The elevator dinged and halted twenty floors from the top. She couldn’t resist asking, “Why this floor?” He had money to burn, after all…
“Direct access to the express way,” he explained as they stepped out of the elevator. “Being an ex-Lawman has its privileges.”
“Most people in this section of town don’t have cars, do they?”
“Or private garages.” His eyes twinkled with barely contained glee. He looked younger and she couldn’t help trying to imagine the Taggart she knew—a war-hardened vet with a cynical streak ten metres wide—as a tow-headed child.
They passed down a narrow hallway. There wasn’t much noise behind most of the doors. “Is it always this quiet?”
“Usually. Lotta guys are either ex-Lawmen or are still enlisted.”
“You like their company?”
“I like their respect of boundaries.”
She fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket as he stopped at a door and held his hand to the palm scanner. “I’m sorry about this,” she told him as he punched in a complex key code.
“Why?”
“I can understand why you like your privacy.”
“You’re paying me to protect you. This is what it requires.”
“So you normally bring employers here?”
He didn’t insult her intelligence by trying to supply an idiotic answer. Her respect for him grew a bit.
“Thank you,” she said into the silence.
He shook his head and moved in place for the retina scan. “You haven’t seen my place. I wouldn’t thank me yet.”
The door’s locks clicked open.
Gods, he hoped she wouldn’t freak out when she saw his place. In the two weeks he’d gotten to know her, she hadn’t struck him as the type of woman who would put him down just because of where he lived. But he’d been surprised before.
Peirce held the door open and motioned Emmaline inside. The one benefit of working all the time: he was never home long enough to get the apartment dirty. Closing and locking the door behind them, he realised she’d stopped in the hallway, taking in the room before her.
Coming from the wealth she did, it probably didn’t look like much. Sterile, with bare floors and minimal furniture. The walls showed some water damage, but he’d never really cared since he wasn’t around long enough to notice. He waited behind her nervously, wishing he could see her face, gauge how she was feeling.
Which immediately led to the question, what kind of pansy-ass am I?
He was Peirce Taggart, former Lawmen commander, honourably discharged with medals of highest merit for his efforts during the wars. He had gone toe to gun with some of the worst scum, dragged them to interrogation and watched them crumble under his careful attentions.
So why the fuck was he growing a vagina and worrying about her feelings?
He pus
hed past her, refusing to alter his normal pattern just because she was watching. Telling himself he didn’t care if she followed him or not, he made his way to the bedroom.
Guns removed from their places, checked, reloaded and placed down one at a time on the bed before being moved to their respective pegs. Utility belts unclipped and laid out on the dresser, extra magazines left standing in perfect rows. Gloves removed and stacked on top of each other. Boot knife alongside the flashlight and goggles. Cuff and comm facing the bed in case he had to get to them fast.
The calming routine slowed his mind and let him focus on what was at hand. It allowed him to forget—no matter how briefly—the massive changes Emmaline’s rescue would cause to the next week or two of his life.
He unclasped his boots, stepping out of their heavy weight and placing them to the side of the shelves he used to store his armour. The cold floor felt good against his feet, helped him stay grounded. A real soldier didn’t need comforts like carpet.
His good arm undid one row of clasps holding his armour in place in no time, but as he raised his other hand he realised the problem. His shoulder felt better after visiting the med-centre, but he still didn’t have his regular range of motion. If he pushed his luck, he’d rip the staples. He wasn’t in the field right now; he could afford a day of downtime.
Even if it bugged the hell out of him to admit it.