When a Man Loves a Weapon (3 page)

She should ask Trevor about that call.

No. That would be
wrong
. And immature.

Maybe she could hint? She could definitely hint. He’d feel guilty about leaving, and he’d probably tell her something to make her feel better. She could adopt a puppy-dog pathetic schmoopy-face but she wouldn’t be playing fair. Right? Right. But really, hinting wasn’t all that bad.

“Shut
up.
”

Dammit
, that was out loud.

Trevor glanced her direction as she sighed. “I’m not sure what’s scarier, Sundance. That you argue with yourself, or that you lose the arguments.”

She would have answered, but instead, she just stood there in the empty living room, fiddling with the ring on her left hand, staring at the socks that she’d given him that he was about to put in his bag. She skirted the edge of such a deep well of emotion, it threatened her, an abyss. Questions logjammed inside her throat:
Is this dangerous? Will you be gone long? How do you know if you’ll be safe? How am I supposed to just stand here and say good-bye?

How could she give him anything less?

Hell,
she
was probably a bigger risk for him. She’d been
in the middle of so many disasters that various state agencies now tracked her, and he’d helped her survive the last two. Which had put his life at risk.

He glanced up when she didn’t answer, and stopped his packing to pull her to him. She tried to memorize everything: the cut of the black t-shirt against his biceps, the faded scar just under his eye, the brush of his hair against her cheek, the smell of his skin and soap and something that was always reminiscent of the fresh, earthy scent after a rain. The stubble from his chin scratched against her temple, reminding her of just how rough he’d appeared, all edgy and darkness, the first day she’d met him. When she’d sort of taken him hostage. And she remembered that she’d learned that he’d worked undercover as a mercenary for
many, many months
. Oh,
fuck
.

“Months?” she asked, finally focusing on the one possibility that was driving a spike through her.

“No. Not at all. I’m not going to be long.” He massaged the tension out of her shoulders. “Couple of days. Probably not even that, but worst-case scenario, three. I’ll be fine. I’ve done a lot more dangerous things, including running around exploding silos with you.”

“Oh, good,
that’s
a calming image to leave me with, thank you.”

He kissed her temple as he held her. “Seriously. This won’t be bad.”

“Yeah, because good luck has always worked out for me.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about. Except the sander I’ve reserved for next week.”

“I’ve changed my mind. You’re not a masochist. You’re a sadist.”

“Meanwhile,” he said, ignoring her, “pick a damned date.”

“See? Entirely my point.”

“I’m serious.”

She couldn’t afford a wedding yet. She’d sold everything she could sell for her half of the house down payment. It wasn’t fair or right to make him pay for everything. Why in the hell couldn’t he see that?

“Maybe when I get—” overlapped, because he already knew the argument, with him saying:

“It’s my wedding, too, I’ll pay—”

Someone hammered on the door, and they both stopped abruptly as Trevor winced.

Wait. He
winced
. The man had stood in front of loaded guns without so much as a
flicker
of concern, and now he winced?

“Damn, he’s early.”

“He?” she asked, but Trevor had already crossed to the door.

A disheveled man loitered on their doorstep. Slightly shorter than Trevor, he had gray eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, half of which stood on end as though he’d run his hands through it and it had decided,
fuck it, I’ll just stand up straight and be done with it
. Bobbie Faye placed him as slightly older than Trevor’s thirty-seven, though that was probably deceiving since it was the color of the hair and the lines around his eyes that gave that impression. The rest of him seemed fit enough. It was hard to tell beneath the wrinkles in the khakis and the ugliest, stained, green and yellow plaid shirt she’d ever laid eyes on.

“Bobbie Faye Sumrall,” Trevor said, by way of introduction, “this is Berneke Rilestone. Riles for short.”

The man stared at her as he rocked on his heels, an odd self-satisfied expression canting across his bland face . . . she might have thought him the average good-ol’-boy since having a couple of loose screws seemed to be a prerequisite. But oh, he was smug about something, all cat-swimming-in-the-cream smug, and it set her on edge. Maybe it was his violently clashing attire that implied a future when he went batshit psycho and people interviewed the neighbors, who would call him “colorful” and “interesting.” Or maybe it was because there was something bleak and confrontational that hovered in the air around him, like too much garlic after a heavy meal. Trevor had mentioned Riles in the context of Spec Ops friends, and since everything they’d done had been
pretty much classified, she’d never heard much more than a few bar stories.

