man. The man had laughed and then backed away before walking back to the SUV. I’d rushed down the stairs toward my father, meeting him on the walkway.
“Who was that?”
“No one I ever want you to know.”
“Did he know Mom?”
“Let’s go inside.”
“Dad—”
“I said, let’s go inside.” He’d stepped around me and left me there on that sidewalk, watching the SUV drive away.
My eyes pop open with a horrible thought that sets me in motion, all but running to the kitchen. Needing to be wrong, desperately needing to be wrong, I launch myself down the hallway and enter the kitchen to find Rick standing at the table where Adam and Smith now sit. “I need to see a photo of Pocher.”
Rick catches my hand. “You think you know him?”
“I just—I don’t know. I remember a man who angered my father on the day of my mother’s funeral. And Dad wouldn’t take the flag. He said he didn’t deserve it.”
“Here’s Pocher,” Smith says, turning the MacBook around for me to eye a photo of a thin, fifty-something man, with an air of elegance and refinement.
“It’s not him,” I say. “It’s not.” I turn to Rick. “I don’t know who that was, Rick, but I really think my mother was murdered. It feels like what’s happening now is tied to that, but that’s not possible, right?”
Rick shares a look with Adam and Smith and then his hands are back on my arms, in that way he does when he wants to hold onto me and never let go. He’s staring down at me and only me. “I don’t know what this is, baby. I don’t know what happened to your mother. I don’t know who that man was with your father, but we’ll find out. Together. We’ll do this together. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because we’re better together and no one is taking that from us.”
“Promise?”
“The biggest fucking promise of the century.”
I laugh, but it’s a choked laugh, shards of bitterness lodged in my throat. “Any donuts left?” I ask. “I think I need a donut.”
“Hell yeah,” Rick says. “Let’s eat donuts.”
Adam stands. “I’m in.”
“Count me in, too,” Smith says, pushing to his feet. “Let’s eat some donuts.”
And so, we do. We gather in the center of the kitchen as we eat donuts. And for a tiny little moment, I have three big men standing around me stuffing sugar in their faces. For a magical window of time, there is nothing but food and friends. It’s a sanity break. The kind my mother used to call “necessary.” She also used to call those sanity breaks the calm that allows reason where there is no reason. And with reason, we find purpose. And we can’t find purpose without control.
She was right.
I decide right then, with a glazed donut in my hand, that control starts now. Volcanic explosions of emotions and fear, ends now. My parents were warriors. I need to be a warrior. Every action that I take from this point forward has to be calculated and planned. I have to be prepared in all areas, and ready to protect myself with more than my sketchpad and pencil.
I finish off a donut and dust off my hands, opening the drawer to remove my new, shiny, and extra special Sig Sauer P238. I settle it inside my purse, fixing Savage himself in a pointed look. “Let’s go shoot something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Savage
Candy baby wants to go shooting. She really is the girl of my dreams but that was never really in question. “You okay with leaving these bastards here at the house?” I ask. “Because I can kick them out.”
“Stay,” she says, eyeing Adam and Smith. “If you two find my father, I’ll even bring you back Alamo Café. Okay, I’ll do that anyway.”
Adam arches a brow. “Alamo Café?” he asks, dodging the awkward topic of her father, who should have been reachable by now. I know it. He knows it. I’m certain Candace knows it too but is in denial.
“Mexican food with fresh tortillas,” I explain. “The only way to eat Mexican food. Welcome to Texas. She’ll bring you food and I’ll bring you little blow-up arm floaties in case you want to go for a swim to cool off. Because I’m a lifesaver.”
Adam and Smith roll their eyes while Candace laughs. “You’re so ridiculously stupid for a brilliant man.” She tilts her chin and offers me her mouth. “I love it.”
And I love the fuck out of her. I catch her chin. “Good. Plenty more where that came from.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Smith snaps. “It’s all we can do to make sense of half of what he says as it is.”
“You understand the way I get my job done, though, don’t you?” I challenge.
Smith’s eyes meet mine and he gives a nod. “Respect there, man. Respect. But you’re still a pain in the ass.”
I give him a wink. “Love you, too, you little piss-ant ground pounder.” I give Adam the finger and we’re all laughing as Candace and I exit to the garage, but inside that laughter is the hollowness
of worry. Her worry for her father and the only way I fix that is us finding her father alive. Outside of that, she’s already got the right idea: shoot something. It works for me.
