As she got to work, the weight of everyone’s observation pressed in on her, but she couldn’t think of them right now, or how badly she wanted to take a few heads off—Beckett’s, because he’d hurt Nick, and the others’, because they hadn’t done anything to intervene. Which was just as bad in her book.
In front of Nick again, she held his handsome, tired face with one hand while she cleaned it with the other. His gaze lit on her face, and she knew he was watching her work, but she kept her eyes on the task at hand.
She hadn’t really expected to say the words when they started coming out, but once they began, she felt their rightness down deep. “Nick asked you guys here as a favor to me. He apparently did so knowing some sort of tension existed between you. Had I known this would be the cost to him, I would’ve insisted he tell you not to come.” She opened the alcohol wipes and slipped them from their sleeves. “Gonna sting.” Her gaze flickered to his eyes, which bored into hers with blazing intensity.
He didn’t react to the application of the alcohol.
Once it was clean and dry, Becca gently pulled the split skin together and applied the butterflies. Seething, she shook her head. “I don’t know what the problem is between all of you. That’s your business. But my brother’s safety? That’s my business. So if you guys can’t keep your shit together, then feel free to go. Because we need more of this like we need more holes in our heads.” She pressed two strips over the ends of the three holding the wound closed. “There.” Ripping off her gloves, she stepped away.
Nick grasped her arm, the thank you clear in his expression.
She nodded and crossed to the sink to wash her hands again. On a long sigh, she turned in search of the trash can. “Hey, Nick, where’s the . . .”
As she approached the breakfast bar, something in the middle of the granite captured her attention. With all the excitement of the fight, she’d been entirely focused on Nick. But now . . . She stepped closer.
“Becca.”
Time slowed to a crawl, and her gaze became laser-focused. She reached out, her hand passing over a bagged black knife to a second bag. Cold prickles broke out over her skin.
Nick whipped off the stool. “Becca, don’t.”
But her fingers were already on the plastic, grasping it, lifting it. Her stomach rolled viciously.
A severed pinkie finger sat within. At one point, it had been broken at the middle knuckle and had healed badly, creating a hooked shape to the digit. Becca knew exactly when that had happened. They’d been building a tree house in the backyard with their dad. Scott had been hammering and had missed, finding nine-year-old Charlie’s pinkie instead of the head of the nail. Afterward, Charlie kept taking the splint off, and the joint had healed crooked.
The fingernail was missing. The edge of the amputation was jagged.
Oh, God, they’re torturing him, maiming him.
In a blinding flash, Becca’s blood pressure bottomed out and a tingly sweat covered her skin. She dropped the bag and clamped her lips together, hoping to hold back the surging vomit long enough to—
The trash can appeared in front of her. Becca stomped on the pedal to raise the lid, bent over, threw up everything she’d eaten for the past ten days. Or, at least, that’s what it felt like. Long after her stomach had expelled its contents, she continued to heave until tears streamed down her face and she gasped for breath. Someone held her hair. A hand rubbed her back.
She gagged and shuddered as the dry heaves eased, her muscles no more than wrung-out dishrags, her head and body aches roaring back with a vengeance. Wet paper towels appeared in her peripheral vision, and she used them to wipe her mouth and cool her brow and cheeks.
Joining her abject terror over Charlie were new emotions—embarrassment and humiliation. I just threw up in front of Nick, in front of four war-hardened ex-Green Berets. Shit, shit, shit.
Becca forced herself into a standing position, one that revealed that, of all people, hard-ass Beckett had been holding her hair while Nick had been rubbing her back. Equilibrium eluding her, she sagged against the row of cabinets behind her and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“Nothing to apologize for, Becca,” Miguel said. Low murmurs of agreement echoed the sentiment.
With bleary eyes, she watched Beckett pull the trash can away and knot the bag.
“So,” Miguel said in a careful voice, “does your reaction mean you recognize it as your brother’s?”
She nodded and accepted a glass of water from Shane. “Thanks,” she said, and took a few small sips. “I’d know that crooked knuckle anywhere.” Her brain was an absolute whirlwind of when, where, who, and what, but one question rooted itself deep. She dragged her gaze away from the baggy, refusing to let herself imagine for a single second how much pain Charlie must’ve experienced, and glared at Nick. “How long have you had this?” she asked, voice raspy, throat sore.
His expression was an ashen mask of Oh, shit. “Bec—”
She thrust out her finger toward the bar. “How long have you known about this? Oh, my God, did you find this at my house before you came to the hospital? Is that why you were so upset when you called me?” A knot of emotion lodged in her raw throat. That was hours ago. For hours he’d let her kiss him and joke about the puppy’s name and nap on the couch and talk tattoos with Jeremy while he’d sat on the information that someone had chopped off Charlie’s freaking finger? Rising hysteria made her jittery, and then a boomerang of delayed reaction clotheslined her, making her light-headed.
“No. I didn’t know until a few minutes ago. I swear.” Sincerity rang through his words as Nick slipped the glass from her hand, grasped her arms, and forced her to turn toward him. “Miguel found it after I left to come get you.”
