Chapter Sixteen
“You’re awfully quiet.” JB reached for the second candy bar Marcy held ready for him. “Did you eat anything?”
She nodded. “We should have brought one of the pizzas.”
“Pizza would leave a scent the worst tracker on earth could follow. We’ll eat later.” He sped up, checking the mirror for headlights. None. Good. Rounding a blind curve, he slowed and checked the mirror again for anyone who might have sped up to catch them. Nothing. Good. Every minute they gained meant one more point for him and Marcy.
She flipped the heat on to low.
“You cold?” he said.
Nodding, she reached for one of his jackets. Once she snuggled inside the oversized coat and zipped it, she looked like a child playing dress-up. Her safe, little world here in Crayton had been shattered. Shattered by him. He should have stayed away. Trouble was, he didn’t want to stay away. He checked the rearview mirror one more time.
The FBI agent in him clued her in on the escape scenario. Just like any witness he’d protected, she didn’t need to know the particulars, just bits and pieces. She was smart and self-reliant, but they were playing in his ballpark now. He knew she could pull this off. She didn’t need to know how bad the situation might get. He knew, though. He knew they faced a crazed killer who’d stop at nothing to seek his revenge.
JB accepted the fact that the creep was from his past. Coupled with the job he just finished, there could be only one conclusion. Had to be the same psycho who’d ratted him out, landing him in the hospital with scars to last a lifetime. Only this torture was on a whole different level. A personal level.
“Looks like we’re headed home. How’s that going into hiding?” She shivered.
He turned the heat dial to high. “We’ll only stay long enough to set the plan the sheriff and I devised into play.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we get to the house, I want you to throw a toothbrush, change of clothes, and whatever else you need in a backpack. Don’t make it heavier than you can carry.” After jerking his head to catch the driver’s profile in a passing car of the oncoming lane, he turned back to the road ahead. Slowed as they neared their street. “Don’t turn the light on in the bedroom while we’re there.”
She scooted closer to him. “What about you?”
“I’ll toss a few things in another pack.” He pulled up to the house. Turned the key off. “With luck, whoever’s watching our house will think we’re here for the night. No matter what, we have to set the lure and reel the creep in. Hopefully, that will be all the sheriff needs to catch him. If not, then you and I will take off through the woods once I get a call from Davis.”
“Where to after that?”
“We’ll sneak out the back and hike to the other truck I told you about.”
“Why can’t we just stay here at the house? You can protect me no matter where we are.”
“Whoever’s doing this is a pro. If we just sit here surrounded by police, he could go into hiding for years before he strikes us again. We’re not going to live like that. Right now’s the time to make him mad enough to make a mistake.” He grinned. “And chasing us through the woods I know like the back of my hand may prove so damn frustrating to him that he tips over the little edge of sanity he still has. Very few people know these woods like me. Very few.”
JB stuffed ammo from the hidden side door compartment into his pockets. Grabbed his extra Glock, knife, and leg strap from the headliner. “Remember Cain Connery?”
She nodded.
“He’s back in town and offered to help.”
“Do you trust him?”
“I did a little checking. Ends up he’s with DEA.”
She blew out a sigh. “So where are we going?”
“I’ll take you to his old man’s fishing cabin over by the lake. Cain and I used to hang out around there. He’s been staying there while he gets his dad’s house in shape, but he’ll stay in town.” JB loaded the extra Glock and handed it to Marcy. “You remember how to use one of these?”
She nodded, again.
“Want a holster?”
“No, I’ll use my coat pocket.”
The Marcy he remembered had a more than healthy respect for guns but knew how to load, aim, and shoot. The gun didn’t scare her. Shooting a person? She could. Worst case scenario, she would. Living with the guilt would come later.
“By the way, this guy may have audio equipment targeted on the house, but we’ve set up a block until I click the detection equipment into action. Ready?”
She blew a long, slow breath through her lips. “Let’s go.”
“Okay. Curtain up. Act one. Time to play the game. Pretend it’s any normal day.” He grinned as he slid from the truck. “You know…like last night when you tried to kill me with that damn soup.”