Once we’re inside the Porsche 911, I eye Candace and her missing seatbelt. She never forgets her seatbelt. Proof that she might be all about donuts and jokes on the outside, but inside, she’s freaking out. “Woman,” I scold, reaching over her and clicking it in place, my mouth lingering over hers, arm pressed to her breast. “You don’t ride with a guy like me without buckling up.”
Her hand settles on my jaw, and the laughter of moments before is gone. “Thank you for coming back for me, Rick.”
I cover her hand with mine and hold it between us. “Are you really thanking me for coming back to where I belong? I was a fool to leave.”
“I need you and you’re here. It matters.”
“I know I sound like a broken record, Candace, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. I don’t want you to go anywhere. And I don’t think I have the energy emotionally to believe anything outside of you staying. Forever.”
“Finally, something works in my favor.” I kiss her, biting back an offer of chocolate cake I’d make another time. Not now though. Not when worries for her father, dictate her state of mind.
I settle back into my seat, crank the engine, and turn up the radio to Jason Aldean’s “She’s Country.” By the time I’m on the main highway, I’ve convinced her to sing along with me, and the mood is lighter. Candace laughs and the smile she casts me lights me up right along with her face. I want to keep that smile on her face. This woman rocks my world. She’s brave. She’s strong. She’s a warrior, my warrior, and the idea that I haven’t been hers is not a good one. I was a fool to leave her, and for what? She’s right when she says that she was in the line of fire anyway, and I wasn’t here to stop that from happening.
I pull us into a parking spot near the door and kill the engine, the radio with it. Candace doesn’t reach for her belt or the door. I unhook my own belt and turn to face her. “A penny for your thoughts,” I say, and just that fast, she’s facing me, her seatbelt sliding back into the seat barrel.
“She was murdered, Rick,” she declares, her voice strong, anger crackling in her tone, all signs of the smiling country girl gone now.
“We don’t know that, baby,” I say. “And going down that rabbit hole leads to no place good. You know that, right?”
“So, we should leave it alone?” she challenges incredulously. “Are you serious right now, Rick Savage?”
“Hell no, I’m not suggesting we leave it alone, but one thing war has taught me is that distraction is deadly. Fretting, worry, and obsessive thoughts create emotional weakness. Fuck the hell out of me when your mind wants to go to those places. Otherwise, fact find—which we’re doing for you—prepare, and then act. And shoot your damn gun.” I open my door. “Let’s go do that now. I’ll come around and get you.”
I climb out of the Porsche 911 and she doesn’t wait on me. She’s out when I’m out and I get it. Inaction feels worse than action, when the world is spinning out of control, at least out of your control.
“I want the truth,” she says, and the conversation continues where it left off. “I want justice. What if all of this began before we even met? What if the day you met me, I sealed your future? I made you a killer.”
I catch her waist and walk her to me. “I told you, Candace, nobody made me what I was but me.”
“But what if—”
“It started before us,” I supply. “Yes,” I reluctantly conclude, not wanting to pull her farther into her rabbit hole, but also not willing to deny her the truth. “I think it might have.”
“That man who came to our house after the funeral. He was in a black SUV. He met with my father inside the back and when my father got out, he wasn’t happy. They had words and then my father barred past me where I waited and wouldn’t talk about it.”
“Your father is a high-ranking officer,” I remind her. “There’s no way he can avoid a wartime update, no matter what the day.”
“Right,” she says. “That’s true.” She glances down and then immediately back up. “It feels like it was more.”
“We’ll find out. Walker is looking into your mother’s death. And we’ll look for connections to us now, where they exist. Fact find, prepare, and then act.”
“Fact find, prepare, and then act,” she repeats.
“Start preparing by showing me how you handle that Sig Sauer.”
“Not as well as I want to handle it.”
“You will soon,” I promise. “When I’m done training you, that gun will be your third arm.” I close my hand around her hand and lead her toward the door, determined to make her as deadly as I am. The problem is that I can’t make her bulletproof. I guess I’ll just have to be her body armor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Candace
Rick holds onto my hand a bit too tightly as he leads me toward the side door of the turquoise blue building that is the shooting range. That grip feels telling. Like a sign that he’s afraid he’s going to lose me. I’m not sure if that’s about him feeling our past is still chipping away at our future, or that there’s a killer among us that plans to make me, and us, next. I think it’s both and the idea that my entire family, including the man I have loved for nearly a decade of my life, have always been game pieces in play. This idea angers me. This idea makes me want to fight the way my parents, and Rick himself, have fought for this country. I want to fight for them. I will not be a victim.
