Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (42 page)

He took a deep breath. "She's the one who left me, Rachel."

"And when did you ever bother to give her a reason to stay?" she demanded, planting her hands on her hips. "You pushed her out the door and made sure she'd go. And I'm not talking about you trying to send her away either. I'm talking about you being reckless and nearly getting yourself killed because she got caught in the middle. You all knew that was a possibility from the very beginning, but as soon as it happened, you fell apart and nearly got yourself killed. So why wouldn't she believe you were better off without her? Why would she stay knowing that you'd do exactly the same thing if she stayed? She left to keep you alive because you never gave her a reason to believe you could handle loving her any other way."

His mouth worked, but the excuses forming in his head wouldn't pass his lips. Because she was right. He'd told Lillian a thousand different times that he wanted her to stay with him. But when had he really ever proven that they could make it work? That she could trust him to be rational? Every time it got hard, he shut her down. Told her she was just a ballerina. That this wasn't her job. That she needed to be protected, rescued, saved. He'd told her he was quitting, and maybe that hadn't been only about her, but it hadn't been
not
about her either, had it?

It'd been another way to keep her safe, to protect her. He wanted her, but he'd wanted her on his terms. Protected. In a little bubble. Safe from the job and who he was. Who he
really
was. And he was an agent. He'd always been an agent. That wasn't going to change simply because he didn't want her to have to deal with it. He didn't want her to risk losing more, so he'd let her risk it all.

Yeah, he was sick and tired of never really winning. But he'd never let it go completely either, would he? Had he really believed things would be easier for both of them if he weren't working undercover? Or had it simply been that it would have been easier for
him
?

The sad fact was…Rachel was right. He'd not once given Lillian a reason to believe that he'd keep himself safe and come back to her without giving up half of himself in the process. The only thing she really wanted from him was to be a part of his life, to love him and be loved in return. And he'd proved again and again that he couldn't give her what she needed unless he gave it on his terms. That he couldn't be with her unless he kept her in bubble wrap and got to pick and choose which parts of his life he shared with her.

"Fuck," he swore, easing himself back down onto the bed. He was an idiot. Like Rachel said, he'd made it about him. Every day, he'd made it about what himself and what he wanted. Zoë had tried to tell him that, but he hadn't really listened, had he? The minute things got hard, he'd ignored every word she'd spoken on the porch that night and treated Lillian like glass.

The problem with that was that she
wasn't
glass. She'd been through hell already and come out the other side. Battle scarred, for sure. But still ready to fight. Still strong and powerful. He said this wasn't her war, but why shouldn't it be?

A drug addict had taken her life from her, too.

He'd simply been too caught up in his own fears to understand what that meant for her. She wasn't fragile. She wasn't breakable. Facing Vetrov and living with the fear that she might get hurt, she was prepared for that. She'd
always
been prepared for it because she had as much reason to fight as he did. She'd seen firsthand what could happen. She was living proof of how much damage addiction could do. But none of that really mattered to her, did it?

All she wanted, all she'd ever
really
wanted was to be with him.

"Why'd she leave?" he asked, though he wasn't sure if he asked them or himself.

"Because you let her believe you were right," Rachel answered anyway. "You let her believe that her staying was going to get you killed."

Well, shit.

He knew Rachel was right, about all of it. But that didn't really help either. As much as Lillian needed to be independent and make her own choices, assume her own risks, he needed to ensure those choices didn't hurt her. But it wasn't about him anymore. This was about Lillian.

Could he really give her what she required? If letting her love him meant that one day, somewhere down the road, she might get caught in the middle, could he do it? He loved her; there was no doubt about that. But could he be strong enough to throw the doors open and let
her
love
him
? Even the broken, fucked up pieces?

He didn't know, but he knew what he wanted.

Her.

He wanted her.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jason slammed the file down on the table and glared across the room at Tristan, who worked the
nunchaku
with the same look of fierce concentration he'd been wearing for the last two hours. Jason was tired of watching the show. It'd been the same thing for the last week: Tristan pushing himself to the brink and then a little farther. "Will you sit the fuck down already?"

Tristan grunted in response and got in position to start the forms over.

"Son of a bitch," Jason swore, ready to roll up his sleeves and go around with his wife's pain in the ass cousin. Nothing else seemed to be working. They'd talked until they were blue in the face and he was still here, forcing himself beyond his limits every day. And Jason got it, really, he did. But enough was enough already.

Tristan had already made his decision. Killing himself now wouldn't change anything.

Planting his fists on the desk, Jason rose to his feet, ready to snatch the
nunchaku
out of Tristan's hand and throw them out the damned window. He didn't get the chance though. As soon as Tristan hit the third form, the weapon smacked into his cast and fell to the floor with a tinny clatter.

