“What?” Grandma Frida always told me that she and Grandpa Leon loved my dad. Was it before Dad? It couldn’t have been. Mom had me when she was twenty.
“Your dad had a really rough life,” she said. “He had problems.”
“Like what?” I desperately tried to stay awake.
“He couldn’t do crowded places because he was convinced someone was following him and people were looking at him as if there was something wrong with his face.”
“Dad?”
“Yes. He couldn’t hold down a job. He only had a high school diploma, and the kind of jobs he took often meant he had to keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. But instead he would try to improve things. He’d point out ways to make the job better or to produce more, and he was usually right. He refused to cut corners and didn’t get into workplace politics so he would eventually get fired.”
That I could believe. Dad had a very strong sense of right and wrong. He was professional in all things and he’d never do anything unethical.
“And then you came along. We had very little money and no medical benefits. Your grandparents pushed your dad to enlist.”
That didn’t surprise me either. Both Grandpa Leon and Grandma Frida had made their careers in the army. To them enlisting meant a steady paycheck, medical, dental, commissary benefits, and, despite deployments and wars, an odd kind of stability the civilian world couldn’t deliver.
“Your dad couldn’t enlist. He was hiding and there were too many red flags that would light up.”
“Hiding from what?”
Mom sighed. “It’s complicated. I promise he had his reasons and they were good ones. My parents didn’t understand. They saw a deadbeat loser who’d managed to make a baby and now wouldn’t step up to the plate to take care of her. Grandpa Leon called him a coward to his face. Grandma Frida took me to this lunch where she tried to convince me to leave him and come back to their house. Her exact words were ‘And if he tries to bother you again, I’ll pull his legs out.’”
I remembered to close my mouth.
“She was very convincing. I remember I had a moment where I thought she might be right and it would be easier to just walk away. In the end, it didn’t matter. I loved him. I understood why he was the way he was. He loved me so much and he did everything in his power to make things better. So when you were six months old, I enlisted instead and I left you at home with your dad,” Mom said. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done. That’s when your grandma began to thaw. She walked into our house a month after I left for boot camp, expecting a trash heap of dirty diapers and your dad at the end of his rope. Instead the place was spotless, you were clean and fed, and he made her lunch. Your dad did a good job taking care of you, and later, of your sisters. He built a business that still puts food on our table. And when Grandpa Leon needed help, your dad always offered it and never once asked for any acknowledgment. He was a good man, your father. I was proud of him and proud to be his wife.”
“He wouldn’t have left the scene of an accident.”
“If your life was on the line, he wouldn’t have even thought twice about it. Your dad would do anything to keep us safe. If he had to pick up a gun and shoot someone between the eyes, he wouldn’t hesitate. You had an injured teammate in the car. You did what had to be done to keep him safe. Your father would be proud of you. Don’t ever doubt that. The agency is his legacy, Nevada. You make sure that it thrives and its name stands for something.”
Right now it stood for “we get ourselves into violent messes and then heroically try to get out of them.”
“Anyway, the moral of that long story I just told you wasn’t to compare you to your dad. It’s to remind you that it’s your life, Nevada. You own the responsibility for it. I can’t be in charge of it and I don’t even want to give you advice. There is no point. No matter what I say, you’ll do what feel right to you in the end. So.” Mom folded her hands on her lap. “What feels right to you, Nevada?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, when you figure it out, let me know. If I have to shoot Mad Rogan, I’d like to be properly prepared for it.”
“I was wrong about him, you know,” I said quietly, half asleep. “I thought he was a sociopath, but he cares about his people being killed.”
“You sure he isn’t just pissed off because they failed?”
“No. He tries to hide it but you can tell it tore him up inside. He went to notify all the families personally yesterday. When we were tracking Adam, he was really angry about the way the Air Force had treated Bug. I didn’t think that much of it at the time, but now it makes sense.”
“So he’s human after all.”
“Sort of. He cares about his people. I just don’t know if he cares about anyone else. He still thinks he’s at war, Mom. It’s kill or be killed. There is no middle ground with him.”
“Mhm.”
I yawned. “I invited him for dinner. I just wanted to tell you so you don’t have a heart attack.”
She said something back, but she sounded far away and I couldn’t make it out. Thoughts crawled around my head in all directions like big lazy caterpillars. I gave up, closed my eyes, and let myself drift.
Chapter 6
I woke up because I heard voices. I opened my eyes. My mom was gone. The tower was empty and the only light came from the outside filtering through the narrow slits of the windows and from the square opening that led down. I checked my phone. I’d slept for forty minutes, and now I felt kind of woozy. I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to lie right here on this cozy air mattress and stay warm and comfy. And maybe sleep some more.
The creaking of a ladder announced someone climbing up into the tower and moving fast.
I flipped onto my stomach, sat up, and leaned toward the opening, my hands on the floor, to see who was coming up the stairs. In that exact moment Rogan raised his head. We were face to face. An overwhelming relief flooded his eyes.
I was so glad to see him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. Mere inches separated us.
“That’s the second time today you asked me that.” I leaned closer. I couldn’t help myself. “You should really come up with a better pickup line.”
He surged up, halfway into the room, his upper body in, his feet still on the stairs. His mouth closed on mine.
His lips burned me. The sleepy wooziness evaporated in a heart-fluttering rush. He smelled of sandalwood, and my head was spinning. I licked his lips. He tasted so good. A hoarse male noise escaped his mouth. Yes, growl for me.
His hand stroked the back of my neck, his teeth bit my lower lip, and I gasped as my breath caught in my throat. Heat warmed my skin from within, each sensation magnified. I felt so alive. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted the heat of his rough fingers on my skin. I wanted him inside me. I opened my mouth, shocked at the thought, and he took it, his tongue brushing mine and withdrawing, perfectly in tune with my breath, conquering and seducing, teasing and pulling back, pretending I could get away and then claiming my mouth as his.
A velvet heat dripped down the back of my neck, a phantom molten honey sizzling on my skin, as Rogan’s magic bound us. It slid down my spine, inch by inch, setting every nerve on fire in its wake, my body eager for the repeat of ecstasy it remembered. Oh my God, how could this feel so good?
Rogan’s hand slid over my chest to cup my breast. Yes, yes, please. He took a step up. Another.
If he came up all the way, we’d have sex right here, right now.
On my mother’s air mattress.
I pushed him. For a fraction of a second he stayed where he was, grasping the air for balance, and then he slid down the stairs with a thud.
I leaned into the opening. He caught himself midway down the ladder, looked up at me, and spread his arms, his face puzzled.
“What’s going on?” Mom called from somewhere below.
“Mad Rogan fell down the stairs.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, cringing inside.
“Does he need a medic?”
Yes, Rogan mouthed and pointed at me.
Aha, no, I’m not giving you any sexy healing. “No, he’s fine.”