Once we’re inside the building, cases of guns greet us, as does a brawny thirty-something man with tattoos. “Rick-fucking-Savage,” he greets. “Long time no see.”
“Too long, Kevin,” Rick says. “Too long.”
The two men share a heavy handshake and Kevin’s attention falls on me. “Welcome. You must be Candace.”
Surprised that he knows my name, I eye Rick. “Of course, he knows who you are. You’ve been here before. With me.”
My brows furrow and I scan the room. “Actually, yes. It’s familiar, but—”
“It wasn’t blue,” Kevin supplies. “And I didn’t have all this muscle or ink.”
A bosomy, fit redhead appears by Kevin’s side and links her arm with his. “I inspired the muscles, ink, and eye-popping color.” Her words are spoken with Texas flavor, her grin friendly like the offer of her hand. “I’m Lea. I’ve been around these parts a good nine years now.”
I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She waves at Rick. “Howdy, Savage.”
“Howdy, Lea.” He slides an arm around me. “Full disclosure. I went on a date with Lea before you and I met. We pretty much hated each other.”
Kevin laughs. “Which is why he introduced her to me. And the rest is history.”
This news doesn’t faze me. I’ve never questioned how fully committed to me Rick was or is now, which is why him leaving and failing to return shook me to the core. But that had nothing to do with other women. It was about demons and monsters of a variety that includes Tag and others, perhaps that I knew and I didn’t know I knew. Which has me thinking about my mother’s funeral, not a redhead with another man on her arm. “The gun’s burning a hole in my purse, Rick,” I say.
Lea’s eyes go wide. “Honey, there was nothing between Rick and me.”
I blink. “What? I know. I know that.”
Rick squeezes my arm. “You’re staring at Lea like you want to use the gun on her, baby.”
“Not you, Lea,” I say. “But someone. I want to shoot someone.”
Kevin clears his throat. “I think we better make sure she has good aim.” He eyes Rick. “Downstairs.”
Rick gives him a nod and then catches the fingers of one of my hands in his, leading me forward and through the display cases. “They’re good friends,” he says. “The kind you can call if you need help.”
I give him a side glance. “They’re more than
they appear,” I assume.
“He has a nasty history, but she set him straight. That history with her by his side makes him an asset.” He motions us down the stairs. “Grab your phone and either let me put their numbers in for you, or you put them in. I just want you to have them as a backup. I’m always your number one call. Walker is still your number two, any member of Walker, and then Kevin and Lea.”
I reach into my jeans pocket and hand him my cell. We reach the bottom of the stairs and a sealed steel door, that is—surprise—turquoise blue. We halt there and he keys in Kevin and Lea’s numbers before handing me back my phone. “I don’t plan on leaving your side, but you never know when you might need back-up. For instance, if I’m busy killing five or ten guys, you dial for help.”
Five or ten guys.
There is no statement that he’s made that better defines how dirty he feels this is going to get.
Or perhaps how dirty it already is.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Candace
Rick opens the steel blue door and motions me inside. I slide my phone into my purse and enter what is not even close to the typical shooting range I’ve visited on the upper level, but rather what has to be an obstacle course with a rectangular table of weapons set in the front of the room.
“Time to learn how to protect yourself, baby,” Rick says, the steel door slamming with a force jolt, as he joins me. “My way,” he adds, sauntering toward the steel table, all long leg swagger with an undercurrent of sex and danger, stepping to the other side of the display. “Join me, Candy baby.” He picks up a pen.
Not pleased with the direction this has taken, I’m there, across from him in an instant. “Are you really showing me a pen right now?”
“Not your preferred weapon, I know,” he confirms correctly, “and it’s not easily a lethal weapon. What it is, is a weapon no one will think of as anything but your work tools. The obvious uses; take out an eye and slam it into the groin.”
“It’s going to break and that takes force I’ll have trouble finding if fighting off someone stronger,” I point out.
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