Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“This is Phantom Two One. Roger that.”
Humvees on gravel and dirt mix with the static. “Viper Two Two, cleared hot .”
I wake.
Eyes snapped open. I’m covered in sweat. My head pounds.
Jane sleeps soundlessly next to me, her freckled cheek on my bicep. I check the clock. Zero four hundred hours. Unholy shit . I overslept.
I needed to leave an hour ago. I carefully shift my arm out from under Jane. Lifting the sheet and blankets higher on her bare, beautiful body.
I stand off the bed. Cats greeting me, all five rubbing up against my calves while I find my clothes, as quietly as I can.
I move in systematic order. Boxer-briefs on, black slacks on—I pull a black crewneck over my head, and then I grab my radio, holster my gun to my waistband.
And I find her sticky pad on the end table. About to jot down a quick note, but I notice her illegible handwriting. I trained myself to decipher it when I was a lead.
I read the words clearly.
Merci mille fois. Pour tout.
xoxo Jane
She knows I can translate simple French phrases. She wrote: Thank you a thousand times. For everything.
My lungs expand. I tear her note off the pad. Pocketing it, and then I write on the top blank one.
It’s my honor to be with you in everything.
I place the note on the pillow next to her. And I’m at the door in two strides. I look back. Checking on my client, she breathes contently.
I grip the doorknob. I fucking hate this part.
Leaving Jane after we had sex.
At the beginning, it was hard. Now it’s excruciating. The reality is, I’ve never been a frat-bro and she’s never been a quick meaningless fuck to me.
What happened last night deserves a morning. Where she wakes up in my arms.
But that’s not part of the agreement.
I’ve already accidentally pushed a fucking hour. And right now, my head is killing me. I rub at my eyes, static still in my ear. But my radio isn’t on.
Fuck me.
I slip out of the room. No lights on. Toodles, her sixth cat, lounges sluggishly by the bathroom.
With my long legs, I skip two stairs at a time. Bypassing ones that I know squeak. Silent as I descend.
I reach the living room. Dark—but soft light illuminates from the kitchen archway. I pick up sound in that direction.
Someone is awake.
I strain my ears…
And I hear Farrow. Contempt in his rough voice, and it takes a hell of a lot to push his buttons. I would know.
Concern drives me toward his location, and I listen to his angered whisper.
“I’m not bartering with you…” A pause is taken. “You worthless bastard… Is that a threat? Yeah?”
Instinct pushes me through the archway.
I see Farrow with a phone to his ear, elbows on the counter. Hunched forward in a lunge. He sees me, surprise flashing in his heated eyes. But he doesn’t stiffen or move a muscle.
He cuts his gaze forward. “You’re in prison, you motherfucker. This call is recorded.”
Prison.
Donnelly’s dad or mom could be on the line. His dad is supposed to be released from prison soon, and I only ever considered that intel in terms of Donnelly’s wellbeing. But if he’s threating Farrow from prison…
My brows pull together, and then a sharp ringing pierces my head—I touch my ear. My heart rate spikes.
Fuck this.
I walk tensely to the sink. Turn on the faucet and splash water on my face.
Farrow watches my movements. Still talking on the phone. “No. Never…” His jaw muscle tics, and then he hangs up.
I rub water off my eyes. “Was that Sean Donnelly?” I name Donnelly’s dad.
“Yeah.” Farrow leans his side casually on the counter. Just in drawstring pants, tattoos scatter his chest, ribs, arms, and neck. He’s assessing me as much as I’m looking at him.
I grip the sink’s ledge. “Is he going to be a problem?”
Farrow eyes me up and down. “I’ll let you know when I know.”
He’s not sure yet. I nod once. And I splash more water on my face before shutting off the faucet. My heart rate is starting to slow. I dry off my forehead and jaw using the hem of my shirt.
Farrow goes to the fridge and tugs a water bottle out of the door. He extends the drink to me. Like I once tried to do for him in Greece.
I take the water and nod in thanks.
“What helps you?” Farrow asks me, vague. We’ve been vague about PTSD.
“Water on my face should be enough.” I unscrew the bottle. “You said yours is triggered by rain?”
He kicks back against the closed fridge. “Yeah, but it’s been better.” He pauses. “Is yours frequent?”
“No.” I swig the water, coolness rushing down my throat. “I haven’t had a nightmare in a while.”
“It kicked your ass awake?”
I meet his eyes. “Like a hammer to the skull.”