She opened the passenger door. “Can I help it if you don’t know how to say you’re sick?” She dropped to her feet. “See if I ever make minestrone again. In fact, I’ve decided to go on strike when it comes to cooking.” She clutched his jacket tight around her.
He slung his arm across her shoulder, and they walked inside. Set the lock and closed the shutters at the kitchen window. He used to hate those wooden-sun-blockers as he always called them. Tonight, they were invaluable.
Still doing their chit-chat thing, he sat a listening device on the counter, nodded to her, and clicked the button. They walked to the living room and turned on the lights, closed the blinds. If the perp tried to listen in on them, the device on the counter would alert them. Until then, they could talk normally.
She picked up her horticulture book and headed down the hallway.
“What are you gonna do with that?” He turned on the kitchen light and pulled her against him to whisper in her ear.
“Take it with me.”
“No. Too heavy.”
She shot him one of her looks that could get him to agreeing with anything. Not this time. “Marcy, I’ve got my own backpack. Guns and ammo. And, if push comes to shove, I’ve got to be able to react on a breath.” He hovered over her as she did her patiently listening routine. “No. No book.”
“Okay.” She walked into the bedroom to pack with the book still in her hand.
Who did she think she was fooling with that compliance routine? He knew she’d put the damn thing in her backpack then shuck it halfway to the cabin when even an ounce of extra weight felt like a hundred pounds.
Clicking on the radio, he slipped down the hall, packed his bag, and stashed it beneath the window in the guest bedroom. They’d make their getaway from there. He returned to the living room and hoped she’d be ready when the sheriff’s call came.
By his estimate, the replacement truck should already be in place out on Oak Hill Road, so there was nothing left to do but wait for one of two things to happen. Either, the perp would activate the listening device, or the police hidden in the neighborhood would pick up his movement in the direction of their house. With luck, the police might even nab him. Luck had been with them the past few days. Maybe there’d be a little left in the tank.
He settled back on the sofa and waited. Still no Marcy. Where was she? How long could it take to shove a few things in a backpack? He headed down the hallway and found her leaning against the wall. A backpack on one side of her feet, a duffle on the other side. How much stuff did she think he’d let her take?
Grabbing the backpack, he walked over to the window in the guest bedroom and dropped it next to his on the floor. The thud as the thing landed told him the book was inside. Aw, hell. He moved the book to his backpack.
But, for damn sure the other bag she had in the hallway wasn’t going.
“Marcy?”
“I’m in the living room.”
He walked to the sound of her voice, turned the corner, and caught a glimpse of the other duffle sitting by the front door. Looked like his big bag. Looked like the bag she packed years ago. The one he’d returned to Crayton with.
“I’ve decided I’m not going.” She sat on the arm of the sofa. “I’ve decided I don’t want you around here anymore.” She motioned to the bag. “I’ve packed your stuff, so it’s time for you to go.” She stood, defiant as hell, pointing to the door. “You promised you’d leave when this is over. Well, I don’t want you getting hurt for me, so go now.”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes on hers. “We don’t have time for this right now.”
She stormed to the adjoining dining room, pulled open a drawer in the china cabinet, and rummaged to the bottom. Returning, she slapped a big, white envelope on the coffee table. “Know what this is? This is the divorce papers you signed.”
He glanced down fast enough to see the attorney’s name and return address on the label. “Yeah. I know all about us being divorced. You sent. I signed. I get it.”
“But I never signed them.”
“We’re wasting time here.” He turned to walk to the kitchen. Stopped. Something in her words jabbed him like a knife and twisted. He pivoted back to face her. “What the hell did you say?”
“I never signed the papers.” Her face flushed, her chin issued an occasional quiver, and she blinked. “Never filed them. So we’re…we’re—”
“Still married?”
Biting on her bottom lip, she nodded.
Sonofabitch. Damittohell. And every other curse word he’d ever used struggled not to come out of his mouth. “Me? You and me are still married?”
“Yes, JB. We’re still married.” She dumped the envelope’s contents on the corner desk, then rummaged in the drawer and came up empty-handed. “Don’t worry. I’ll file the papers tomorrow.”
