Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (17 page)

“Yes,” Fisher says.

I let him go and step back. I turn around and see Cat shooting daggers at me. But it’s what I see over her shoulder that makes my gut twist.

Jess is standing at the entrance to the living room, her hand cupped to her mouth, her eyes wide with fear or shock or horror, or maybe all of the above. I can’t tell.

“I need to get cleaned up.” I stare pointedly at her, meeting her terrified gaze instead of slinking away like the guilt-ridden monster I am. “Can I use your bathroom?”

She nods slowly and walks back toward her room. Without another word, I follow her down the hall, all the while hating the fact that I nearly lost it on my best friend.

I DON’T KNOW how to feel anymore. Numb, mostly. I stand off to the side, watching without really seeing as Tracy works on patching the holes in Krish’s torso. She and John showed up a few minutes ago and went straight to Krish, asking what happened, how long ago, and other questions pertaining to his injuries. After working in the ER for the past two years, she probably isn’t fazed by much. Since they arrived, it’s been a flurry of action and medical supplies and frantic voices.

I don’t comprehend any of it, feeling like the eye of a hurricane, frozen in the middle of a sea of chaos. All I can think about is the look on Harrington’s face, and the fact that every time I think I have him figured out, something like this happens.

I run my hands over my face, trying to wake myself from this weird fugue state, and then turn away. I’m not helping anyone by lurking in the corner. And I don’t want to face Harrington right now.

I walk down the hall and toward my room, intending to lock myself inside and hide, when I realize that Harrington’s still in the bathroom. My steps slow involuntarily as I draw close to the mostly closed door. I can hear him talking. He’s on the phone?

“Yes sir. I need to get him out. He needs medical attention immediately. Yes, sir.” Harrington’s voice is muffled, and I know I should keep moving, should give him his privacy, but I can’t help it. I creep up to the cracked door, flattening myself against the wall next to it, and listen, trying to figure out who he’s talking to. Stamos? 911?

“This is our opportunity, sir,” he says. “We’ve got Tony for assault with a deadly weapon, and Neil just informed me that Roberto Gomez is in town.”

Who the hell is Roberto Gomez?

“Yes, sir,” he says again, after a pause. “Yes, sir. I’m certain. Now’s our chance to put Stamos behind bars.”

My heart rate spikes and a sick coil forms in the pit of my stomach. What’s going on here? Better yet, who the hell is Harrington?

“I understand, sir. I’ll be careful. Yes, we’ll be here.”

I realize that his conversation is about to come to an end and, snapping out of my haze, I hurriedly try to head to my room before I’m discovered eavesdropping. I end up knocking my music sheets and a couple of books from the table next to the bathroom door instead.

Shit
. I crouch down to pick them up as blood rushes to my ears in a frenzy, my hands shaking as a million questions race through my head. How much of what I know about Harrington is even true? Who does he really work for? What’s he doing here? Worse yet, who does he have coming here to find him?

When I reach for a loose paper to the left of me, another hand reaches for it too. Startled, I look up. Harrington’s crouched in the doorway of the bathroom, holding the paper out to me like a peace offering.

He gives me a tentative smile, and I pull the sheet music from his hands. I finish pulling everything together and stand, placing it on the table and looking away from Harrington.

I hear the floorboard creak as he shifts his weight and my back stiffens. After another long moment later, he speaks. “Um . . . thanks for letting me use your bathroom.”

I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent. As does he. We stand there awkwardly, until finally, he says, “You look really nice tonight.”

I slowly turn around and look at him. His eyes look sad. His mouth is quirked upward, but that smile doesn’t feel quite as cocky as it usually does. I notice a new bruise on his left cheek and try hard not to stare at the blood coating his clothes. “Who do you work for, Harrington?”

My question catches him off guard. Something flickers in his gaze before he closes it off, hiding behind a mask of indifference. “Is that a trick question?”

“I heard you. In there.” I point toward the bathroom, but keep my eyes on him. “Who were you talking to? You said you were going to put Stamos behind bars.”

His eyebrows arc high in surprise and I notice his hair’s grown out since our first meeting. It’s maybe an inch long.

His eyes study mine. He takes a step forward, and I take a step back, retreating into the safety of my bedroom until the backs of my legs touch the desk chair behind me. He notices my reaction, but continues to follow me across the threshold, closing the door behind him. My heart rate spikes in fear as I realize that I let myself be cornered.

“How much did you hear?”

I consider lying for a moment. But reconsider when I realize that the lies between us are exactly the problem. Lying, even if it’s just holding back the truth, has never worked for us. “Enough to know that you’re not working for Stamos.”

He takes a deep breath.

I look away from him and down at the table where I’m drawing circles in an eight pattern. “Are you an undercover cop?”

He shakes his head. The fear already coursing through my blood gets stronger, the chances of him being a good guy plummeting by the second. What if I’ve let a psycho into my bedroom? What if he lied about Tony being the one to stab Krish? He did turn on Fisher . . .

