Mystic Hearts (28 page)

“I’m
okay,” Larry said.

“Larry,”
she cried, tears blinding her vision and her ears ringing. They’d just found
each other. This wasn’t fair.

Chapter Sixteen

“Psst,
Charlene, really I’m okay,” Larry said, his voice muffled.

Charlene’s
pinched face relaxed. She cradled his head in her lap, leaned over him and ran
her hands over his stomach and chest, her breasts pressed against his forehead
and head. A great position to stay in all night and day, but the customers
inside The Memory Café may not appreciate his and Charlene’s intimacy.

“Really?”
She stretched further, her hands nearing the edge of his pants and dangerously
close to triggering his hardening erection to spring into action. “I’m bruised
where the bullet hit my vest.”

“Are
you sure? You’re not just saying that?”

“As
much as I like this position?” he chuckled. “Trust me, I love it, but I need to
sit up.”

“Oh,
um...sorry.” She removed her breasts from his forehead.

The
evening air drifted across his face. He rose to a sitting position and twisted.
The grief in her eyes gripped his heart. “I’m not just saying that,” he said,
stroking her hair out of her face and wiping an escaped tear with the pad of
his thumb from her cheek. “And never apologize for putting any part of you in
the vicinity of my face.” He cupped her jaw and grinned.

She
grasped his wrist, holding him to her. “When you didn’t move,” she sucked in a
breath, “you scared me.”

“The
impacted of the bullet knocked me out momentarily.”

“Don’t
do it again.”

Emotions
coursed through him. They were so overwhelming, so intense, words couldn’t
describe what he felt. He closed his mouth over hers and released every bit of
the passions racing through his veins into their joining until their panting
grew into groans. He greedily swallowed her sounds of ecstasy and dove for
more.

Someone
cleared their throat from behind and a hand patted his back. “Glad you’re
okay.” Mischief colored Jackson’s voice, cracking the dreamlike layer Larry had
wrapped around him and Charlene and making him realize they weren’t alone.

He
eased back from Charlene’s flushed face and looked at Jackson and Quigley, both
with hands on their hips, composed as if they hadn’t just sprinted a few
blocks. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

Jackson
chuckled. “No, I don’t imagine you did.”

Larry
focused back on Charlene. She was pretty and sweet. He longed to hold her in
his arms—so much so, he ached. Thoughts pinged around in his skull as he
figured out a way to relay his feelings without the others reading between the
lines more than they already had by him devouring her with his lips.. Then one
line, which he said to her when he first let her know what he wanted, came to
mind. He kissed the tip of her nose and whispered their inside joke, “Kick-off
later?”

Charlene
smiled, the dark gloom on her face moments ago disappearing, and the corners of
her mouth twitched. “You bet.”

He
waggled his eyebrows and winked before turning his attention to Jackson. “Give
me a hand.”

Jackson
grabbed his hand, and underneath his elbow, and tugged. The bruise on the
outside of Larry’s chest smarted. Another inch, the bullet would have hit the
muscle in his shoulder and landed him in the ER. He was lucky, or had the
shooter known he wore a vest?

“Here
you go,” Marge sung, approaching with her arms full of towels and bandages.
Celine followed with a stack of plastic drinking glasses and a pitcher of
water.

“Thanks,
Marge, but Larry’s okay,” Charlene said. “He’s not bleeding and won’t need the
bandages, but I will take a towel.” Marge handed one to her and Charlene wiped
the sweat from her brow.

Larry
groaned. He hoped her overheated body came from their connection and not from
him getting shot. The idea of him causing her any kind of pain, his fault or
not, ate at him.

“Did
you see the driver?” Larry asked Jackson and stretched out a hand to Charlene
and helped her to her feet. She stood and shifted to move out of the way, and
he tightened his grip, keeping her beside him.

“I
didn’t.”

“If
I can be of any help, dear, let me know,” Marge interrupted and walked inside
the café.

