8
I was even more sore when I woke, and I didn’t want to move from where I was warm and cuddled. I snuggled deeper into the arms that surrounded me. They were muscled and wrapped all around me—one under my head, the other over my waist to meet in the middle. A palm had slipped inside my pajama top and cupped my breast.
Wait a second. Jackson was in the hospital. Clark had been shot. Clark was the one in my bed, touching me in a totally inappropriate way.
My eyes popped open. Everything farther than fifteen inches away was blurry. I was frozen, unsure what to do. From the steady breathing in my ear, Clark was asleep. He must’ve come closer in his sleep. I had no memory of it. The pain meds had knocked me out.
I moved a scant inch, thinking to ease out of his grip, but he sighed deeply and tightened his grip. His thumb brushed over my nipple, and I sucked in a breath. Then he began gently massaging my breast.
“Clark,” I said, wriggling in his arms. “Wake up.”
He mumbled something and started kissing my neck, sending a shiver through me.
“Clark,” I repeated, louder this time. He was still playing with my breast, the nipple growing erect under his touch. Another shiver went down my spine, and my mouth was dry.
“Mmmm, baby,” he murmured against my skin.
Baby. The endearment went right through me to my mushy center and set up camp, which was bad bad bad. I grabbed his wrist. “Wake up, Clark.”
That produced more of a response, and he stopped kissing me and stopped stroking my breast.
“Good morning,” he said in my ear.
“Your hand—”
“Yeah. Right.” He slipped his hand out of my shirt, and I let out a breath.
I was up and out of the bed like a shot, grabbing my glasses and rushing into the bathroom. I was flustered and still reacting from his touching me.
My world was shaken. Something was wrong with me. I couldn’t possibly be in love with Jackson if I reacted with anything other than shock and revulsion to Clark’s . . . advances, for lack of a better word. But revulsion had been the last thing on my mind when we’d kissed, or this morning when he was touching me.
The thought of losing Jackson made my heart squeeze painfully in my chest, and I doubled over, bracing my elbows on the sink. But what else was I to do? I’d betrayed him—not once, but twice. And not with just anyone. With the one man he felt threatened by: Clark.
I didn’t know what to do, which wasn’t something I was often faced with. What my head said I needed to do was drastically different from my emotions, and I instinctively cringed at the thought.
So I lapsed into routine, the one thing that was a solace to me. The comfort and normality of showering, drying my hair, and putting it up in a ponytail. I wrapped myself in a towel before exiting the bathroom to choose my clothes. I could see from the corner of my eye that Clark was sitting on the side of the bed, head down, elbows braced on his spread knees.
I said nothing as I picked out my clothes, first grabbing a Make Love, Not Horcruxes T-shirt. My eyes widened and I shoved it back, pulling out an I Suspect Nargles Are Behind It shirt instead, a random long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of jeans. I went to my bureau to choose my bra and underwear, acutely conscious of Clark coming up to stand behind me.
His hands settled on my bare shoulders, and I stiffened. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“We have something,” he said. His thumbs brushed my skin. “I know I can’t be the only one who feels it.”
I spun around and shoved him away. “How dare you?” I hissed. “How dare you do this? You were very clear that there would never be anything between us, and then you left. And now . . . now it’s too late. I’m engaged, Clark. And you trying to . . . to . . . seduce me, is only making me feel like shit.”
His face was wiped of expression, though he was paler than usual. “Well, excuse the fuck out of me for hoping that I wasn’t too late.” He stalked to the bathroom door, then glanced back. “Sometimes it takes longer than you’d think to realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.” The door closed behind him.
I heard the shower come on, so I dressed quickly, trying not to think of what he’d just said.
Mia was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, mug in hand, waiting for the coffeepot to finish brewing. She glanced up when I came down.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?” She reached up into the cabinet for another mug. Her pink Hello Kitty pajamas were half-hidden by a fluffy pink robe two sizes too big for her. She had matching fuzzy slippers, too.
“Like I was in a car wreck,” I said. “You’re up early for a Sunday.”
Mia covered a massive yawn with her hand. “I know. But I promised Shelly I’d go to church with her.”
My eyebrows flew upward. “Church? I didn’t know you were a believer.”
Mia shrugged. “I think there’s something larger than us, bigger than us, out there. I’m not sure what it is, but hey, better safe than sorry, right?”
