Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance) (17 page)

I laugh, biting back the stinging in my eyes; “Go clean up my niece, Ray.”

“Call us when you get back, OK? And don’t get sunburned!”

“Hey Ray?” I close my eyes, willing the lump in my throat to go away; “I love you.”

“Love you too! And chin up, dork; you’re in
paradise!
”

Right.

Fuck this girl. I mean is she kidding me? Accusing me of…of
that?

It's infuriating, and it's insane to think of me as someone like that. Even if I have been a scoundrel and a scumbag to varying degrees my entire life,
that
is nothing I've ever been. But I also know that she's pulling shit like that so that she can feel like she's not at fault for what happened between us.
 

By which, I mean, the single hottest fuck of my life. But still, fuck this girl, and fuck her bullshit.

I'm rubbing the stubble of my chin, watching her through slit eyes across the street as she makes a call on a payphone. She's probably calling the C.I.A., and most likely talking about me and how best to put me in a fucking jail cell or something.

Why the
hell
did I get involved with her like that? And for what? At the end of this whole little beach-life fantasy we're living out, there’s one outcome. Well, two, but neither are good. Either she turns me in and I go to jail, or Blackriver catches up to us and, fuck, who knows what then; certainly nothing good.

But accusing me like that just to abstain herself from any guilt about her own poor choices, even after I warned her? Fuck that. I've been called a lot of things, but not that; no fucking way. Besides, no matter what shit she says to me, she can't change what’s going on inside that pretty little head of hers. Because I know she wanted that; that was
all
her.

Well, I'm willing to accept that I had a
bit
to do with it, but still. I knew this was a bad idea.

Nice work, asshole.

*****

"So what now, Agent Archer."

She finishes crossing the street to where I'm leaning against the side of a house, and I can see her stiffen a little at the harsh tone in my voice.

Good
.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said. I- I just-" She looks away, stumbling over her words; "I just think we should pretend that never happened."

"Done," I say, as off-handed and nonchalantly as I can. I say it quickly. My tone of voice is shit, but fuck it; I can play this game too.

Chelsea looks like she doesn’t know what to say.

"So, what's your plan now then, spy girl."

She bites her lip as a blush of color washes through her cheeks; I should stop using those stupid fucking pet names I’ve been calling her.

"Well, we need to get out of Aruba."

I bark out a laugh; "No shit."

Chelsea gives me a look; "No, I mean thats the plan; literally. Langley wants us off the island for extraction.”

"And go
where
exactly?"

"Venezuela, to the mainland."

I snort out another laugh, shaking my head; "No fucking way."

Fuck that; hell no.
I'm never going back to that place I used to call home; not after they threw me in that hell hole of a prison.

She shrugs; "Well, those are my orders, and I'm taking you with me.”

For the eight-hundredth time, I think about how easy it would be to run. It might not be a great plan, but it’s sure as fuck better than going back there. I mean what would she even do to stop me? What’s she gonna do, insult me? She’s got bullets now, apparently, for that stupid gun she’s been carrying around. But bullets or not, she wouldn't shoot me.

I’m pretty sure.

I frown as I stare out at the ocean, swallowing the pill of this reality. Deep down, I know she’s my one way out of this whole fucking mess. Well,
probably
, at least; I’m still working that out in my head.

"So, any idea how two people with no passports leave Aruba?"

She looks at me, her brow knitted in this adorable way that I try to ignore; "I was hoping you knew. I mean you got
in
here without one."

I laugh coldly; "Yeah, but it involved killing two assholes with guns and stealing a boat."

"Oh." Her eyes linger on me, and a shadow of a look that might just be fear crosses her face.

“They were about to throw me over the side to die in the ocean; don’t get all touchy-feely about it sweet cheeks.”
 

Her gaze lingers a moment longer, but she drops her eyes to the ground and kicks a rock with her sandal.

“OK so
maybe
I know a way off.” I flash her a grin and wink at her; “You’ll just have to ask me nicely I guess.”

She sighs and looks up at me, clearly wrestling with something behind her eyes; "Look, are you going to be like this?"

"Like what." I say evenly, knowing full well what an immature dick I'm being about this.

"This…just-"

"OK fine, yes."

She frowns; "Yes you're going to keep acting like an asshole?”

"No," I roll my eyes and smirk at her; "I mean yes I know how to get us out of Aruba. I know a guy with a plane who owes me a favor or five."

"Where?"

"A ways," I look across the mostly empty street at an old jeep standing empty by itself; “Think the C.I.A. would mind if you added ‘cars’ the the list of stolen vehicles so far?”

We drive to the airport in the Jeep in total silence, with Javier brooding behind the wheel and me chewing on my nails as I stare out the passenger window. That vortex of regret and confusion inside is still raging, though now at least there are trails and tendrils of coherent thoughts trickling through.

Coherent thoughts like me wondering why I allowed that to happen. I mean, I don't do "flings on the beach" like some sort of sorority girl on spring break. Not ever, and certainly not with
criminals
like Javier Toro.

God, is that colluding
? I think to myself, shivering at the thought.

Why couldn’t I say no to him? More importantly, why couldn't I say it to myself? Why couldn’t I say no to the pure need I had for him

The thought occurs to me that I
still
wouldn’t trust myself to say no even now; not when it comes to this man with the almost frightening and dangerously magnetic draw sitting next to me.

I've had to think for myself for longer than I should have had to do. Quinn and Reagan were already older when our dad passed, and it's not like I wasn't amply provided for, but I guess I just went inside my own head more often than not. I've made all the right choices, gone to all the right schools and programs, and aced all the tests to get to where I am today with the Agency.

So why do I slip up
now
?

I think back to Javier teasing me about joining because of my dad. Truth be told though, he was right.

*****

I'm not supposed to be in here, but my aunt is out late and the household staff is already gone for the evening.

And honestly, he's been dead for a year; at the risk of being insensitive, I don't think my dad will be upset that I went into his study.

I'm not even entirely sure what I'm looking for when I push open the heavy wooden doors and step into the musty oldness of the room. It smells like him in here, and I feel a pang in my chest at the still fresh hurt of his passing. I trace my fingers over books that line the shelves; some that I remember him reading to us, some that I remember him reading to himself there in his reading chair, and some I just plain don't know.

I take one down at random and sit in my father's chair. Again, I’m unsure why I’m here, even if I know it’s probably just to try and keep him close though he's gone. It's as if wrapping myself in his life and the scent of him keeps me close to his memory.

The book is Mark Twain's "War Prayer", and what starts as me leafing through the forward ends with me curling into a ball in the chair and reading the whole thing straight through.

“
If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! Lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same time.”

I go to close the book, but a piece of paper tumbles from the last page into my lap:

33 - 19 - 7

Years of treasure hunts, mystery books, puzzles, and brain twisters with my father have me grinning as soon as I see the numbers; I know exactly what they are.

My eyes drag up to the combination safe sitting darkly in the corner of the room beneath a mahogany table covered in maps. I've have no memory of my father being anywhere close to that safe, and in fact I barely remember noticing it before this very moment. But I'm stepping towards it, slowly, reverently; the page of scrawled numbers held tight in my hand.

I'm not sure what I’m expecting when the dial clicks for the third time. Money? Jewels? Horrible family secrets?

Certainly not books; twelve of them, to be exact.

They're all bound in the same leather, and marked with the same stamp across the cover: “W.A.”
I pull one from its forgotten tomb and bring it into the light. It's when I open to the first page that  for the first time since entering the room, I start to cry.

They're diaries; all twelve of them are my father's diaries.