She’d never gotten to meet an actual friend of Trevor’s. Other agents, sure. Sometimes in the context of almost blowing them up, which did not put her in the “must have” for the Christmas party invites, she knew. His military buddies were spread out over the world. His family—geez, just the thought of having to meet them one day—well, she just wouldn’t think about that. Now, however, an actual friend had shown up, and her nerves swamped her, her pulse raced. Hell, she’d had a calmer time dealing that day when the bear was intent on making her its midday snack.

Sonofabitch. Trevor did not want to do this. He didn’t want her to meet Riles this way.

But he couldn’t tell her what was going on.

And it was all fucking compounded by the fact that he hadn’t finished installing the surveillance equipment. The closing of this house, the move—all in the last month—fixing a few minor repairs before they moved in. He thought he’d have more time. Hell, he’d hoped to never have to do this—to leave without knowing for sure he’d make it back.

She pasted on a big smile, stepped out with her hand thrust forward, tougher than she thought she was, braver, too, and said, “Hi, Riles. It’s great to meet you.”

Riles, the bastard, didn’t shake her hand. Instead, he glanced at her with a quick appraisal, and then back to Trevor. “You didn’t tell Nutcakes here, did you?”

She stiffened, her wide smiling gaze downshifting into incredulous mode and Trevor shook his head at Riles. “Quit being an ass. And I was getting to that part.”

“Why,” she asked, enunciating the words carefully, dropping her hand to her side, “are you and the walking pile of laundry talking about me as if I’m not here?” She focused on Trevor and he could practically see the adrenaline pump into her system. “Tell. Me. What?”

Trevor crossed back to her and gave her a direct
you’re
not going to argue with this
look. “Riles is a very good friend of mine. He’s going to hang here while I’m gone, just to make sure everything stays safe and calm.”

She blinked. Waiting for the punch line. Then he saw the moment she realized
he was serious
. “You . . . got me . . . a
baby
-sitter?”

“No,” he said, carefully. “Think of Riles as a bodyguard. A watchdog.”

“Woof,” his friend said in a deep baritone.

Trevor slanted an aggravated glance at Riles. “You’re not helping.”

Riles beamed, his hands shoved in his khakis as he rocked on his heels, clearly enjoying the moment. “Hey,
I’m
not the idiot who decided to marry a woman with a basket full of crazy.”

Trevor put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was a warning move, and Riles knew it. Bobbie Faye’s glance bounced back and forth between the friends as Trevor said, “Insult her again and I’ll let her shoot you.”

Riles
hmphed
, condescending, not the least bit intimidated, and Trevor noted how Bobbie Faye sized up exactly where she could put a bullet that would wound but not permanently damage him.
If
Riles was lucky.

“She’s a better shot than you, you ass, so quit provoking her.”

Riles’s eyes narrowed, clearly questioning Trevor, and Trevor nodded—Riles had been his sniper in Afghanistan and there really weren’t that many people alive better than Riles, and Riles knew it.

Which made Riles reassess Bobbie Faye, his expression grinding into a combination of curiosity and disgust, which Trevor knew his fiancée read as clearly as he did.

“I don’t know what your problem is with me,” she said to Riles, then lower, almost as an afterthought, “although it
is
Tuesday.”

Trevor glanced at her, confused.

She shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all it takes. Meanwhile, you had better be kidding about this.”

“Not even close.” The empty room amplified her breathing. Or maybe that rushing sound was her rising blood pressure. He was leaning toward the latter as her expression tilted into oh
fuck
no.

“I have had my fill of being watched.” Especially by him. He had surveilled her for the better part of a year before they met (while he was undercover). She still wasn’t happy about the fact that he’d had the chance to know her intimately before they’d ever gotten together.

