Reunion (17 page)

Allie’s turn to stifle a laugh.

“I’ma gonna kill that man one day with a spatula,” Rita mutters as she walks toward the kitchen.

“You close to quitting?” I ask Allie.

“Another twenty minutes. You guys want breakfast? T
ito makes a killer omelette.”
 

Mark sighs. “If you’re going to twist my arm like that...”

Allie scribbles madly on her order pad and rushes off.

“She didn’t even ask us what we want!” I say to Chase.

He grins. He looks so much like Mark in that moment I hold my breath.

“Allie knows what’s good here.”

Twenty minutes later we’re digging in to the best omelette and home fries I’ve ever had in my life. The restaurant is clearing out. Another waitress has taken over and Allie’s sitting with us, munching on an apple fritter.

“Oh, my God, this is so good,” I say, struggling to eat with one functional arm. My other one is still in a cast and a sling. Mark has to help me get dressed. I draw the line at bathroom help, though. I just wear yoga pants and twist and contort until I am reasonably dressed.

“Told you,” Chase says.

I finish and push the mostly-empty plate away. Then I take a deep breath and reach for my coffee.

My eyes meet Allie’s. She’s smiling.

Mark pays the bill and slides a ten dollar bill as a tip for Allie. While she protests, he reaches for my hand and pulls me out of there. “We’re going for a walk. Meet you guys down at the Santa Monica in thirty minutes.” There is no question in his voice. He and Chase share an inscrut
a
ble look and we’re out of there. The walk is long but pleasant. Mark is silent.

It’s a comfortable silence.

I am full. Stuffed silly. My arm has been itching lately. My first appointment with a physical therapist is scheduled for tomorrow. My orthopedic surgeon explained that with the right treatment, I should have no lasting negative effects from the dislocation Frenchie caused.

Frenchie
. I shiver at the thought.

“You okay?” Mark stops on the sidewalk, turning fully toward me. His hands cup my face, cradling it carefully. He leans in for a kiss. My entire body tingles. My injured arm, cast and all, is pinned between us. It’s like a chaperone, forcing our bodies six inches apart.

I press forward, cast be damned. My should
e
r aches with the strain but other parts of my body ache for Mark’s touch even more.

Our kiss goes hot and eager, mouths slanted against each other, my single hand on his back,
his arm
around my waist, st
r
oking the soft skin under my shirt.

We pull apart, breathless.

His eyes are smoking, filled with lust. “We live together now,” he says. Last night, our first night here, I slept like the dead. Woke up with a pinched neck and a pain-filled shoulder. But that’s all I did. Sleep.
M
ark was up before I awoke, bringing me coffee and reading online.

“Yes,” I reply, my mouth wanting more.

“We can ditch Allie and Chase and head back for our own fun,” he suggests, his voice filled with a husky, sultry tone.

A little moan of desire floats out of me.

And then his phone rings.

“Fuck,” he groans, the word as much a curse as a whimper. He pulls the phone from his pocket, looks at the number, and his face falls. “I have to answer this.”

I nod and take a step back. One of his hands stays on my hip.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says in clipped tones. “Mmmm hmmm. Okay. Good to know. Thank you, ma’am.”

He hangs up.

I arch one eyebrow. “Boss?”

“Yep.”

“Any news?”

“Yep.”

“Good or bad?”

“Depends on who you are.”

“
I’m Carrie. I’m your girlfriend. And I’m the person who the media thinks killed El Brujo.”
 

“And you’re beautiful,” he adds, as if I’d forgotten to mention it.

“If your definition of beautiful includes being mistaken for an extra in a zombie di
s
aster movie, then yes—I’m beautiful,” I concede.

The passion-filled moment is lost. It slips away like sand in the palm of your hand. Mark turns me toward the ocean and we walk with lazy steps. The sound of waves in the distance tickles my ears.

“Really, though,” I ask. “What was that about?”

“Claudia.”

“Claudia? The Claw?
Claudia Landau?
”

“Yes.”

Funny.
I
n all this mess, I hadn’t even thought about her.

“What’s she done now?”