“Hedging your bets?”
“Being pragmatic,” she corrected with a wink. “Remember what they say—there are no atheists in foxholes. Anyway, she’ll be here in half an hour, and I’m pushing it as it is.” She poured coffee into her mug and headed back to her room. “I think we’re going to breakfast afterward, FYI,” she called back.
“Okay, have fun.” My response was automatic, then I paused. Was having fun an appropriate thing to say about going to church? But she was already upstairs, so I guessed it didn’t matter anyway.
I poured my own coffee, gratefully savoring that first sip. Then poured another cup and took it upstairs.
I’d left an unopened toothbrush, a disposable razor, and fresh towels on the counter for Clark, and by the time I returned, he was shaving. The door to the bathroom was open, and he had a towel around his waist and that was all.
Setting the mugs down, I quickly turned away. His shirt was ruined and he’d need another. I scrounged in my closet, remembering a T-shirt I’d once ordered where they’d accidentally sent the wrong size. I’d never gotten around to returning it, and it might fit Clark. Ah. There it is.
“This might fit you,” I said curtly, handing it to Clark. “And I need to redress your wound.”
He’d just finished shaving and rinsed the remaining suds from his face. I gathered the things I needed and motioned for him to sit on the lid of the toilet.
We didn’t speak as I removed the old gauze and tape. I winced in sympathy as the tape removed some hair, though Clark didn’t so much as twitch.
The wound looked better and wasn’t inflamed, which was a good thing. I used some antibiotic ointment this time before rebandaging, hoping that would keep infection at bay.
“All done,” I said, putting the supplies away again.
“A To-Do list?” Clark read from the shirt. He glanced up. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s all I had that might fit.”
“Rule Middle Earth, Rebuild the Death Star, Open the Ark of the Covenant . . . what kind of list is this?”
I shifted from one foot to another, impatient to leave the room so Clark could get dressed. “It’s a villain’s to-do list,” I explained. “They sent the wrong size.”
“I don’t even know what some of this stuff means,” he said, looking back at the shirt. “What the hell is a Pikachu? And why would I want to steal dinosaur embryos?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’ll give you a minute for that one.”
Clark frowned and I waited. His face cleared. “Oh. Got it.” He chuckled. “I’m honored,” he said with a wry smile. “I get to wear one of your precious fandom T-shirts.”
Pulling it over his head, he had to do some maneuvering with his injured shoulder, and I had to stop myself from trying to help. It fit tighter than the shirts he usually wore—not that I was going to complain. At least he was covered.
I exited the bathroom, not needing to see him put his jeans on, and waited until he came out, fully dressed.
“What’s your plan?” I asked, handing him his cup of coffee. I didn’t want to talk about “us” anymore. There was no “us” anyway.
“To find out what the hell this is,” he said. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out an identical talisman to the one that had been in the Jaguar.
The shock on my face must’ve been apparent, because he said, “What? What’s wrong?”
“That.” I pointed. “Where did you get it?”
“Pickpocket slipped it on me yesterday,” he said. “Right before my . . . disagreement.”
“There was one in the car,” I explained. “Right before the accident.”
He raised one dark eyebrow. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this isn’t a coincidence.”
“The chances of that would be highly unlikely. But I fail to see the significance of a Roman numeral two.”
Clark looked at me strangely. “Roman numeral? It’s not a two. It’s a Gemini.”
I took the talisman from him. “Gemini? You mean the zodiac symbol.”
“Yeah.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” I said, somewhat chagrined. “But then again, I don’t believe in horoscopes or that your personality is influenced by how the stars are aligned in the sky the day you were born.”
“Let’s set aside the validity of astrology as a science for the time being—”
“It is not a science,” I scoffed. “You’d have better odds of knowing the future with one of those cootie catchers than a horoscope.”
“Anyway,” he said, giving me a look, “both you, Coop, and me got a Gemini sign right before someone tried to kill us. I want to know why.”
“When were you born?” I asked.
“May tenth,” he said. “Taurus, not Gemini. You?”
“Although I don’t subscribe to the theory, I was born under the sign of . . .” I took a breath and rolled my eyes. “. . . Virgo.”
Clark snorted. “Seriously? The Virgin? And you say you don’t believe in that stuff?”