Miguel nodded. “It’s the truth, Becca. I’m sorry I didn’t get over here sooner to fill you in. I wasn’t comfortable fleshing out the details over the phone, not with everything . . .”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
Nick’s hands slid up and cupped the sides of her neck. “We think the police are dirty. None of the reports you filed exist, and neither do the records of your nine-one-one calls.”
The room went a little spinny around her. “What? How is that possible?”
“We don’t know. But everyone’s on board to find out,” Nick said, gesturing to the assembled group.
She nodded, the baggy drawing her gaze against her will. “Does this mean Charlie’s dead?” she said, her voice breathy and high. At the very least, it definitely meant he’d been kidnapped, not just run away.
“Not necessarily.” Nick gently squeezed her muscles. “But we don’t know. There was no note, no instruction, no ransom demand. Miguel found it on your desk with the knife. That’s all we know for sure. Don’t assume the worst.” His big hand cupped her cheek and he leaned in. “If it helps at all, where Charlie’s investigation or our plans are concerned, I promise I won’t keep anything from you.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.” She blew out a shaky breath. “I far prefer to handle things head-on rather than not know and get blindsided.” She waved her hand toward the counter. “Puking aside, I’m not fragile. I’m not going to break. I deal with blood and guts and crisis and tragedy every day of my life. I can handle this.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute, Becca.” Eyes blazing with emotion she didn’t dare guess at, Nick seemed to be looking into her very soul, judging her strength, evaluating her mettle.
She held his gaze for a long moment, letting him look his fill. “Good. Then, what’s the plan?”
Chapter 14
After another hour of restrained arguing, they had a multipronged plan in place for tomorrow, and Becca could barely resist the dangerous tide of hope rising inside her. Finally she could see some forward progress.
But just one thought of Charlie’s severed finger took care of that. Jesus, they cut off his finger. What kind of animals . . . ? She forced hersel
f not to think about it—not because Charlie didn’t deserve every bit of her sympathy and concern but because if she focused on it she just might dissolve into a puddle of despair.
Sitting around the living room as the hour approached midnight, weariness covered all of them like it was an element in the air they breathed. To a man, these guys were big, strong, tough—capable of doing some serious damage if necessary. But the more she got to know Nick’s former teammates, the more she noticed that they had some other interesting things in common with him—shadowed eyes, Grand Canyon-sized chips on their shoulders, and a demeanor that always seemed just shy of producing a true smile or a full laugh. Like they’d all been through something together, something that had not only marked their skin and their hearts but also touched them all the way to the depths of their souls. And not in a good way.
“All right, come to my office first thing in the morning, and we can do the forensic drawing and go through the databases,” Miguel said.
Nick shook his hand. “Will do. Thanks for everything.”
The man nodded. “We’ll figure this out,” he said.
They might’ve just been platitudes, but Miguel’s words went right to her heart. She stepped in front of him. “What you’re doing means a lot to me. I hope I can repay you some day.”
“I’m a dad. Got kids your age. I couldn’t not help. Don’t you worry about it.” He squeezed her arm. “Get some sleep.”
Before the door even shut behind Miguel, Becca asked, “Can’t we at least search Charlie’s and my place tonight? Get a jump on tomorrow’s to-do list?”
With his hand on the small of her back, Nick guided her to the grouping of chairs in the living room. “Both those locations have proven unsecure, Becca. We need to compile equipment, and the guys need intel on the locations so they’re not going in blind. This isn’t something to start at midnight, especially when we don’t know who or what we’re fighting. Except, possibly, someone on the inside of the police.”
She sighed. His words made sense. They did. But the urge to find Charlie, to save him, agitated through her all the way down to her cells, especially now that they knew he’d been kidnapped. “Okay. I get it.”
He squeezed her arm. “For sleeping arrangements,” he said to the guys, “someone can take the guest room in the back. Someone can take my bed, and the couch out here pulls out. I’ll grab some blankets.”
“Wait. Somebody else should have Katherine’s room. I generally sleep for crap and end up walking around or watching TV. So I’ll sleep out here,” Becca said. “I don’t mind.”
He frowned and shook his head. “That’s okay.”
“No, really. Besides, I’ll be more comfortable on a couch than any of you guys.” She rounded the counter. “Let me just grab my stuff.” Without waiting for his response, she made her way down the hall. Truth be told, the day had left her achy and beyond exhausted, but her brain was still going a million miles a minute. Sleep wasn’t likely.
After she threw her bag on the bed, she quickly gathered her things, rolled them up, and stuffed them inside. She grabbed her pillow and straightened the bedding, then turned to leave.
Nick stood in the doorway, muscled arms braced on each side of the molding. “You should keep your bed.”
For a moment, she was too dumbstruck by the sliver of skin that appeared between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his jeans to respond. She’d seen the full glory of his chest, of course, so why she found that strip of abdomen so alluring, she didn’t know. Maybe because it tempted her to lift the rest of the cotton away? “Um, why?” she managed. “It’s fine.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. “You’ve been through a helluva lot today, Becca. Whatever this is, it’s only just begun. You need rest to deal with it.”