"Son of a bitch!" he yelled, clutching his arm to his chest and glaring down at the offending weapon. His chest moved rapidly as he sucked in deep breaths.

Jason stalked across the room and grabbed the
nunchaku
before the idiot could pick them up and start all over. "You aren't getting these back," he warned when Tristan turned his blue-eyed glare in his direction. "So sit the fuck down and take a break already."

He cursed as Jason stomped back across the room and dropped the weapon onto the table before planting his ass back in his chair. Surprisingly, his friend didn't argue. He grabbed his towel from the back of the chair and wiped the sweat from his brow instead.

Jason watched him, caught in some strange mix of sympathy and frustration he couldn't sort out. On the one hand, he got it. Lillian had left and Tristan was living in his own personal hell. But on the other hand…the solution to the problem was simple.

"Go to her already, man," he said for the millionth time. "Just get in the car and go, T."

Tristan met his gaze and shook his head. "Not yet."

Jason bit back a frustrated sigh. "Why the hell not?"

"You know why."

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Elijah isn't here. He took the drugs and ran."

"Then where is he?" Tristan tossed the towel down and grabbed the water bottle he'd set on the seat of the chair. He fumbled the cap off as best he could with one arm immobilized in plaster and pins, cursing when the lid popped off and bounced across the floor. He left it where it fell and turned back to Jason. "There hasn't been a hint of the damn drug from here to Tokyo, Jase. He should have turned it over to Francisco by now, and you know it."

"I don't know where he is, alright?" He held his hands up in surrender. "He could be anywhere, but I'm telling you that
he isn't here
. So stop trying to kill yourself doing shit you know John hasn't cleared and go get her already."

"I'm not trying to kill myself." Tristan tilted his head back and took a big swallow of water.

"No?" Jason arched a brow. "Then what exactly are you doing against medical orders three hours a day?"

Tristan took another big swallow of water before lowering the bottle and raising his head. He met Jason's gaze head on. "Physical therapy."

"Bullshit. You had a major surgery a month ago. You should be sitting your ass on the couch and staring at the television."

"There's fuck all on in the afternoons," Tristan said, calmly raising the bottle to his lips for another swig.

"One of these days, I'm going to shoot you," Jason growled, rubbing his temples. "I'm really going to shoot you."

"Fine, but find Elijah and the drugs first."

Jason dropped his hands back down to the desk. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Long enough."

"And how many times have we rounded up every suspect without issue in an operation this big?"

"Not enough." Tristan frowned. "And I know where you're going with this so you can stop now. I know the likelihood of us catching him any time soon is slim. It doesn't change the fact that I can't bring her back here until I know that he isn't here, Jase. I promised that I'd try to back off and stop doing shit like this, and I will. I'll fucking try until it kills me, but not this time. Not with this, and you know it. Vetrov might be down, but Francisco isn't. You tell me his man took that shit to Mexico and mean it and I'll go beg her to come back, but until you tell me that much, I can't do it."

"So what? You work yourself into exhaustion in the meantime?" He shook his head again. "It's not going to solve anything."

"I know that." Tristan sat the water bottle down on the chair and closed his eyes. "But I don't know what the fuck else to do, Jase. I'm off the case. I can't hit the gym. I can't do anything. Meanwhile, she's not here and leaving her where she's at is killing me. So I have to do this." He jerked his head in the direction of the
nunchaku
. "It's the only goddamned thing I
can
do right now."

Jason frowned but didn't say anything. What the hell was he supposed to say to that anyway? Sorry only got you so far, and Tristan was well beyond that point. He was also well beyond the point of listening to reason. As much as he wanted Lillian back, he was adamant that he couldn't go after her until they knew Elijah wouldn't come for her.

Jason wasn't sure if it was the maniacal protectiveness speaking or that other pain in the ass part that made Tristan such a good agent. When he worked a case, he didn't back down or stop until he accomplished what he set out to do. He couldn't let shit go. Ever. And Jason appreciated that tenacity, but this situation wasn't typical and nothing Tristan did now would change anything.

It might be years before they got a bead on Elijah, especially when he'd already faked his death and remained off the radar for over a year. Tristan had to learn to let it go and get on with his life. If he wanted Lillian to share that life with him, this was the danger she would face. There wasn't a way around it. They'd known it since the minute they got that damn fax from Tijuana.

"You have to let it go, T."

"You didn't hear what he said about her, Jase," he said, his voice so quiet it barely carried. "When he had me down there, he told me what he, Malachi, and Paulo were going to do to her. How they were going to rape and torture her, leave her body broken for me to find. Paulo's gone, and Malachi's in jail, but Elijah's still out there, and he wants her, man. He wants
my
girl, wants to hurt her." Pain and anger burned in Tristan's eyes as he sucked in quick breaths, releasing them in shaky exhales. "I can't let him near her."