What? What did she mean don’t worry? His whole world had just stopped with a magnitude eight earthquake hitting his epicenter. They were still married. Him. Her. This wasn’t good. Not good on so many levels. So worry was exactly what he intended to do.
“Maybe I’m being a little slow on the uptake, but how did this happen?” He raked his hand through his hair. “Did you get busy with a hair appointment? Or shopping? Or maybe you just forgot where you put the envelope.”
“Trust me, I didn’t forget.” She raised her chin in defiant rebuttal. “Like I said, I’ll file the papers tomorrow.”
File them tomorrow? She’d file them tomorrow. Hell, by this time tomorrow, they’d probably be dead or fighting for their lives. He started to laugh. Couldn’t stop himself. Laughed louder. She was going to file the divorce papers tomorrow…then what? Have a pedicure?
“Don’t you think that’s a little late, Marcy?”
“Stop laughing. This is serious.”
“Damn right this is serious.” He grabbed her shoulders, turning her toward him. “Why the hell didn’t you finalize the divorce when I sent the paperwork back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not good enough. Why?”
“Because I couldn’t believe you signed the papers.” She wiggled out of his hold. “Why did you sign them?”
“You sent them. I signed them.”
She shoved her hands against his chest. “As you said a while ago, not good enough.”
Covering her hands with his own, realization of this situation began to set in. “Because that’s what you wanted, Marcy. I always gave you what you wanted. You wouldn’t have sent the papers if you hadn’t really wanted the divorce.”
She jerked her hands away. “Not fair. That’s not fair.”
“Fair? You want to talk about fair?” He kicked the tote bag across the living room. Sure he’d never received the final divorce decree, but he’d figured those papers were waiting for him somewhere. “For over a year, I’ve believed I’m a divorced man. Single. With all the rights and privileges that word implies. What if I’d remarried?”
Gripping her fingers in the front of his shirt, she shook the fabric with all her might, as her fisted hands bounced off his chest. “Did you? Did you get remarried?”
“No. No, I’m not married. Except to you, that is.”
Her fingers loosened, and she stepped aside.
He focused on what to say next. What not to say.
His marriage vows had been sacred to him. But once she sent the divorce papers, and he signed… Well, he hadn’t been a saint for damn sure. There’d been a lot of nights he’d searched for someone to take her place. None ever worked out in the light of day, though. Most hadn’t even worked out in a room’s darkness.
“I can’t believe I’ve been in town all this time and not so much as a hint at us still being married. Who else knows about this?”
That had to be what Sadie wanted to tell him back at the police station when Truman stopped her. The man would have realized that by JB knowing they were still married, it put another level of pressure on the whole survival gig. Anger he’d had from her divorcing him was null and void now. Didn’t mean they’d get back together, just meant they’d have time to talk in a civilized tone and walk away friends.
“Doesn’t matter.” Again, she rummaged through the desk drawer.
“What are you looking for?”
“A damn pen.” She slammed the drawer closed. “I need a pen to sign the papers. That way, you’ll have to go before you get hurt because of me.”
What made her bring this up now? He sure as heck didn’t know, but now wasn’t the time to argue. Plus, he damn sure didn’t intend to leave the house without her. So divorced or not was a moot point at the moment.
He walked over, picked up the divorce papers, flipped to the signature page, and carefully ripped out the area with his signature. Looked at her blank line and ripped it out, too. “Now you don’t need a pen.”
“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” Marcy’s voice raised at least an octave as he placed her signature section in her hand.
He tore the divorce papers in half, then half again before placing them back in the envelope. “If you want a divorce, looks like you’ll have to process the papers again.” He ripped his signature into shreds before wadding it in a ball and shoving it in his coin pocket where Marcy’s ring had permanent residence.
She stomped down the hall. “I’m not going with you.”
JB followed. “Yes you are.”
“Why? Why do you want me to go?” She leaned back against the wall. “You don’t even want to be here.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“On the phone. At the sheriff’s office.” Disappointment and anger filled her voice. “I heard you say you had to stay here until you got the mess with me figured out.”
“Is that what this is all about? What I said to Wilson?” He grinned, tilted her chin up. “Are you my wife?”