I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate.

“FBI.”

There’s a moment when nothing moves. We stare at each other, unblinking.

“I work for the FBI,” he repeats, keeping his watchful eyes on me.

I suck in a breath and fall into the chair behind me, gazing up at him as a sort of relief washes through me. He’s standing in the middle of my room, his hands stuck inside his jean pockets as he waits to see how I’ll react to his admission. My throat constricts tightly, making it nearly impossible for me to speak. “And . . . and Stamos? Fighting for him?”

“Part of the assignment.” He takes another step toward me.

I realize suddenly that this is the first time he’s been inside my room and resist the urge to glance around, feeling self-conscious about what it looks like. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, that really shouldn’t be my priority right now.

“I told you before, I don’t get into fights without a good reason . . .” He smiles, shy and full of chagrin. “Well, for the most part, anyway.”

I don’t know what to make of any of this. He’s FBI, so that means he’s one of the good guys, right? Does that mean that him fighting should now be okay? My head rings from all these thoughts. So I ask the only thing that I can: “So, what happens now?”

He tilts his head to the side, confused.

“I mean, now that I know you’re undercover, will I be arrested or get in trouble with the government or something?”

He laughs out loud, showing his teeth. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “Because I know your secret. And I might tell someone about you.”

He closes the distance between us and I end up having to stretch my neck back to look at him. He squats down before me and looks me in the eyes. “Do I have a reason not to trust you?”

I shake my head.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

I lick my bottom lip and he zeroes on my mouth. He swallows thickly.

“Just like that?” I ask.

“Well . . .” He pauses and I realize he’s crept a tiny bit closer, his hand is warm as he places it against my knees. “There is one more thing.”

My heart’s ramming in my chest, hard and fast. But this time, it’s for a whole different reason. My body buzzes with new sensations that feel an awful lot like anticipation, desire, lust, and my earlier reservations slowly fade into the back of my mind.

Suddenly, my desk chair decreases in height and I squeal with surprise. I look down to see his other hand is hidden under my chair and realize he must have hit the lever. “What was that for?”

I freeze in place when he rests his hand against my cheek, lightly caressing the corner of my mouth with his thumb. “I know there’s something in your past that has you running from me.”

Blood rushes in my ears as heat assaults my cheeks. He’s FBI. Did he do a background check on me? I mean, why wouldn’t he? And I’m sure there’s a criminal record or two for my step-mom’s former lovers that probably has me listed in them by association.

“I don’t know what it is, but I hope someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me.”

“You didn’t check up on me?”

He shakes his head. “I was tempted. But no. I didn’t. I didn’t want to violate your privacy.”

I let out a ragged breath. Okay, so maybe he really isn’t all that bad, but I’m still not convinced that Harrington and I will ever work, especially now that I know his secret. His life is filled with so much violence, so much blood and death and . . . lies.

“I’ve missed you, Jess. I miss spending time with you, and I miss having you there by the river, making fun of my stone-skipping skills.”

I take a deep breath and look up through my eyelashes. A small smile appears over my mouth. “You’re stalking our spot?”

He runs his hand through his hair and sighs heavily, like he’s about to let me in on a secret. “I’ve been by there every day around the same time, hoping to see you.” He licks his lips—is he nervous?—and looks down. Then he sits up a little straighter and looks at me, a sot of calm coming over him. His gaze is smoldering and my heart beats a little faster. “I like you, Jess. Like a lot. The kind that makes me think of you constantly.”

My jaw drops open. He closes it with his index finger and grins.

“I didn’t say I love you, sweetheart. Just that I like you. One step at a time, okay?”

I nod, I think. I don’t know what to make of this information. On one hand, a round of butterflies exploded in the pit of my stomach at the possibility of us . . . but on the other, this doesn’t change the fact that there’s a side of him I fear. My head’s telling me that this doesn’t change anything. It
can
’
t
.

“So where does that leave us?” I ask.

“You tell me.”

When I stay silent, he asks me another question.

“Do I still scare you, Jess?”

I shake my head, then nod it. “I-I don’t know. I mean, how do I know that you’ll never lie to me or hide something from me? What if you go off on another assignment and I don’t see you again? What if you find someone who isn’t as broken as me on one of those assignments?”

He cups my cheeks between his huge hands and moves in closer until our breath dances together in the space between us. “I can’t promise you eternity of happiness, Jess, or that I won’t keep things from you. But I can promise you one thing. I’ll always do everything in my power to keep you happy, to try my best to come home to you.”

“Why?” I ask, my throat feeling heavy with emotion. “Why me?”

“Because you make me forget about all my worries for the few minutes we’re together. You make me want to risk everything for a chance to see where this goes, where
we
go.”

“Why?”