“Coincidence is far more likely,” I retorted. “And besides, I’m obviously not a virgin any longer.”
Something crossed Clark’s face, almost like a wince, but I blinked and it was gone.
“What about Coop?” he asked. “Not a Gemini either?”
“His birthday is January third, which puts him under the Capricorn sign.” I handed the metal symbol back to him. He took it without comment, staring at it in his palm.
There was a knock on my door. “I’m leaving now,” Mia hollered.
“Okay, bye,” I called back.
A moment later, I heard the front door open and close.
“We can go downstairs now,” I said, anxious to be in a room with Clark that did not include the bed we’d slept in last night. Not waiting to see if he followed, I headed for the kitchen.
Everything Clark had done and said reverberated in the back of my mind, and I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t want to rock the boat I was in. Change was awful—and painful. I was right when I’d told him it was too late.
I’d rinsed my mug and put it in the dishwasher by the time Clark came in. “So how do you plan on figuring out what that means or who sent it?” I asked.
“I know of a place to start,” he said, finishing his coffee. “It’s just not going to be pleasant.”
That didn’t sound good. “What do you mean?”
“Remember that place I took you when you got shot?”
Vague images of a hospital-like surgery room, then a recovery room. “Dr. Jay,” I said. “You said he owed you a favor.”
“He did. Which he paid. He works for PFG Security, not that they advertise. At least, not in the Yellow Pages.”
I didn’t get the Yellow Pages reference, but grasped the gist. “Why would you go to them? They didn’t seem very helpful the first time around.”
“Zane has lots of contacts in very high places. Someone who has a beef with the president, me, and Coop has to have talked to somebody. I’d like to know who it is before he tries again. Zane’s the best, and quickest, bet.”
“How do you know Zane?”
He hesitated, “Let’s just say that when I left the service, I wasn’t in a Good Place.” He used air quotes for Good Place.
That wasn’t an idiom I was familiar with. I shook my head, confused. “What do you mean? What place were you trying to get to?”
“I don’t mean an actual location—”
“But you said place,” I interrupted.
“I know, but I meant . . . mentally.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“That mission I told you about,” he said, leaning back against the counter, “was my last. I got out. But I was . . . messed up. I had no job, so I was approached by PFG. I worked for them for a few years.”
“What did you do for Zane?” The firm’s name was “security,” so I assumed he’d been a bodyguard or consultant or something.
“Paid assassin.”
I stared at him. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you said ‘assassin’?”
“That’s right.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze narrowing as he watched my reaction.
Clark had killed people before. I knew that. But I’d also thought he’d done it in the name of duty. He’d been dealing in information when I’d first met him. Dangerous information, yes, but still things that were beneficial to the country. For him to suddenly tell me that he’d killed people for money . . . I had to sit down. Luckily, the kitchen table was there, and I yanked out a chair to collapse into.
“You mean . . . you’re a bad guy?” I asked. It seemed unreal. “But . . . you saved me. Rescued me.”
Clark was suddenly there, crouching down in front of me. “I don’t do it anymore,” he said. “And I wish now I never had. But . . . I was dead inside back then. I’m not trying to excuse it or make it sound like it was okay. It wasn’t—”
“Then what are you trying to make it sound like?” I interrupted, failing to keep the anger from my voice. “Why would you do that?”
His lips thinned. “I’ve never told anyone about this part of my past,” he said. “I don’t know why I thought maybe you . . . Never mind.” He stood and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it. “I’d better go.”
I jumped to my feet and planted myself squarely in front of him. “No way. Not alone.”
“Don’t be stupid, Mack. Step aside.”
Clark hadn’t called me Mack in a while. I wasn’t fond of the nickname, and the way his voice had sounded when he’d called me baby this morning flitted through my head. I pushed the random thoughts away.
“Don’t ever insult my intelligence,” I said, poking him in the chest with a finger. “And I mean it. You’re not going without me.”
“And how do you propose to make me take you along?” The mask was back in place, hiding the vulnerability he’d let me see earlier. I felt a pang of regret for not tempering my reaction better. I’d just been so shocked.
“I’m your partner. You showed up here when you were hurt. You owe it to me to let me come along.” I didn’t know how far that would get me, so I added, “Besides, you think this Zane is just going to tell you what you want to know? Won’t he want something in return?”
