Promises to Keep (14 page)

“It's titanium, so it's light but strong,” he told her, showing her the small button on the underside. He pushed it and the links un
locked, pooling into his hands. He looped it around her wrist,
tucking the pointed clasp into its hollow end, securing it in place.

“Does this mean we're going steady?” she said, hoping the joke would alleviate some of the pressure that had built up between them.

He looked up at her, his gray eyes nearly black as he stared into her eyes. “It means if something happened to you, I think it would kill me.” As suddenly as he caught her, he let her go, releasing her wrist before looking away. “Don't take it off.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. She continued through the door and into the house. She kept walking. Didn't stop, didn't turn around. Because if she did, she was certain that the man she fell in love with would disappear.

Thirty-Seven

Michael watched Sabrina walk
away, waiting before following her into the kitchen. He used the time to remind himself there were reasons he stayed away from her. Reasons he should've
kept
staying away.

Ben … it was his fault he was here. The kid was worse than a twelve-year-old girl with his schoolyard bullshit.

But it hadn't been Ben who forced him to follow her out here. It hadn't been Ben who'd opened his mouth and said things to her he'd had no intention of saying. And it hadn't been Ben who'd
touched her. No, as usual, he hadn't needed any help fucking
things up. Just point him in the right direction and things got destroyed. That's the way it had always been.

Story of his life.

He shed his jacket, tossing it over the back of the nearest chair. Reaching up, he pulled the knot loose on his necktie, yanking it wide to stave off the trapped feeling that suddenly gripped him. He kept pulling until the thing came loose in his hand and then popped open the first few buttons on his shirt. Nothing he did made it any better.

He remembered this feeling. Hated it. It was like a slow-moving train wreck only he could stop, but no matter how hard he pulled the brake, the wheels just kept rolling. People dumb enough to love him had a habit of getting killed. His parents. Frankie. Lucy. How many times could Sabrina dodge a bullet before one finally caught her? How many times could she die before it finally took?

He shut the front door and locked it, impressed with the heavy brass fixtures that secured it. Those were new. For the first time, he noticed the discreet security panel set flush into the wall, rows of lights offset by a pad used to read thumbprints. This was no commercial-grade system. He'd seen this kind of system plenty of times.

In FSS safe houses.

Apprehension tingled along his scalp. Taking a trip around the room, he noted things he'd been too preoccupied to see before. The way the front parlor window refracted the setting sun, bending the light with its thickness? Bulletproof glass. The blinking red lights in every corner of the room? Motion detectors. The almost springy feel of the floorboards beneath his feet? Pressure plates that almost surely triggered an off-site alarm. He rapped a couple of knuckles against one of the exterior walls. Solid. He'd bet his account in the Caymans that every inch was outfitted with Kevlar panels.

What. The. Fuck.

But he knew. Ben. It always came back to him, didn't it? He spent time here. A lot of time. Miss Ettie treated him like he was one of her grandkids. Probably baked him fucking cookies and tucked him in at night. It made perfect sense that Ben would make sure the place was secure, so why did it piss him off so bad?

Because it hadn't been him who thought of it, that's why.

Get your head in the fuckin' game, O'Shea—none of this matters.
Not if you don't let it.

Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and finally headed for the kitchen.

He entered quietly, leaning against the doorframe without a sound. Sabrina looked at him over her shoulder, stopping mid-sentence before continuing with what she was saying. “Like I said, all you need to know is that I'll have a DNA report and death certificate by tomorrow morning.”

Lark, standing across the room, hips resting against the kitchen counter, looked like he was suddenly having second thoughts. “And like
I
said, I deserve to know where you're getting your documents because it's my ass doing the lying here. Shaw won't fall for no Mickey Mouse shit,” he said.

“Oh, well, in that case, I'll tell my contact to lay off the crayons,” Sabrina said, straightening her legs under the table. “And if you think that concern for
your
safety is going to entice me to give up my source, then Shaw
should
kill you, because you're too stupid to live.”

Lark shifted again and rubbed a hand across his jaw before cutting him a look. “You wanna reel your girl in, O'Shea, before that mouth of hers gets her in trouble?”

Michael slid his gaze across the kitchen until it rested on the back of her head. “She's not my girl.”