She nodded.
“Do you agree the shooting, the bomb, your brakes, and everything else is a mess?”
She nodded again. “What about the staying until it’s settled? When this is over, you’ll leave…I don’t want to…feel like that again.” Hiccups jerked her head like an animated bobble-head.
His insides warmed with the thought she still loved him. Might not be enough to keep them together, but she at least cared what happened to him.
He sighed heavily. They should be concentrating on surviving the night, not rehashing the past. He wouldn’t lie. He hadn’t come back to Crayton for her. He also wouldn’t lie to himself. He still cared. Might even care more than he wanted to admit. But, this wasn’t the time or the place to rationalize what that might mean.
Hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets, he tried to say what needed to be said without making any long-term commitments. “Doesn’t matter if we stay here or if we go someplace else, I plan to protect you to the end. Not because you’re an obligation. Or because you’re just another assignment, so to say. I’m here because I want to be. Because I care about you. I care a lot.”
“No. No.” She shook her head. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be treating me like I’m nothing but a friend.”
“Now, what does that mean?” Raking his fingers through his hair, he tried to keep up with her assumptions. And listen for the beep if the audio detection device sounded.
Her body seemed to sink into the wall instead of against it. She wouldn’t meet his eyes with hers. “You know.”
That was the problem, he didn’t know. Had no idea. First, they were still married. Now, they were supposed to be friends. What the—? “Help me out, Marcy. What am I supposed to know?”
She straightened away from the wall and marched to the kitchen, arms braced on her hips. “You haven’t kissed me once.”
“Yes, I have.”
Sure, they hadn’t been the kisses he ached to give her, because he’d promised himself he’d stay on good behavior. Keep his lips and his hands to himself. Much more of this, though, and his good behavior could go rot in hell. No, this wasn’t the time. The phone might ring and they’d have to go. Of course, they were all packed. And the sheriff still hadn’t called.
“You call kissing me on the top of my head a real kiss?” She pointed to the spot, then regained her previous posture. “Or that peck on my cheek, my forehead? Those aren’t the kisses I remember. That’s how you’d kiss a sister…if you had one.”
She was about to come undone, and his insides reacted with anticipation. Even in her agitated moods, the woman could take him places his willpower couldn’t block. Been a long time since she’d come undone in his arms. He relished the thought of holding her as she gave him her emotions, body, and soul. Everything.
He stepped forward, and she stepped back, landing against the counter. His next step pressed them jeans to jeans, body to body. Then he leaned in, bracing his arms on each side of her. His hardness to her softness. “Does that feel like I think you’re my sister?”
Her intake of breath answered his question even before she shook her head. He couldn’t stop himself from tilting into her even more. His mind had no control over his hands as they slid around to her backside and pressed her against him. Closer and closer. He groaned when she squirmed into him. She blushed, bit her lip, and then something flamed in her gaze.
“For the record, I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since you walked out of that bank the day I got to town.” He brushed his fingers across the parted lips in front of him.
“That still doesn’t account for the way you acted last night.” She whispered, moistened her lips.
“What do you mean?” Sooner or later, he’d figure this out or the phone would ring or the perp would barge through the door or he’d give up and let her stay here. Which meant he’d stay, too. For now, he enjoyed the fact she was mad because she loved him.
She wiggled her fingers, but her hands stayed on her hips. “I laid there all night, and you didn’t try one little thing. No nudging or coaxing. No hands. No fingers. Nooooo…well you get my drift. All you did was go to sleep and ignore me.”
“I was sick.”
“And this morning?”
Should he tell her he almost crawled back under the covers to be with her? “I went to get donuts.”
“Donuts.” She shook her head. “See, that’s what I mean. All you wanted was donuts.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. Best not say what he’d really wanted. “What can I say? I was hungry, and donuts sounded good about then.”
Damn, he thought he really did something wrong. Had him worried for a second. If she knew how hard ignoring her had been, she wouldn’t be worked up right now. The sense of rejection she felt flooded her expression. She thought he didn’t want her any more.
