He tossed the covers to the side then rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Christ, he was getting old if simply laying in bed was enough to make his body stiff. He rolled his head from side-to-side, the vertebrae making loud popping noises that echoed through the silence of the room. His shoulders were next. Up and down. Back then front. Two more times, until some of the tension left the abused muscles.
He reached for the pair of sweatpants tossed across the foot of the bed, stepping into them as he stood up. Barefoot and bare-chested, he made his way to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face—a face he didn't bother to look at in the mirror. He knew how the scars looked, could trace every ragged line with his eyes closed. Some thin and shiny, some thick and twisted, all forming a roadmap of destruction on his lower face. The scars had bothered him at first, which surprised him because he wasn't a particularly vain man. At least, he hadn't thought so, not until he'd seen what a fucking mess his face had become, thanks to one well-placed IED.
But hell, it could have been worse. A lot worse. He was one of the lucky ones from that day—he hadn't woken up dead.
Yeah, real fucking lucky.
He pushed the memories away before they could resurface, dried his face, then headed downstairs to the kitchen and walked straight to the coffee machine. A nice jolt of caffeine would clear the fog in his mind. With any luck, it would work to dispel the lingering uneasiness still clinging to him.
Why the fuck had TR stopped by this morning? That was what kept bothering him: the why. Because fuck no, he wasn't buying that whole bullshit about needing a date. She was up to something, he just didn't know what.
Maybe you should have asked her.
Mac frowned then mentally told the voice in his head to shut the fuck up. Yeah, he should have asked her. If it had been anyone else, he would have asked. But it was TR and instead of asking, he fucking froze.
Because he was afraid of the answer?
Fuck no. It was because he was afraid he'd say yes. And that was the worst fucking thing he could do. TR was his weakness, something he'd finally admitted to himself at the beginning of the year at Jonathan Reigler's wedding. TR had gone with him—and he still had no idea how the fuck it had worked out that way—but it wasn't a date.
Not that she hadn't tried to turn it into one. He could still feel the weight of her hand—so damn small and delicate and warm—on his arm as she leaned toward him. Could feel the softness of one small breast press against his chest as she stepped even closer and tilted her head back. Her soft lips had parted and he knew—he fucking knew—she was going to kiss him. And Christ, he'd wanted her to, wanted it with a feverish need that still scared the piss right out of him. He wanted to feel her soft lips part beneath his. Wanted to taste the warmth of her mouth, wondered if it would be as sweet as the wine she'd been drinking. No, it would be sweeter, the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. And it would have been so easy, so fucking easy—
But he hadn't. Like the fucking fool he still was, he'd pushed her away and told her they could only be friends.
Mac had done some shit in his lifetime that he wasn't proud of, shit that occasionally haunted his dreams even now, but pushing TR away that night at the wedding was his one big regret—even if it had been for her own good. She deserved so much more than what he could offer. Didn't she see that?
Apparently not, not if she was showing up nearly a year later and asking him to be her date.
But her date for what?
Mac drained the mug, barely noticing the burn of liquid as it slid down his throat. Nothing from this morning made sense—from TR showing up and dropping that whole date bombshell in his lap, to seeing that stupid fucking peashooter in her purse. Every instinct he possessed screamed that she was up to something. The question was: what?
Mac spun on his heel and bounded up the wooden steps. All it would take was one simple call and he should have his answer. Maybe—if he still had TR's number. If she'd answer. If she'd even tell him. The damn woman could be stubborn when she wanted to be.
Fair enough, because so could he.
Chapter Six
The dull throbbing at the base of her skull was growing stronger, strong enough that TR started digging through her tote bag for the bottle of ibuprofen as the crowded train pulled into Penn Station. Relief flooded her when her hand closed around the bottle. That, even more than the headache, was a huge sign that this afternoon had been a bigger failure than this morning.
Talk about shitty days.
She twisted the cap off and shook out three white tablets then immediately tossed them into her mouth. She capped the bottle, threw it back into her bag, then pulled out the bottle of water. Barely more than a sip remained but she didn't care—it was enough to wash the pills down. The way her head was pounding, she'd swallow them without the water.
All around her, busy commuters got to their feet, hands curled around briefcases or messenger bags tossed over shoulders. TR did the same, muttering an apology when she accidentally bumped into the man in front of her. He didn't even glance at her, just kept moving forward as the commuter train slowly emptied its passengers into the cold night.
Vapor lamps—dirty and dusty—pierced the darkness, throwing puddles of ineffectual light on the cracked concrete of the outside platform. More than half of the passengers were getting off at this main stop in Baltimore and TR was behind every single one of them, waiting as they made their way up the stairs.
She entered the warm air of the terminal and breathed a sigh of relief at being halfway home—until she thought of the long drive back to her place. It was rush hour, which meant I-83 would be backed up all the way to the beltway. With her luck, it would be at least another hour before she got home.
Well, the extended drive home would give her time to mull over this afternoon's meeting—such as it was. She still didn't understand how she'd lost control so quickly. It should have been an easy meeting, a quick interview about the training facility that would have given the Senator ample opportunity to expand on his greatness.