“Thank
you,” Charlene called after Marge and then accepted two glasses of water from
Celine. “Thanks.”

Celine
touched Charlene’s shoulder. “I’m going to help Pamela take care of the
customers.”

Charlene
nodded and gave a glass to Larry.

“Let’s
move.” Quigley waved his hands, herding them inside the café like a flock of
geese before closing the French doors and locking them.

They
went to the far right corner and pulled out a couple of chairs. Thanks to
Pamela, the patrons were paying their bills and clearing out of the restaurant.
The group chose a table in the far right corner, free of dirty dishes. Larry
pulled out a chair for Charlene.

“I
should help Pamela,” Charlene said.

“Nonsense,”
Pamela said from a few tables over and picked up a rectangle tub full of
dishes. “Take care of Larry. There’s not much left for us to do.”

Charlene
slid into the chair next to Larry as Pamela and Celine disappeared into the kitchen.

“Did
you get eyes on the license plate?” Larry asked, motioning to a chair for
Jackson to sit down and one for Quigley.

Jackson
refused the chair Larry motioned to and remained standing, arms folded, feet a
shoulder width apart. The man had the military bug bad. Quigley stood beside
him.

“By
the time I reached the corner,” Jackson said, “the car turned again. I glimpsed
the rear tail lights, possible muscle car.”

“A
Challenger, early seventies,” Quigley added, joining Jackson.

Whatever
hard feelings existed between Jackson and Quigley earlier, they shoved it aside
and worked together.

Paul
pushed through the main entrance of the café, held the door open for Steve, and
then locked it.

“Anything?”
Larry asked.

“I
got nothing.” Steve dragged a chair along the tile floor, flopped down, and
sucked in air. “Give me a sec.”

“The
driver wore a cap,” Paul said, barely winded, propping his back against the
wall.

Elbows
on knees, Steve pinned Paul with a scowl. “I get how these two guys aren’t
tired.” Steve tilted his head toward Quigley and Jackson standing off to the
side. “They do vigorous KPs every day, but you? You exercise to prepare for
competitions, but I’ve never once heard you speak of running in a race. How are
you not out of breath?”

“I’m
a natural.”

“Bullshit.
I train my ass off and still suck air when I sprint,” Steve voiced, the
undertone bitter.

“You
need to train for triathlons,” Paul said, his posture easygoing.

A
rattle sounded at the front door, followed by Jake grumbling as he passed through
the foyer to the main area of the café. “I’m too old for this shit.” He wheezed,
pocked his keys, and slumped into a chair next to Larry. “I need to jog on a
daily basis.”

“Tell
me about it. Ever since I started collecting intel, I don’t have as much physical
activity.”

“There’s
one way to keep your body fit.” Quigley smirked.

Jackson
nailed him with a glare. “Hey, a lady’s present.”

“No
worries.” Charlene smiled and pulled out her cell.

“Everything
okay?” Larry asked, bumping shoulders with her.

“Yes.
I’m texting Mom and Henry to let them know everyone is okay, just in case they
hear about it. The rumor mill runs rampant.”

“Good
idea.” Charlene’s loyalty to her son and mom was admirable, one of his favorite
traits.

“Where’d
you end up?” Jackson asked Jake.

“Celine’s
place…Fredericksburg Tourist…left to the lights.”

“See
anything, boss?” Quigley asked, handing Jake a glass of water.

All
eyes stayed on Jake until the glass emptied. He dropped the glass on the table
with a thud and refilled it. “I called the shooting in, to the office. I also
had an agent call the surrounding businesses so I can check their videos.” He
finished the water, breathed a sigh of relief, and dragged his arm over his
mouth. “Okay. The shooter drove a 1972 dark green Challenger. License plate…
Oh, get this…INPALE4. I’m waiting for a call from Missy with the DMV record.”