He kissed her lips, soft and tender and slow. She nipped at his lower lip, and his tongue eased between hers as she invited him, teased him.
“We should talk before we…” He brushed his hands from her shoulders down her arms to her fingers. Slid his arms through the looped stance of her own. “You’re the counselor here. Shouldn’t we take this slow, Marcy? Talk and…” The sensible side of his brain nodded yes, but the rest of his brain fought the idiotic, levelheaded idea.
Her hand slid to the back of his neck and eased into a caress. The pressure he liked. The rhythm he liked. He moaned. His no-make-out plan was quickly going down the drain. Gripping her hair in his fingers, his kiss deepened. He grazed against her mouth, her ear, her neck. Hunger for her flooded his body, right along with any willpower he might still have left. Sensibility lost all meaning. Her head fell back, and she sighed, Marcy’s sign of yes.
Control, he needed to regain control. Her thumb stroked up and down the side of his neck in lazy circles. Without thinking, he dropped his hands to her breasts, stroking and circling, as his mouth found hers again. Her firmness pressed against his fingers, against him, pushed him to the edge even before she slid her hand beneath the bottom of his T-shirt. Warmth from her palm grazed his skin, twitched his nerves all the way to his core. Broke what little resolve he had left.
His breaths were heavy. Hers fast. He lifted her to sit on the counter as she tugged her top upward and off. Definitely not what he planned.
“Aw, hell.” He ripped his shirt over his head and flung it to the corner. “Talking is highly overrated anyhow.”
“Highly…” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp on her bra. “…overrated.”
She fell loose in his hands, and his thumbs made their own stroking rhythms as he took his fill. He’d forgotten how beautiful his wife was. Her moans increased with the touch of his mouth, his tongue. She gripped him to her, her nails biting into his shoulders. He slid her closer to the counter’s edge, and she slipped her legs around him.
Damn. They were still dressed from the waist down. Her thighs gripped against his sides as he fumbled with the top of his jeans. Buttons, zippers, he couldn’t get his mind to think. He realized how long it had been since he tasted her skin, and he couldn’t seem to get his fill. She arched and sagged against him, panting.
Bed. He needed to get her to the damn bed. Get their jeans off. His hands slid beneath her bottom and lifted. She looped her arms around him as he carried her toward the kitchen door, her fingers tight in his hair as she tilted his head back to receive the deluge of kisses she planted on his face.
“Oh, Marcy…Marcy.”
“Yes, JB.” She sucked his ear, nipped. “Yes. You’re back. Nothing’s changed.”
Nothing’s changed blared across his mind. He stopped. Eased her to the floor and unhooked her hands from behind his neck.
Her breathing came in ragged pants as she reached to pull him back. He gently pushed away, took a step backwards. They needed space. Room to feel what was real. What wasn’t.
“What? What did I say?” She grabbed her top from the counter, shimmied it over her head. “What’s wrong?”
“You said nothing’s changed, and you’re right. We’re about to fall right back into each other’s arms.” His own breaths were heavy and deep. “Don’t you see? We can’t do that again. Pretend nothing’s wrong? This time we need to talk.”
She crossed her arms over her sweater. “So talk.”
He recognized her stance. Her tone. She’d already shut down to anything he might say. “Things can wait till you’re in a better mood.” He stepped to reach for his shirt.
“No. Now.” She blocked his path. “You make it sound like it’s all my fault we never talk. How about the times I asked you questions about your childhood? How your day went? How it felt to arrest someone? You evaded every one of those questions.”
She was right. There were things he kept so deep inside himself that they would never see the light of day again. Didn’t mean there weren’t things they needed to face as two people who cared about each other.
“Forget I mentioned it,” he said.
“No. Either we have a conversation right now, or I’ll be damned if I walk out that door with you.”
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?” He’d give her a conversation she wouldn’t soon forget.
She didn’t flinch, just reached out and pressed her fingers against the brand on his chest. “This. I want you to trust me enough to tell me about this and the marks across your stomach.”
That whole topic was off limits. Way off limits. He might not be able to hide the scar, but reliving it was one of those things hidden in a compartment in his mind. “You couldn’t handle it, Marcy.”