Clark studied me, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said at last.
“And what do you have to trade?”
“I used to do a job for Zane. I can do it again.”
Horrified, I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not. No way.”
“I don’t have any other choice,” he bit out. “I don’t want to just sit around being a walking target.” He paused, reaching out to drape my long ponytail on my shoulder. “Or risk you being caught in the cross fire.”
“I already am.” I reached into my basket of newfound idioms. “A dime a dozen.” Wait, that didn’t sound right.
Clark frowned. “What?”
“A penny saved is a penny earned?” I tried. No, that wasn’t right either. “Something about money.” It was so frustrating when things didn’t come out of my mouth right.
“In for a penny, in for a pound?” Clark said.
“Yes! That’s the one.” What were we talking about again? “Yes, so I’m coming with you. Two heads are better than one.” I smiled smugly. I knew I’d gotten that one right. “We’ll figure something out.” I held my breath. I couldn’t let him go without me. What if someone took another shot at him? Next time he might not be so lucky.
“Fine,” he said, snapping out the word. “But you have to do what I say, understood? These people don’t fuck around.”
I was already nodding. “Got it.”
He let out a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “I know I’m gonna regret this.”
Choosing to ignore his less-than-complimentary prediction, I put on my jacket and grabbed my backpack and keys. “We’re taking my car, though,” I said. “I’m not riding on the back of the organ donor again.”
He held out his hand. “Deal. But I’m driving.”
I hesitated, but the look in his eye said he wasn’t going to budge on this point, so I handed them over. “Be careful,” I warned him. “She’s my baby.”
“She’s a car,” he said. “Not a person.”
“That’s your opinion. And don’t say that where she can hear you.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t disparage my Mustang further as we went outside and I locked the door behind me. Mia had retrieved my car from Jackson’s, thank goodness, though I’d tried not to think too deeply about her barely sixteen-year-old-self driving it.
Clark got in and immediately banged his knees on the steering column. He cursed and I winced.
“Be careful,” I said again.
“How do you even drive this?” he groused, moving the seat back a good foot. “Can you see over the steering wheel?”
“Of course I can,” I retorted, then added, “Mostly.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t complain any more as he finished adjusting the seat and mirrors. Then we were off. To my surprise, he swung into a fast-food drive-thru.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Eating. Aren’t you hungry?”
I was already shaking my head. “No. Absolutely not. You will not be eating in my car.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I never joke, especially about my car. I refuse to have fossilized french fries atrophying between the seats, or sticky Coke residue coating the cup holders. No. No food.”
Clark heaved a sigh of long-suffering and pulled into a parking spot.
“I don’t go inside fast-food restaurants either,” I added.
He rested his forehead against the top of the steering wheel. An odd thing to do, but maybe his shoulder was hurting him.
“I’m going to regret asking this, but why?” His voice was muffled from the way he was sitting.
“Because of the noxious odor of oil frying,” I said. “It permeates everything. Sit inside there for fifteen minutes and we’ll both smell like we pulled an eight-hour shift. It ruins my appetite.”
“So why don’t you tell me where is an acceptable venue for you to eat this morning?”
“I thought you were in a big hurry to get to PFG?” I asked. “Why are you worried about eating?”
“Soldier rules,” he said, lifting his head. “Never skip an opportunity to eat or sleep, because you don’t know when you’ll get the next chance for either. Plus, both of us were hurt yesterday. We need the nutrition. I can’t go in anywhere and you won’t let us eat in the car. What’s your solution?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. He was right. We couldn’t take the chance of someone recognizing him by going into an actual restaurant. So as much as I hated it, I gritted my teeth and said, “Fine. We can eat in the car. But don’t spill anything.”
“I’m not a toddler,” he retorted, backing out of the space.
In the interest of keeping the peace, I refrained from pointing out that his temper was coming close to tantrum stage.
He ordered for us through the fuzzy speaker. The worker’s tinny voice came back, repeating everything, then asked, “Do you want fries with that?”
I said nothing, just glared. Clark glanced my way. “Uh, no thanks. Not this time.” He gave me a totally fake, thin-lipped smile. “Happy?” he asked.
I thought it was rhetorical, so I didn’t reply with more than a harrumph.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. He inched the car forward in line.