The words stiffened her spine, as if he'd punched her between the shoulder blades. She swung a look at him, hurt and anger flitting across her features. He held her gaze, forcing every shred of emotion he held from his face until it was nothing but a mask. He counted to five, letting her see the void before he looked at Ben. “Take her home.”

Ben hesitated. “Maybe you should be the one—”

“I've got more important things to do. Besides, I'm sure you walked her home plenty of times.” He kept his gaze locked on Ben's face. He didn't want to look at her. Couldn't. Not when he was seconds away from coming completely unhinged.

“I'll walk myself home,” she said in a hard tone, drilling him with a glare to match. The heat of it was like a hot poker in his chest. She left without a backward glance.

Good. The angrier she was at him, the easier it would be. He angled his head at the door, signaling Ben to follow her. “Stay with her.”

Ben paused for a moment, looking almost as pissed as Sabrina before he hit the door, slamming it closed behind him.

“You've always been way too good at that,” Lark said in the quiet, his booming voice held just above a whisper.

“Good at what?” He looked down at the boy curled into a ball on the floor next to Sabrina's empty chair, sleeping what Michael would be willing to bet was the first real sleep he'd had in months.

“Pretending shit doesn't matter.”

He looked up at Lark and laughed. “Are you fuckin' serious? An hour ago you were running your mouth about what a number she's done on me, now you're pullin' a Dear Abby because I won't walk her home?”

Lark shrugged. “What can I say? I'm a complicated kinda guy.”

Michael leaned forward a bit, dropping his voice so it wouldn't carry beyond Lark's ears. “How's this for complicated—that capsule I made you swallow is the least of your worries. If you fuck us over …” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “The things I'll do to you. By the time I'm done, you'll be begging me to make the call.”

Lark smiled. “Yeah. You've always been good at that too.” He turned to leave, but Michael's words stopped him cold.

“You think you're up to the task?” Michael said. There was no need to elaborate, and Lark proved it by throwing him a look over his shoulder before turning to face him.

“To killing you? Probably not,” Lark said. “But I got a better shot than most.”

“What I don't get is
why
. Shaw can kill me anytime he wants. So why get you to do it?” he said, pulling his shoulder away from the doorjamb to stand up straight.

Lark just laughed. “One thing I learned in my twenty-three months and eighteen days as his personal guard—Livingston Shaw gets off on making people do things they don't want to do.” Lark picked his cup up off the counter and rinsed it out before placing it carefully in the sink. “Good night, partner,” he said before heading upstairs.

Thirty-Eight

“Go home.”

Sabrina had said it about a hundred times in the past hour, but he wasn't listening.

Instead, Ben shuffled the deck of cards and dealt in stubborn silence. Sometimes she wanted to strangle him. He picked up his cards and fanned them out, studying them intently. “It's your turn to go first,” he said.

She walked around the bed from one window to the next. “I don't want to play cards,” she said a bit too harshly. She hadn't felt like this in years. Scared. Angry. Paranoid. The back of her head throbbed in a reminder that she was smart to feel all three.

Ben hardly seemed to notice. “I've already told you, I'm not having sex with you, Sabrina.” He smirked at the cards in his hand, moving a few here and there. “Begging only makes you sound desperate.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “The only thing I'm desperate to do is get you out of my house.”

“Not gonna happen. You heard O'Shea; I'm supposed to stay here,” he said, glancing up at her.

“Oh, and you always do what you're told?” Stepping away from the window, she approached the bed, giving him the once-over.

Ben shrugged. “When it suits me.”

“You mean when it bugs
me
?” she said dryly and picked up her cards. He wasn't leaving anytime soon; might as well pass the time. “Do you have any fives?”

Ben scowled and tossed her a card. She paired it with the card she already held and laid them on the bed, next to her SIG.

“Got any jacks?” he said.

“Go fish.”

Ben picked up a card and stuck it in the middle of his hand.

She'd meant to ask him if he had any threes—what came out of her mouth was a different question entirely. “Why did you bring him here?”

He shot her a look and shrugged. “You called. We came.”