“Try me.” She leaned back against the counter. “Or maybe it’s you who can’t handle it.”
Over the line. She’d stepped over his personal line. No one, not even her, said he couldn’t handle something. But there’d be no sugar-coating. This would be a telling point in any relationship they might ever have in the future. He sucked in air and blew it out.
“Jennings, my partner from a couple years ago, was killed while on assignment. Once leads stopped trickling in, the homicide got turned into a cold case. Then, not long after I worked the meth case with Landon, I got a lead. A good lead from a trusted informant. Wilson even agreed I should do a follow up. So I went to meet the guy where he wanted. Waited an hour. He never showed.” JB filled a glass under the kitchen faucet, then chugged it down. Filled it again.
“When I got back to the car, three men with masks were waiting for me. Shoved me in the trunk, right alongside my informant that they’d already killed. They’d took my guns and my phone, but I wasn’t worried. Might take a while, but I figured once I didn’t show up back at the office, the FBI would zero in on whoever was carrying the phone and follow them to my location through the GPS.”
His gut steeled with a double-clutch at the thought of just how damn long it had actually taken. “They found me dumped in an alley, a couple days and a lot of beatings later.”
She’d started to fidget. Grabbed a soda from the fridge. Took a few sips before she sat it on the counter and turned back to face him. “Go on.”
He gulped his second glass of water down. Filled it again. Rechecked to make sure the listening device on the counter was working.
How far should he go with this story? He’d always tried to protect her from the bad things in life. Never wanted to hurt her more than her father’s death and his career choice had already done.
Everyone had said she was fragile. To work around her childhood trauma. But he knew she could be strong when she needed to be. Otherwise, she’d never have made it through the case studies in college to become a counselor. Maybe he’d been wrong to not at least give her a chance to prove how strong she was to herself. Time to give her that chance.
She rolled her hands at him. “I said go on. Don’t worry, I’m okay.”
He braced his hands on either side of her as she once again leaned back against the counter. Stared her in her eyes. “They tossed me in a dark closet and brought me out every few hours to pelt me some more. I fought back. They didn’t like that, so they smashed my hand with a two-by-four. Tossed me back in the closet. I fought back again, so they smashed the other hand.”
She cringed.
He managed a light laugh. “No big wup.”
Gulping down the third glass of water, he realized the toll this telling was taking on him. “The next time I fought back, they started with the knife across my belly until one of them reminded the others that their boss didn’t want me killed.”
She’d pulled her eyes away from his stare. He should stop, but he couldn’t. She’d been right about this being hard for him, so they needed to walk through this together.
He tugged her into his arms and held her tight. “Every time things got bad, I thought of you, sugar. Of the good times we used to have.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Truth was she’d been what made him keep getting up off the floor to throw one more punch. Take one more breath in the cold darkness. Her. He’d have been hard-pressed to come out alive without their memories. “Made it easier thinking about you. The way you look first thing in the morning. Those mewy little sounds you make while you sleep. And your jasmine-scented hair.”
Twining his fingers in the soft strands, he nuzzled his nose against her ear. Lowered his lips to hers and kissed. One long, tender kiss.
She kissed back. Soft and light and sure. Then stared him in his eyes once again. “And the brand?”
He cricked his neck, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and sucked in a deep breath. That had been bad. A breaking point. “The last time they opened the closet door, they said I’d be happy to know they had their final orders. Come on out, I was going for a ride. I tried to get to my feet, but stumbled getting up. They pulled me out. Held me down on a table. The jerk whose nose I’d broke the day before kept tossing my badge in the air. Then he snapped it into some pliers and held it over a candle flame.”
Feeling in his gut what had been about to happen, he’d focused on a water stain in the ceiling. Focused and focused and focused till he passed out from the pain of the brand. “And the rest is history, as they say.”
She kissed the mark, then eased her hands back around his neck. Caressed the tension from his shoulders. Trailed her finger back down his chest. God, he loved the feel of that. Back to where they’d started, he slipped his hands up under her sweater. She felt good and warm and—
The phone rang.
The listening device on the counter beeped. The bright red light flashed.
The world grabbed them back.