Well, hell.

Tristan fought to contain his emotions, visibly shaken by what Elijah and Paulo had told him while they tortured him. When he opened his eyes, his expression was grim and pleading at once. "Her birthday is in three days, Jase. You've got to tell me where that son of a bitch is before then."

"I know," Jason sighed his defeat and grabbed the file from his desk.

The hinges of the porch swing creaked as Lillian shifted around, trying to get comfortable on the old, worn wood. She might as well not have bothered though. No matter which way she moved, her leg ached as if preparing to mutiny. The pain was all her fault, of course. She should have known that daily treks through the woods weren't a good idea.

She couldn't say she regretted those walks though. Beneath the trees, the silence she craved with a desperation bordering on insanity waited for her. There were no people out there, and what few animals made an appearance scurried off in the opposite direction as soon as she came within smelling distance. Aside from the soft grumbles from Michael Kincaid who had orders to follow her everywhere, and the cicadas, crickets, and birds nestled high up in green branches, there were no sounds.

She needed silence more than her leg needed rest, because only during those daily walks could forget, for just a minute, that she'd run from Tristan three weeks ago. Missing him didn't get any easier. If anything, it got a little harder. Every day, being without him hurt a little more.

But she couldn't go back now.

They'd fallen hard and fast, and like a wave crashing to shore, they'd both been bowled over. By circumstance. By the situation. By things so far outside of their control, they'd both been hoping for a miracle. But that's not how real life worked. There was no savior at the eleventh hour. You either sank or you swam, and you did it without a miracle. Tristan had been sinking, unable to climb to shore with the weights he carried around his neck dragging him down.

She'd left in search of clarity. Peace.

Three weeks later, it still hadn't come.

No matter how often she had the same arguments with herself, things grew no clearer. All she really knew was that she couldn't watch him go through something like that again. She couldn't watch him throw his life away like that. She loved him too much to be the reason he died.

She still didn't really believe she'd made the right decision though. Running away was running away. It didn't solve anything. It didn't fix anything, and she couldn't run far enough or fast enough to make it stop hurting. Being without him killed her, but what choice did she have? If it meant he had a real chance at working through his issues, at fighting for himself, she
would
live without him. Somehow.

"Why are you still here?" she asked, lifting her head to look at Michael.

His eyes widened. "Damn, Little Mama. Why don't you tell me how you really feel?"

"I didn't mean it like that," she muttered, waving her hand in apology. "I just meant…why aren't you in Seattle? I don't need a bodyguard anymore." She hadn't required one at all, but her dad and Jason had overruled every objection she'd raised until she got tired of raising them and gave in.

"Yeah well," Michael said, shrugging, "Riley and Jason disagree. Elijah is still out there."

"He's long gone by now," Lillian retorted, fidgeting. This time, it had less to do with comfort and more to do with the little sliver of fear working its way through her. She didn't honestly believe she was in any danger, but she couldn't help but be afraid anyway. What that monster had done to Tristan…well, she still woke up in a cold sweat with tears pouring down her face and screams dying in her throat every single night.

"Maybe," Michael agreed, "but this is a freaking vacay for me, Little Mama. No gangbangers, no bullshit." He glanced around him, his brow furrowed as he took in the yard and surrounding forest. "Just some really fucking green trees."

Lillian snorted, not believing for a minute he got any satisfaction from playing bodyguard. He was simply here because babysitting her was the one job he could do all stitched together. If he'd had a choice in the matter, he'd still be in Seattle and they both knew it. But he hadn't been given that choice. He'd been given the option of watching her or taking more medical leave.

It irritated her endlessly that everyone was so gung-ho to protect her, but as soon as she asked whether Tristan was also under constant guard, they all changed the subject quick, fast, and in a hurry. He wasn't the only one with a tendency to go overboard when it came to protecting her.

"Ugh," she groaned, putting her head in her hands and shaking it back and forth. "You're all as bad as Tristan."

"Maybe, but maybe he wasn't wrong either," Michael said.

"Seriously, Michael?" She dropped her hands to glare at him.

"I'm just saying that you think too much," he said, holding his hands up to ward her off. "He did what he thought he had to do. Either you love the fucker and accept that he is who he is, or you don't."

"We both know it's not that easy."

"Why not?" He propped himself up on a support beam and crossed his arms. "What'd running back here to Bumfuck Jungle really accomplish?"

"He's alive, isn't he?" she snapped.

"Fuck that noise," Michael snorted. "He was alive before you tucked tail and hauled ass."