His concern made her smile. She crossed the room to him, pushed up onto tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his jaw. “Thank you for wanting to take care of me. I’ll be fine on the couch, though. Promise.”
“I do.” His gaze connected with hers, warm and intense, and he lowered his arms.
“What?” she asked, hiking the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.
Nick’s brow furrowed, and for a moment he looked away, like he was grappling with the words. Finally, his eyes were back on hers. “Want to take care of you.” His jaw ticked. “When that guy had you . . . and then you were bleeding . . .” He shook his head.
Her heart squeezed with affection for him. No, not just affection, something bigger, deeper. How could she have known him for only a few days, when it felt like it had surely been so much longer? Becca cupped the hard angle of his jaw. “I don’t like seeing you hurt, either.” Her thumb stroked over his cheek, just south of the red swelling around his busted cheekbone. Tape on his face, the skin around his right eye bruising, stubble covering his jaw and chin . . . God, he was beautiful in all his rough edges, utterly appealing. Suddenly, it was too much, and she was too close. Dropping her hand, she stepped back. “Between your cheek and my forehead, we’re a pair, aren’t we?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.” Then his expression went serious again. “If you won’t sleep here, then take my bed.”
His bed? “Uh, but I—”
“It’ll give you more privacy. I saw what you slept in the other night, remember? And I’d rather these meatheads didn’t.”
The tone of his voice might’ve sounded playful if it hadn’t been for the dark glint in his eyes. Was that jealousy? Protectiveness? Both had her heart kicking up in her chest. “Where were you planning to sleep, anyway?”
“Couch in my office.”
“Oh.” Why did that news unleash a flicker of disappointment inside her? “But I was trying to give one of the guys a bed. You know, maybe make them a little less cranky.”
His lips twitched again. “I know you were. But they could sleep standing up if they had to. They’ll be fine. I’m not worried about them.”
But he was worried about her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but instead she just shrugged. “Just tell me where you want me, then.”
“In my bed.” His eyes went molten.
So boldly stated, the words dragged over her skin and heated her blood. “I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?”
It was the closest thing to a real smile she’d seen from him. And it was lethally sexy. He just nodded.
A few moments later, she made her way to Nick’s connected office and bedroom. Curiosity flowed through her as she stepped inside. An overstuffed dark blue couch, the kind that sucked you right into its cushiness, filled one wall, and a flat-screen TV hung opposite. Magazines were stacked on top of a small bookshelf packed with titles she couldn’t make out. The desk had an organizer full of forms and files, and a laptop sat open but dark in the center. A sketchbook lay on the corner, some sort of line drawing just visible in the diffuse glow of the hall light.
Turning on the desk lamp revealed what looked to be the finished drawing of the soldier-fireman tattoo he was supposed to do tomorrow. It was . . . really freaking good, like the man was walking off the page toward her. Was he still going to be able to do this for Jeremy? God, she really had just taken over his life, hadn’t she?
A narrow hallway extended from one corner of the room, and Becca headed that way. A wall switch threw light onto a set of open sliding closet doors on the one side, the bathroom door on the other, and presumably the bedroom door at the far end. She set her bag on the floor outside the bathroom as her gaze landed on a series of black garment bags pushed flush against one wall of Nick’s closet. Her gaze dropped to the floor, where a set of shiny black dress shoes and a pair of well-abused combat boots were tucked beneath the hanging bags. Two military-issue duffels filled the shelf above. Aside from his tattoo of the Special Forces crest, these were the first things she’d seen that proved he’d once served in the U.S. military. It was like he’d packed that part of himself away.
Suddenly feeling like she was snooping, Becca grabbe
d her things, stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her.
When she came out a few minutes later, Nick was in his bedroom chucking dirty clothes into a hamper. Well, except the lone sock the puppy was chewing on next to the bed. Other than his big bed with its plain dark green comforter dominating the center, the nightstand on one side with the only lamp, and the long dresser against the opposite wall, the room was pretty empty. There weren’t even curtains on his windows, just drawn blinds. Two stacks of cardboard boxes sat in the far corner. More parts of his life packed away, she guessed.
Was she imagining it, or was he limping? For a long moment, she studied him. Sure enough . . . Protectiveness flooded through her. “You don’t have to pick up, Nick,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “It’s been a long day for you, too.”
His gaze cut across the room toward her. “It’s no problem. I changed the sheets,” he said, raking his fingers through his dark hair.
Becca’s fingers twitched in response. His hair was soft and thick, just long enough to grab when they kissed . . . “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks. I really wouldn’t mind sleeping on the couch. I don’t want to disturb you if I can’t sleep.”
“No. Bed’s all yours.” At the door, he paused and looked down at her, his normally bright eyes dark in the low light. His nearness made her skin tingle. “G’night.”
The sudden urge to hug him, to hold him, to ask him to stay surged through her. She didn’t fight it. Stepping into him, she slid her arms around his back and laid her head against his chest. “Thank you,” she said.
When his arms finally came around her, she released a breath. God, he was warm and strong, and it felt right holding him like this.