I wasn’t sure if he meant physically or emotionally, but the former was easiest to answer. “Sore. I popped a couple of ibuprofen to take the edge off. My wrist is really tender and swollen.”
“And Coop?” The name seemed forced, as was the light tone with which he said it.
“Should be released today,” I said, glancing away. An awkward silence fell.
“Where’s your ring?” he asked.
“I . . . uh . . . I didn’t want to risk losing it,” I lied. The truth was, my conscience wouldn’t let me wear it. “It’s expensive.”
The harried worker at the drive-thru window passed us two bags and two large drinks. Clark pulled away as I dug through the bags. I grimaced. I could already tell the smell was overtaking the leather aroma of the interior. Yuck.
I insisted he pull over and not drive while eating, which he did after much huffing and rolling of his eyes. Only then did I hand him his burgers. He devoured one then the other in short order, then went to put his hands on the steering wheel . . . and stopped.
I was holding a napkin an inch from his nose.
“Wipe your greasy paws,” I demanded.
I popped open the glove box while he did as he was told, then handed him a wet wipe. “Now use this.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you might be just a few fries short of a Happy Meal?” he asked.
“To quote Sheldon, ‘I’m not crazy. My mom had me tested.’”
That startled a short laugh from him, then I finally allowed him to drive the car again while I unwrapped my food. I ate daintily, leaning over the paper bag in case anything dripped from my turkey-club wrap.
I made him pull off at a gas station to dispose of the trash as soon as I’d finished. I didn’t want the smell in my car any longer than absolutely necessary. I also ran inside and bought a new air freshener, which I hung from the rearview mirror.
Clark watched me without comment. I inhaled deeply.
“Mmmm. Much better,” I said happily.
“You know, this all could’ve been avoided if you’d just cooked this morning,” he said, pulling back onto the highway.
I glanced at him. His profile was sharply outlined against the sunshine on display outside his window. He’d put on sunglasses, hiding his eyes, and his hair was mussed from running his fingers through it. Not for the first time did I wonder how in the world I ever had bought the lie that he “worked in HR.” He no more looked like he worked in HR than I was a runway model.
“Sunday is grocery-shopping day,” I said. “The only thing I had to cook was grilled cheese and pizza rolls.”
“Breakfast of champions,” he deadpanned.
Neither of us spoke about the arguments we’d had, but my guilt ate at me as he drove, until I couldn’t hold my silence.
“Clark, I want to say that I’m sorry.”
“For what?” His voice was flat. Not exactly rolling out the welcome mat for my apology.
“You told me something very personal, and I reacted . . . badly.” To put it mildly.
“You reacted like a normal person,” he said. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”
“But I’m not a normal person.”
“Don’t say that.” He spoke so harshly that I was momentarily silenced. “I’ve told you before,” he continued, “you’re better than normal. You’re . . . one of a kind.”
“So are factory rejects.” I didn’t say it in a bad way. It was a fact.
“You’re not a fucking reject,” he snapped. “You’re like one of those eggs.”
“A what?”
“You know.” He waved his hand in the air. “The ridiculously expensive eggs made in Russia or whatever.”
“Fabergé?”
“Yeah. Those. You’re like one of those.”
I was at a loss as to how to respond, other than “Thank you, Clark. That’s an . . . original compliment.” I frowned. “It was a compliment, right?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. Comparing you to priceless, one-of-a-kind works of art was an insult.”
I considered. “Sarcasm?”
He shot me a look.
Yep. Sarcasm.
We arrived at PFG a short while later. Clark pulled up to an intercom in front of a formidable black gate.
The intercom burst into life as Clark rolled down the window. The sun had disappeared now and clouds were rolling in.
“State your name and business,” the disembodied voice said.
“You know my name, and my business is private. I’ll discuss it with Zane, and him only.”
There was a length of silence that was just starting to make me uncomfortable when the voice returned.
“Stay on the path. Do not deviate. Any deviation will be seen as a provocation and met with lethal force.”
Okay, then.
“They aren’t exactly welcoming you with open arms,” I said as the gate began to swing ponderously open. “I feel like we’re about to land on Bespin.”
“A Star Wars reference,” Clark said. “I got that one.”
“Then you know that Vader could be waiting for us,” I said.
“What’s waiting for us is way worse than Vader,” he replied, which didn’t make me feel one bit better.