It had been anything but that.
She'd arrived fifteen minutes early, only to be told the Senator was running thirty minutes late. TR simply smiled and took a seat in an outer office, grateful that the overstuffed chair was plush and comfortable. She had other work with her—she always did—as well as reading material, so the delay didn't upset her. Then the half hour had turned into an hour. Frustrating, yes, but there was nothing she could do about it. She reworked some of the questions, already anticipating the possibility that the Senator might have to call the meeting short.
It was the meeting itself that still baffled her. The questions were basic, so basic that even a career politician shouldn't feel any need to put a spin on the answers.
The Senator had done a lot more than put spin on his answers, though. He hadn't even answered half the questions, instead repeating them back then going off on a tangent that had nothing to do with what she asked. He'd been distracted, at times looking at her as if he didn't remember her walking into his office. By the time she walked out, she was more confused than ever.
And more convinced there was something else going on.
What politician would pass up the opportunity to paint himself in a positive light? The answer: none. Only that was exactly what the Senator had done. It was like he'd been expecting negative blowback and had come out fighting without even listening to TR—not that most of what he said had even made sense.
The whole thing left her feeling...uneasy. Uncomfortable. Like she was being manipulated. Or misled. TR didn't like either feeling.
Maybe she just needed to distance herself for a few hours. Instead of mulling over the meeting during the long drive in traffic, she could listen to an audio book and get lost in a world of fiction for a little bit. Then, when she got home, she'd change into her comfy flannel pajama pants and her favorite thermal shirt, pour a glass of wine, and review her notes. She didn't record the interview—the Se
nator had been against that—but her notes were impeccable, jotted down almost verbatim in her own version of shorthand.
She stopped at the painfully small store near the exit of the train station for a fresh bottle of water, then detoured to the bathroom. That taken care of, she pushed through the old wooden doors leading outside, shivering as an icy blast of air blew over her. She stopped at the pay station before moving to the elevator to the parking garage and had just pushed the button when her phone started ringing from the recesses of her tote bag.
She was tempted to let the call go to voicemail then decided against it. It might be her editor, asking how the interview went. Or maybe it was her mom, calling to chat.
She didn't glance to see who the caller was, simply thumbed the screen to answer as the elevator doors opened and she stepped inside.
"Hello?"
There was a pause, long enough to make her think it was a robocall, or some telemarketer offering services she didn't need or want. TR almost hung up when the caller finally spoke; when he did, she nearly dropped the phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Um—" TR pulled the phone away from her ear and glanced at the screen, already knowing she'd see Mac's name. She frowned, pushed the button for the lower level of the garage, then lifted the phone back to her ear.
"I'm heading to my car. What are you doing?" And oh God, she sounded like she was a teenage girl talking to her crush for the first time—which was close enough to the truth that her face heated with embarrassment.
"You're just now leaving work?"
"No, I'm at Penn Station."
"What the hell are you doing down there?"
"I had to go to DC for an interview and decided to take the MARC down instead of driving."
"And you left from Penn Station? You couldn't have found a better place to catch the train?"
Why did he sound so angry? It was enough to set her teeth on edge and make the pounding at the base of her skull kick up a notch. "No, not when Penn Station is closer and more convenient."
"It's not exactly in the safest part of the city."
TR almost laughed—would have if her day had been even marginally better. But she didn't need to be lectured by the same man who was partially responsible for her crappy day and she didn't bother to hide her frustration when she spoke.
"There is nothing wrong with Penn Station." Mostly. "Thousands of people travel to and from Penn Station a week. More than thousands. I'll be fine."
"It's still not—"
"Is there a reason you called?" She cut him off, her voice a little sharper than she intended. Too bad. He was a big boy, he could handle it.
And that was probably the wrong thought to have. Mac was big—but he definitely wasn't a boy. The last thing she wanted—or needed—was images of his broad, hard body popping into her mind.
Yeah. Too late for that, because they were already there.
She muttered to herself then stepped off the elevator, readjusting the strap of her tote bag as she walked through the parking garage. The lights down here were dim, making the shadows deeper and longer. Her heels clicked against the dirty concrete, the sound echoing in the cold night air as she moved deeper into the garage, toward the farthest row of parking spaces. It must be later than she realized because there weren't many cars left down here.
Of course, she had been one of the last passengers to leave the terminal, thanks to her stop for water and her trip to the bathroom. And probably thanks to Mac, too. She wouldn't have given the empty shadows a second thought if he hadn't opened his mouth—
"TR, are you still there?"
"Of course I'm still here. Where else would I be?"
"You sound a little...pissed off. Short."
She mentally rolled her eyes as she reached into her bag with her free hand, pulling out her keys. "It's been a really crappy day."
A short pause, filled with a grunt she could barely hear. "I guess that's my fault."
"Partly, yeah. But I'll get over it." TR finally reached her car then stumbled to a stop, a small sound of dismay falling from her mouth. She blinked, then blinked again, hoping she was only imagining things.