“By
now, the office should have feedback,” Steve said tugging his cell off his belt
loop. “I also called in the shooting and the suspicious motorcycles to the
local authorities and the FBI office.

“When
they arrive, Quigley will you take care of the questions? We’ll give a
statement when we’re done.”

“On
it.” Quigley scooted out the door after unlocking it.

Larry
rubbed the spot the bullet hit his vest, feeling the sting from the blow. By
tomorrow, a black and blue bruise would form.

“The
hit is better than falling down that well at Greenwood Manor,” Steve said, his
voice colored with sarcasm.

“You
fell in a hole? You didn’t tell me.” Charlene eyebrow’s flew into her hairline
and disappeared.

Until
now, he hadn’t noticed her disheveled hair or the black smudges under her eyes.
Larry caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “Yesterday—”

Marge
barged into the dining room from the kitchen. Pamela and Celine followed. Their
presence saved his hide from having to respond, giving him a few minutes of
reprieve to think of a way to explain since he hadn’t told her last night. Pamela
stood behind Jake, a hand on his shoulder. “Marge insisted on fixing everyone a
plate.”

“You
need to eat.” Marge’s gaze lit on Pamela then to the group. “Everyone needs to
eat before chasing any bad guys. It’ll be ready shortly,” Marge said and headed
toward the kitchen.

Thanks
came from around the table.

“I
want to hear what happened at the well.” Celine dropped into a chair near Steve
and rested her elbows on the table, and arched a brow.

The
issue hung in the air for a moment before he decided making light of the
situation would bring less tension to him and Charlene. “Funny, really.”

“Barrel
of laughs,” Steve said, staring at his phone. “You ‘bout gave me and Jake a
heart attack.”

“The
rattler hyped up the tension,” Jake added, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “High
pucker factor.”

“What?”
A storm bowled over Charlene’s pretty, fawn eyes. “A snake in the well? With
you?”

Guilt
he hadn’t said something before his former friends had slithered through his
gut. “Thanks, Jake,” Larry said, his voice tight. “Could have led into that bit
of information slowly.”

Jake
shook his head, chuckling. “Nah, might as well rip off the scab, and get it
over with.”

“Is
that what you do?” Larry asked, only half teasing. “Rip off the scab to see how
much it hurts?”

Jake
gave a nod.

“Let’s
see if your theory works. Pamela, did your husband tell you about how he was
supposed to protect—” Larry paused, waiting for a signal for him to stop.

Jake
shifted and his movements turned squirrelly, yet he remained quiet, arms folded
across his chest and his gaze aimed at the table’s surface.

“—a
child of the American Ambassador?”

“Wait—”
Jake raised his hand, “—point taken.”

Hating
when one of them forgot their pact, Larry fixed his best friend with a stare.

“No,
I’d like to hear.” Pamela leaned closer. “Go on.”

Jake
narrowed his eyes on Larry and jutted his chin. The silent agreement made.
Neither would say a word.

Larry
knocked his knuckles on the table. “I can’t. It’s classified.”

“Classified
my ass,” Pamela said, sending a sharp glare at Larry, then Jake.

“Pamela!”
Marge shouted from the kitchen.

Pamela’s
sigh was echoed through the dining room. “Jeez, I can’t get away with
anything.”

“Welcome
to my world.” Jackson laughed. “Since when do you swear?”

“Since,
I’m pregnant.”

“You
don’t say.” Jackson straddled a chair. “I’m going to be an uncle.”

Pamela
beamed, like a white-lighted Christmas tree. “Looks that way.”

“Well,
I’ll be.” Jackson smiled, but his gaze became detached.

Larry
understood Jackson’s distant expression. Having your close friend go down the
path of parenthood put a different twist on life as he knew it.

Charlene
touched his arm. “Back to the well and snake.” Her voice dripped with honey,
spear heading straight to his cock. She blinked. When she opened them, her eyes
were wide as saucers. “What happened?” She pulled out the entire arsenal to get
him to talk.