“Disappeared to Mexico.”
Mark blinks hard, over and over, as if processing everything he’s just heard. For a short conversation, he seems to be fairly distracted.
 

“I’m not surprised,” I say. “Her dad was from there.”

He nods. “Right.
She’s kind of stupid about how she left the country. Easy to track. Almost too easy.”
 

“Will the DEA bring her back and charge her?”

He frowns. A gust of wind blows his blonde hair off his forehead. Those glowing, honey-colored eyes meet mine.

“Technically, she hasn’t done anything illegal. We can’t pin anything on her.”

“So she gets off scot free?”

“Mmmm, yes and no,” he says, pondering the question. “She’ll be followed carefully. Tracked constantly. She’ll slip up and bring us to someone in the trafficking network. Then we’ll go in.” He shakes his head as if coming out of a daze. “But I didn’t say that.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t say any of that.”

I finally get it. “Oh. Right. Not one word.” He just told me more than he’s allowed to, under the rules of his job.

And speaking of jobs...

“Are we going to live like Galt?” I ask.

His hand squeezes my hip so hard I fear a bruise tomorrow. I move away from him.

“What?” His voice is hard and surprised. “
What do you mean, live like him? I’m nothing like that.” Mark’s eyes go into shadows. Even the sunshine doesn’t let me see them. He dips his head down. His arms are tense, his legs tight under the old jeans he wears. His t-shirt billows in the wind, revealing carved abs. He looks nothing like the uniformed cop I knew way back when.
 

And certainly not like a deep undercover DEA agent.

“No, Mark, you’re not like Galt. But he’s spent thirty years living undercover. Lying to his wife. Wives,” I correct myself. “His kids. I just...is that our future?” I don’t want to ask this question.

I
have
to ask this question.

“You’re asking me if I’m getting out.”

“Yes.”

He nods slowly, his hands flexing and loosening. “I knew this would come up.” He sighs, then motions toward the beach. I start walking with him. He reaches for my good hand and threads his fingers through mine.

“Carrie, I got in because of my grandfather. He’s the reason I joined the army right out o
f
of college. I was a stupid twenty-one year old privileged kid. Grandson of good old Senator Thornberg.
H
e had big visions for me. Serve in Afghanistan. Come home a war hero. Run for the U.S. House of Representatives. And, one day...President.”

I gasp. “Oh, hell no. I’m not First Lady material,” I giggle. “Especially now.”

He laughs, a genuine sound of pleasure.”Don’t worry. That life was never mine. He died right after I got shipped out. Within a month on the ground I realized I wanted nothing of the big-boy politics behind the scenes. In war there are no villains after a while, except for the politicians who put you there in the first place,” he says bitterly.

I don’t know what to say. We just keep walking.

“Do you know why I came home and joined the DEA?”

“You needed a paycheck?” I answer.

He laughs.

“No. Really. Everyone needs to make a living, right?” I repeat.

An uncomfortable look passes over him. A chill shoots through me.

“About that. Carrie, when my mom and stepdad died, there was this trust fund. My grandfather was a wealthy man.” Mark’s clearly struggling with this.

“Yeah?”

“And a bunch of the cousins—me included—inherited it.”

I feel meek suddenly. “Oh.”

“I don’t
have
to work. I
want
to work.”

A light bulb goes off. “Is that how you paid for Chase’s tuition? And helped Chase and Allie this past year?”

He nods. “I lied to Chase, though. Told him it was agency money.”

“Why?”

“Because Chase has a huge chip on his shoulder. He makes some money from some YouTube advertising thing, and Allie works at the diner, but it wasn’t enough. He’s really good with medical issues. I wanted to see him get a fighting chance.
T
he poor kid has been through too much in his life. He wasn’t my grandfather’s blood relative. He doesn’t have what I have.”

“So you decided to share.”

“Right.”

“Does that mean you’ll leave the DEA and live off your trust fund?”

He bites his lower lip and slows to a halt.

Uh oh.

I have a feeling I’m not going to like what he’s about to say.

“
No.”
 

Hmm.

“But, I am leaving the DEA.”

Okay. We can work with this.

“You are?”