She wasn't.
The driver's side window was smashed, glass littering the front seat of her beloved little Camry. Both tires had been slashed and the driver's side door was dented and scratched near the door handle, like someone had tried to force it open before finally breaking the window. She took a hesitant step forward, stopped, then softly swore.
"You have got to be kidding me—"
"What's wrong?"
"I don't believe this. Dammit! After everything else today—"
"TR! What is it? What's going on?"
"I don't need this. I really don't. Dammit! Dammit—"
"TR. What the hell is going on? Talk to me. Now."
It was the command in Mac's rough voice that finally drew her attention away from her car. She blew out a sigh, the sound a heavy combination of sorrow and frustration, then ran a shaking hand through her hair.
"Somebody broke into my car."
"What?"
She ignored his low roar, tempted to do some roaring of her own. "Somebody broke into my car. The window's smashed and—"
"Get back upstairs. Now."
"I will. I want to take pictures first. Then I need—"
"TR, listen to me. I want you to get back upstairs. Now. Don't take pictures. Don't do anything."
"But—"
"Is there anyone else there? Anyone around you?"
Dread washed over her, leaving icy tendrils of fear in its wake. She spun around, her eyes darting to the surrounding shadows, expecting someone to jump out at her. But she was the only person down here; the shadows were empty, hiding nothing more than discarded trash.
As far as she could tell.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing pulse even as she mentally cursed Mac for making her so nervous. Damn him. Even now, he was still talking, his voice low and rough, issuing commands she thought of ignoring simply on principle.
But she wasn't stupid and what Mac was telling her made sense. Any reasonable person would go straight upstairs and report it. There were police officers upstairs—Amtrak police and city police. Going upstairs was the smart thing to do.
"TR, did you hear me? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here." She gave her car one last long look, blinking against the unexpected tears, then turned and headed back to the elevator.
"Are you going upstairs?"
"Yes, I'm going upstairs."
"I'm coming to get you. Wait there for me—"
"You don't need to come get me. I can call for a ride—"
"I'm coming to get you."
"Mac, don't be ridiculous. It'll take you forever to get here with the traffic. I can—"
"Boomer's on his way. He'll be there in fifteen. Wait with him—"
"Who? What are you talking about? Mac, I don't need a babysitter. I'm going upstairs to report it now. Then I'll figure out how to get home after everything's been taken care of." TR pushed the up button, breathing a silent sigh of thanks when the doors opened right away. "I'll be fine—"
Mac kept talking as if he hadn't even heard her. Or maybe he had heard her and he was just ignoring her. Of course he was, because wasn't that what she needed to really put the cherry on top of this whole miserable day?
"Just wait with Boomer and don't do anything until I get there."
"Mac, I don't—"
"Please."
It was the please that made her stop. Not just the word, but the soft plea in Mac's gruff voice. TR blew out another sigh, all the fight leaving her with that one long breath. The day had been too long and filled with one miserable failure after another. She didn't have the desire to fight anything else, not right now. It would be a different story in the morning. It might even be different in an hour. But now...for now, it would just be easier to give in, to let Mac have his way. To let him ta
ke over and handle everything.
TR went back inside to wait.
Chapter Seven
They were laughing.
He'd damn near broken his neck, fighting apprehension along with bumper-to-bumper traffic to get here, and they were both sitting there laughing.
Mac sucked in a deep breath and forced his hands to uncurl, when what he really wanted to do was wrap them around Boomer's thick neck and strangle the bastard. Son of a bitch. He pulled in another deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. What the fuck was wrong with him? Laughter was good. Laughter meant there was no immediate danger.
Hell, it probably meant there was no danger at all, period. Maybe he'd been overreacting. Maybe TR's car being broken into was nothing more than a random act. Shit like that happened all the time, it didn't have to mean she was targeted.
Except his gut was still clenched and those little fucking hairs on the back of his neck were still standing at attention. When that happened, he listened. It had saved his sorry ass on more than one occasion.
Had the break-in been nothing more than coincidence? Maybe.
But he wasn't buying it for a second. Not after this morning. Not with the way every instinct was screaming at him, telling him this was all connected to...he had no idea what. Whatever the hell TR was up to.
And she was up to something.
He watched her now, drinking in the sight of her sitting there on the old wooden bench that reminded him of a church pew with its high back and curved arms. Her long legs were crossed, her foot casually swaying mid-air. Not that impatient sway it had done this morning in his office, though. No, of course not. Not when she was sitting there, leaning toward Boomer, her full mouth curled into a relaxed smile. The other man leaned forward, his arm hovering near TR's shoulders, like he was about to slide her closer and pull her into a hug.
Or pull her onto his lap.
Mac would rip his fucking arm from its socket if he tried.
Boomer must have sensed the imminent danger because he leaned back, his dark gaze slowly sliding around the lobby before coming to a rest on Mac. He didn't move his arm, though, and that pissed Mac off.
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