“Bullshit. You've been here a dozen times over the past year and never once have you even mentioned him. You could've just as easily split up and come here while sending him on to question the Maddoxes. Instead you plopped him in front of me like a cat would a dead bird. Why?”

Now he wouldn't look at her. “I told him.”

She stared at him for a full ten-count, but he didn't elaborate. Didn't explain. The realization of what he meant detonated in her belly, knocking her slightly off-kilter. “You told him
what
?” she said, just to make sure they were on the same page.

“You know what.” Ben glared at the cards in his hand, not even having to look at her to gauge how angry she was. “Don't look at me like that. It's not like I had a choice.”

“You're Ben Shaw—if there's one thing I've learned about you, it's that
you
always have a choice.” She continued to watch him, looking for a sign that would tell her what angle his confession had helped him play. As far as she could tell, there wasn't one.

“Look, Lark started running his mouth about you. In front of my father.” He shrugged. “When Michael realized that your existence wasn't exactly a revelation, he damn near shot Daddy Dearest in the face.”

“And that's a problem for you
how
?” She was well aware of how Ben felt about his father. That he would intervene was surprising.

“A problem for me? Hardly. But for you? Michael …” He sighed. “My father's realized that my tenuous loyalties have shifted. I'm no longer his failsafe when it comes to our boy, which means if something were to happen to good ol' Dad …”

“Michael would be killed.” Someone else, besides Shaw and Ben, had their finger on Michael's kill switch. The thought about how close he'd come wiped her anger clean.

“Bingo. So, back to your original question. Why did I bring Michael here.” Ben looked up at her. “Because there is a very real, very frightening part of him that works very hard at getting himself killed, and it's getting stronger by the day. I brought him here because he needs to remember that he still has things in this world worth fighting for. He loves you. He wouldn't be fighting it so hard if he didn't.”

He loved her. Yes, at least that's what he told her a year ago. But things change. “You think he's suicidal?” she said, barely able to get the words out.

His eyes slid away from her face, resting on a spot just above her shoulder. “No. I think he no longer cares if he lives or dies. There's a difference.”

She had more questions, but she knew Ben well enough to know that when he wouldn't look at you, it was because there was something going on in his head that he didn't want you to see. She also knew that pushing him was counterproductive. “Got any threes?” she said, closing the subject.

He fished a card from his hand and tossed it at her. “No one likes a cheater, Sabrina.”

“I don't cheat.” She smiled as she matched up the card with her own and set it to the side. “I lie a lot, but I never cheat.”

He smiled back for a moment, but it faltered. “You're still bleeding.”

She swiped at her neck, her hand coming away wet and red. “It's nothing,” she said, tossing her card on the pile before she stood.

“You've been bleeding off and on for the past six hours. That's not
nothing
. Let me stitch it up,” Ben said to her back as she headed for the bathroom.

She sighed. “Alright. There's a suture kit in my—” Her cell rattled against her hip. She pulled it off and glanced at the screen. It was a text, alerting her that one of the motion detectors she'd set around the property had been triggered.

There was someone on the front porch.

She looked up, ready to explain, but Ben must've been able to tell by the look on her face that something wasn't right. He stood, the offer of first aid forgotten, and twitched the curtain away from the window just a touch. “I can't see who it is.”

She wiped her hands on a towel before leaving the bathroom. “Avasa, come,” she said, swiping her SIG off the bed and tucking it into the waistband of her jeans.

“Where do you think you're going?” Ben said, stepping in front of her.

“Move.”

“I'll go. You stay here. It's probably just a cat or something,” he said, but they both knew it wasn't a cat. The sensors set around the house and surrounding property didn't register anything under seventy-five pounds. Despite the doubt she'd been tossing around earlier, she felt a certainty settle into her bones. One word chased itself around her head.

Church.

From the look on Ben's face, he was thinking the same thing. She looked down at the .40 Desert Eagle he held in his hand and shook her head. “Yeah? That's a pretty big cat, Shaw.” Sidestepping him, she managed to make it to the door before he dropped a hand on her shoulder.

“At least let me go first. If you get shot again, O'Shea will kill me.”

She highly doubted that, but she moved aside, letting Ben ease the door open on silent hinges. They both stepped onto the landing, letting their eyes adjust to the dark before making their way down the stairs.