“Because something about the way your eyes sparkle when I flirt with you makes me happy. And if that isn’t a good enough reason to be with someone, then I don’t know what is.”

“THIS WAY.” A woman dressed in a short skirt and what have to be six-inch heels directs me toward the back of Stamos’s preferred lair—the night club in Jacksonville. I’m being summoned, which I’m sure is the direct product of what transpired between me and his worthless son last night.

Two guys in black suits accompany me to the same office I was in before. Once I’m safely inside, they shut the heavy doors behind me and I hear the tell-tale
click
of a lock.

Good to know I’m safe and sound in my posh holding cell, with nothing but the electric eel to keep me company. Unlike the first time, I don’t help myself to the brandy, and I don’t have to wait long.

I look up when I hear the doors unlock, surprised. I didn’t even have time to get settled.

“I have to say, Killshot,” Stamos says as the doors open wide and he walks in, “you most certainly have balls.”

His band of goons follows him into the room, including Tony, looking a lot worse for wear, and his two pet henchmen. I feel a small flicker of satisfaction as I take in Tony’s bruised face and the fact he’s limping slightly. But he’s not the main thing that piques my interest. Standing among the usual crew is a guy with three teardrop tattoos on his cheek. Gomez. Neil had sent me his surveillance footage while I talked to him in Jess’s bathroom.

I didn’t get the chance to tell Fisher about it though, for two reasons. One, he and Cat went missing as soon as Lincoln, John, and Tracy left with Krish and the paramedics the FBI sent. And two, I didn’t want him to lose his shit yet. Not until I had a plan of attack and the chance to apologize for grinding his face into the wall.

However, facing Roberto like I am now, staring down the murderer of Fisher’s family and God only knows how many others, I find myself coming dangerously close to losing my cool. It takes everything in me to stop myself from putting a bullet between his eyes.

Stamos takes out a cigar from the box resting on his desk and then slaps the lid closed. “Give me one good reason why I should let you live.”

An image of Chavez comes to mind. I know exactly where this is heading.

“Because you need me.”

“Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Yup.” I don’t offer any more details, because I’m honestly still trying to figure out just how I’m going to get myself out of this mess. I knew it would come to this, and I tried to come up with reasons for why I had to step in between Krish and Tony, but I’ve got nothing.

I see the slight smirk on Tony’s face as he runs a thumb under his throat. He’s calling my bluff. Shit.

Stamos snaps his fingers, and two clicks sound behind me. I look over my shoulder and right into the barrel of the snub-nosed shot gun pointed at my face. Guard #2 drew his pistol, but when compared to the weapon his buddy has trained on me, it just doesn’t quite have the same impact.

“You have five seconds to convince me before my men waste you,” Stamos states as he takes a seat in his throne-chair.

Roberto offers Stamos a cigar cutter, and then helps him light it up. This is such a piss-ass time to lose my shit. I know it. And yet I still can’t keep the words from spilling out my mouth.

“Well, your arrogant shit-for-brains-son sure as hell won’t be winning any fights for you.”

Tony’s eyes blaze with anger and . . . a little worry? Looks like I hit a nerve. Good. He glances to his father, then me. Then back to his father.

“You little fucker. I’ll take you down right here, right now,” Tony says, walking toward me threateningly.

“Back down, jackrabbit. I don’t think your face can take another readjustment,” I answer.

He grabs the gun from the guy on his right and points it at my head. “Maybe I should just kill you now.”

“And ruin Daddy’s persian rug? You don’t have the balls.” I get in his face, letting the cold metal barrel press against my forehead. I curl my fingers into tight fists. The tension in the room shoots up a dozen degrees. But even though I’m scared shitless, and my palms sweat, and my heart’s pounding against my ribs, I keep a steady face. Because if there’s anything that I can do right, it’s show that I’m fearless to any threat.

“Stand down, Tony.” Stamos’s face is awfully calm. Impassive. I have no idea what that means. When no one moves, he adds, “Now.”

Two more seconds pass before Tony drops his arm and backs away. So do the guys behind me.

Fuck
,
that was close
.
“If there’s nothing else, I have things to do.”

“One more thing . . .” Stamos snaps his fingers.

I wait for whatever information he’s ready to throw at me.

“The fight I talked to you about a few months back. It’ll take place January twenty-first. Roberto here will ensure that all the preparations are in place and all my fighters are ready. Check with him for the rest of the details.”

I nod in acknowledgement. January 21. That’s when all of this can finally be put behind us, I realize.

“Oh, and Killshot, I expect you to entertain my
friends
. Consider it your last chance to convince me. Now you’re dismissed.”

I give a slight nod and get the hell out of there. Once I’m safely nestled inside my car, I send an encrypted email to Neil and Wilson with a single sentence:
3rd Saturday in January
.

That leaves us with a little over a month to prep before we take down one of the FBI’s most wanted men. What could be easier than that?