“I need you to do this.” His warm hands held her as he ducked his head a bit to meet her gaze. If he’d had time, he’d have gotten the surveillance equipment set up and she’d have had time to fully recover and he’d have made sure she was at fighting strength and shooting without hesitation and . . . fuck it, he was kidding himself. Even if he’d had months to prepare, he wouldn’t want to do this. Hated leaving her more than he could tell her. He would have thought he wouldn’t do this even under gunpoint.

Well, this mission was officially the gunpoint of the FBI saying, “You Will Come.” He had no choice, especially considering what and who they were tracking.

“I thought you said this job isn’t dangerous.”

“Not to me. Not right now. And I need to keep it that way. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“I’m
fine
.”

He arched an eyebrow. She was far from
fine
and she knew he knew it.

“We have two former casserole dishes, eleven broken plates, and three shattered glasses that beg to differ.” He did not have to mention the two kitchen fires or the time last week when she shot out the kitchen window because a branch scraped against the side of the house. (He’d pruned all of the trees since then.)

“I am not jumpy,” she said, picking up on what he was implying. “Those casserole dishes were just committing hari kari, I can’t help that part. And I’m
not
hurting. I can even spar with you.”

“One takedown does not make you ready for prime time.”

“She got a takedown? On you?” Riles asked, practically swimming in incredulity. “Wuss.”

She shot Trevor an
are you
sure
he’s your
friend
?
look after Trevor pointedly glared at the man and Riles wandered off to gaze out the living room window.

“You can’t expect to give me a baby-sitter every single time you have to go to work, Trevor,” she said, putting a little distance between them, her arms crossed. “I mean, Jesus, what’s he supposed to do? Blind people?” She waved toward Riles’s outfit.

“You should see the armadillo pants.” Trevor reached for her, touching his forehead to hers. “Would you humor me?” He dropped his voice, pitched just for her hearing, though he knew Riles was eavesdropping. “You
are
still jumpy, and with good reason, and the security system here isn’t finished.”

What he didn’t say was, “And you’re still having nightmares.”

He knew she couldn’t stay with her sister. Lori Ann was impossible to live with, though he knew Bobbie Faye missed her niece. She couldn’t stay at Nina’s—she had contractors in and out, remodeling, which made security iffy, and Trevor was not able to screen multiple laborers right now. He knew Ce Ce’s was out—Bobbie Faye still felt guilty over the cost of the last disaster and Ce Ce had just now finished all of the repairs to the store.

Bobbie Faye stewed.

Then she glanced over at Riles as he ambled around the small room, scanning the barren white walls with an affectation as if he were at the Louvre. “
Love
what you did with the place,” he said, ever so cheerful. “Minimalist. I
like
it.”

Bobbie Faye glared at Trevor, who said, “Promise me you won’t shoot him.” Riles snorted behind them and Trevor angled a
for God’s sake, behave
stare his direction.

“How about I just poison his kibble?”

Trevor’s cell phone pinged a text message. He glanced at it and grimaced. “I have to go.” He turned to Bobbie Faye. “Will you do this for me?”

He wasn’t going to be able to think clearly if he didn’t know for sure that she was safe. He let her see that in his expression.

She gazed at him, memorizing his face, and he wanted to reassure her that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. He pushed away from the temptation to tell her what he thought she’d like to hear, when he’d know it was a lie.

“Three days?”

“Three days.”

“How bad can it be?” she muttered.

“I like gourmet kibble, by the way,” Riles said from the other side of the room. “And room service.”

“You’ll get used to him,” Trevor suggested. “No killing him. And no drugging.” When she didn’t answer, he leaned forward, cradling her face in his hands. “Promise.”

She thought about it and sighed. Then rolled her eyes as she said, not-quite-convincingly, “Fine. I promise not to kill or drug your friend.” And then as she glanced over at Riles, who was doing the cameraman frame-the-shot thing with his hands as he mocked their card table, she added, pointedly, “for three days.”

He kissed her, then tugged her little t-shirt up, and, bending forward, kissed her scars. He grabbed his duffle bag and turned for the door before she could see his face.

“All employees being transferred to ‘Bobbie Faye territory’ will immediately cease referring to it as ‘hell’—there is no crying in the FBI.”