“Yes. For another job.”

“You got a job offer? In the middle of all this chaos? When did you find the time to draw up a resume and apply for jobs?”

His hearty laugh gives me goosebumps. The ocean’s roar is stronger now. The Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier peeks out over the horizon.

And then I realize where he has a job offer.

“It’s Drew, isn’t it?”

His neck pulls back in surprise. “Yes. How’d you guess?”

My turn to snort. “You had me on twenty-four hour watch with his guys, Mark. It doesn’t take a genius. But you’re not the type to sit in a hospital room and watch over someone.”

“Only you.”

I smile and squeeze his hand. The music from the carnival atmosphere of the Pier invades our conversation. We’ve reached the edge of the beach. I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot, letting the warm sand coddle my soles.

“No, Drew’s offer is at a higher level. No overseas travel for a while.”

“A while? How about never?” My heart leaps into my throat at the thought of Mark traveling into unknown danger far away.

“We can cross that bridge in the future.”

“No more undercover work?”

“No. Promise.”

I sigh, the wind carrying my breath off into the horizon, like a beacon.

“Thank God.”

“To answer your original question—no. We won’t live like Galt.” Mark pulls me into his arms and kisses the top of my head. “Ever.”

Just then I hear someone shouting, “Carrie! Mark!”

It’s Allie.

And she’s carrying an enormous stuffed bear.

“Look what Chase won for me!” She’s grinning like a happy little girl.

And I grin right back.

Making love with a cast on your arm and the same arm in a sling is trick
i
er than you could ever imagine.

When you’re desperate enough, though, you find a way.

It’s late at night. The window is open and a lazy jazz tune floats over us like it’s here to chill and have a good time. Mark’s undressing me, slowly, his fingers dragging against my skin as if we have a thousand years for this.

I’m hot and bothered, so ready to make love I could spontaneously combust.
Weeks have gone by with nothing more than a kiss, a grope, a tentative exploration of willingness.
 

Tonight is all about
want.
 

Two glasses of wine and a giant throbbing craving for nothing but hours naked with Mark
.
It’s like my world inverted. Weeks of hell and now I get a slice of heaven.
 

Naked
heaven.

“
I don’t want to hurt you,” he says in dulcet tones, his voice full with the lush looseness of a man ready for hours of lovemaking. He gently threads the armhole of my shirt around the intricate maze of my sling, my cast, and my wincing.
 

“It’s fine,” I insist, my nipples pebbling as he removes my shirt and stares at my nude breasts.

“No bra?”

“Couldn’t put it on this morning.”
I lift my good hand and wave it jokingly.
 

“Oh,” he says, breathless. His pupils go dark as he unabashedly stares at my body.
We’re beyond jokes.
 

Oh, indeed.

“Take off your shirt,” I demand. My voice has more of an edge to it than normal.
I know I should be more sensual but instead I am just powered up and fueled by how much I need him.
 

His eyebrows go up. In seconds, he lifts from the hem, powerful arms bulging with mild tension as he removes his sh
i
rt. The sinewy lines of his
forearms and the rolling strength of those shoulders makes my mind go blank. He is gorgeous. Hot and strong and tailor made for me.
 

This is a man.

My
man.

Today has been so long. All I want is to sink into bed and feel his hard body stretched out, curled against mine. To slide my hands along the ridges of muscle and bone that are Mark. To press and push and lick and caress until I forget my name in the throes of passion and can only cry out his.

This is my moment of release. Of relaxation. Of reward.

Of love.

Every journey begins with a single step. Every reunion begins with a single touch. A word. A look. An
I’m sorry
.

We’ve said and done all those.

Time to touch.

And touch.

And touch until we don’t need to touch any more.

It may take eternity, but I’m up for it.

And, by the look of things, so is Mark.

“I can’t undress you,” I murmur against the s
o
ft skin of his neck as he embraces me, my breasts flattening against his chest, the smattering of hair on him tickling my nipples.

“
I can undress us both,” he says, removing the rest of his clothes with a slow, languid series of movements that captivate me. The air is redolent with us. Just us. Nothing more. Nothing else.