“Tell him I’m fucking campaigning for him.” I laugh bitterly. “I’ve done nothing to get his panties in a fucking wad. Didn’t even do much looking in on them when I was in their neck of the woods. Told my father’s team to settle down, there’s nothing dangerous going on.” I lower my voice. “Is that true, Dove? When I saw them, they looked like more than friends. You told me—”
“So when you met up with your dad today, it wouldn’t be all over your face, I didn’t give you all the details, no.”
“All over my face.” I snort and push my sleeves up, pump some fancy coconut soap into my palm. “I’m better than that.”
“You’re not the best, Blue. C’mon.”
“I’m a good liar.”
Dove’s silence is an indictment. I grit my teeth. “So he’s what, fucking her now?”
“He says he loves her.”
“Holy fuck. You kidding me?”
“I wish I was.”
“Goddamnit, Dove.”
I hang up, and wash my hands again. The water’s cold. I close my eyes and feel how cold it is. I focus on that detail, and I wish to fuck that Dove was wrong. I am a shitty liar. Always have been. Guess the ole politico gene skipped me.
I dry my hands with the plush towel on the marble countertop and straighten up my tie. My dad will wonder where I’ve been all this time.
My dad, General Hubert R. Broomfield—Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
My dad will want to know soon who he should take out: Barrett, Gwenna White, or both.
* * *
Barrett
At first, I think it’s Bluebell. The guy walking a half a step behind Gwen’s friend Jamie has his head covered with the hood of a gray sweatshirt. He’s got the same large build as Blue, and something about the way he moves is familiar.
Pain streaks like a rocket mortar through my chest.
Not Blue. Breck.
He moves a little bit like Breck. Because—oh God—it’s Breck’s brother. That must be Nic.
I didn’t know he would be here. I didn’t know when Gwenna left to go to lunch with Jamie, she was seeing Niccolo as well. If I had…
I push my fist into my jeans pocket, gripping the fabric flap with my fingers.
Even if I’d known I would see Nic, I’d still have come. Because I have to protect Gwen. I have to be sure Blue can’t get to her. Even though that means following her.
It feels wrong, given our history. Before, she was no one to me. Not beyond the circumstances of my knowing her. I didn’t care about her. We’d never spoken. Most of the time I watched her through my scope, she was no one to me.
Now I feel as if I’m lying to her.
But I do it gladly. Just like after she returns to my house, says she’s tired, and tucks in early, I push a silencer onto my handgun, break out some night goggles, and practice shooting with my right hand until my eyes are crossing. It scares the shit out of me that I can’t protect her. Not the way I could in the past.
I try to ball my left hand into a fist and feel the same vague, numb discomfort that I always do, the nerves protesting. I hiss my irritation, go inside, put up the shooting stuff and pour myself some whiskey.
I down it in a few swallows and watch the flames blur in the fireplace.
Need to stop this. Hiding. But it feels good to hide. I need the numbness. When Gwen wakes me up some hours later, my head aches a little and my throat is dry and scratchy.
“You’re having trouble sleeping,” she murmurs, her hand pressed against my scratchy cheek. She leans in to kiss my cheek right by my nose. “I can tell, you know. Is it the nightmares?”