Shoot Out (The Baltimore Banners Book 7) (3 page)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Derek had to be wrong. This had to be a mistake. Nicole hadn't been wearing a ring, he had looked.

His mind latched onto that, even though he knew it meant absolutely nothing. No. No way. She couldn't be married. Derek had to be wrong.

"Well, I guess that takes care of your reputation as a saint, eh?"

JP's words barely registered. Nothing registered. Not the noise around them, not the oddly mixed scents of sweet dough and strong coffee and New Orleans in the heat. Not the laughing words of Bridget and Emily and Kayli as they approached the small table.

She's married.

The words repeated in his mind, over and over with dizzying speed, threatening to turn his stomach inside out.

Nicole was married.

What the hell did I do?

"Holy shit."

"Mat, breathe—"

"What's wrong with him?"

The voices swirled around him, a word here and there reaching him but nothing making sense.

Fuck. What the hell had he done? This was a nightmare come to life. Regret, guilt, recrimination. Disbelief. How could this have happened? This couldn't be happening.

A part of him—a very small part—wondered if he was overreacting. It had been a mistake, one he hadn't realized he was making. Did that excuse him? Some small, rational part of him was saying yes, it did. He didn't know, had no way of knowing, wasn't responsible for what he didn't know.

No, that wasn't his conscience speaking, it was Kenny. Leaning over him, his large hand banging him on the back between his shoulder blades, his deep voice lowered into a gravelly whisper.

"You didn't know, man. It's not your fault."

But it was. He should have asked, should have checked. Fuck. She hadn't been wearing a ring. Why the fuck would he have thought to ask?

"Oh my God, he's hyperventilating. Mat, bend over. You need to bend over." A cool hand, small and feminine, clasped the back of his neck and forced him to lean forward. Bridget? Yes, he could see the sun playing in the red of her hair from the corner of his eye. He tensed, wanting to argue with her, then gave in and bent over, wrapping his arms around his waist and trying to catch his breath.

"What did you guys do to him?" Emily's voice, filled with disbelief and accusation, came from his other side. Hands rubbed his back, gentle and cool through the wicking fabric of his polo shirt. Mat squeezed his eyes closed, watched the black spots slowly disappear from the inside of his lids.

"I did nothing,
ma chere
. It was Derek."

"Derek?" Bridget's hand stilled on his back. Mat sensed her stiffen, sensed her turn toward Derek. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, I swear!"

"You must have done something."

Mat groaned and tried to sit up, tried to turn his head and silently tell Derek not to say anything. It was bad enough he was already making an ass out of himself in front of the girls. He didn't want them to know what he'd done, didn't want their opinion of him to change if they found out.

But Derek wasn't paying him any attention, his focus completely on Bridget. His expression changed, going from humor—no doubt at Mat's theatrics—to conciliation.

"Honest, Bridget, we didn't do anything. Mat just found out that the girl he was with last night—"

"No!"

"—is married." Derek snapped his mouth closed and looked over at Mat but it was too late. The words were already out. Mat groaned again and leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands.

The silence following Derek's admission only lasted for a few seconds. A few, very long seconds. Mat felt three pairs of eyes on him, felt their surprise and disbelief. He held his breath, waiting for their judgement, for their censure. Nobody moved. Or maybe it was just Mat's imagination, his own guilt that was making him sense things that weren't really there.

Bridget was the first to speak, confusion clear in both her voice and her gaze as she looked first at Mat then at Derek. Her brows lowered, her green eyes flashing. "Who are you talking about?"

Mat wanted to tell Derek to just shut up, tell him he had already done enough damage. But Derek didn't even look at him, just squirmed under Bridget's gaze and finally shrugged with a long sigh.

"Your friend. The one with the tattoos."

"Nicole? Nicole Taylor?"

"I guess, yeah."

Mat nodded, still not quite able to look at Bridget. At any of them.

"She's not married."

Mat's head shot up. "What?"

"But you said—"

"Dude, shut up." Mat sliced his hand through the air, cutting Derek off. He looked up at Bridget, something close to relief filling him. "She's not? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I mean, I guess maybe technically she still might be but—"

"What do you mean, 'technically'? She either is or she isn't."

"She's been separated for about two years. I don't know if her divorce went through yet or not."

Mat slumped down in his chair and took a deep breath. A clear breath. The weight that had been sitting on his chest was gone. Mostly. He looked back up at Bridget then kicked Kenny. "Dude, go get me an ice coffee, let Bridget sit down so we can talk."

Kenny blushed and immediately pushed away from the table, muttering something as he held the chair out for Bridget. But she shook her head and glanced over at Emily then down at her watch.

"Guys, we need to leave. The tour is getting ready to start and we still have to walk to the meeting point."

Chairs were pushed back from the table, the noise rough to Mat's ears as everyone stood up, suddenly talking. Everyone except him. He looked around, noticed everyone starting to move away from the table. How could they leave? Didn't they know he had questions? So many questions.

He pushed to his feet and hurried to catch up, shortening his strides when he reached Bridget. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, silently asking her to wait as everyone moved ahead of them. She tilted her head and gave him a questioning look, then motioned for Derek to go ahead. He frowned at Mat, his irritation clear, then moved to catch up with everyone else.

Mat jammed his hands into the front pockets of his shorts as they walked, several feet behind everyone else. "So she's really not married?"

Bridget shook her head, reaching up to tuck a strand of wavy hair behind her ear. "Not anymore, no."

Mat blew out a deep breath, relief filling him again. "Good. That's good." They walked a few more feet, Mat stumbling over an uneven brick before catching himself. "So, um, is there anything else I should know about her?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You're her friend. I just thought maybe you could tell me more about her. Maybe give me a few pointers or something."

They were almost to the tour office now. Mat stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his attention drifting to the group gathered at the corner, his eyes searching for Nicole. He didn't want anyone else to overhear their conversation—especially not Nicole. The entire morning was embarrassing enough, he didn't need to add to it. But he missed whatever Bridget had just said and he turned to her, offering her a small grin by way of apology.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said I can't. I don't really know her that well."

Mat frowned, wondering if he had missed more than he thought. "Don't know who that well?"

"Nicole."

"But—" Mat swallowed and cleared his throat, looked over his shoulder then back at Bridget. "I thought she was your friend."

Bridget shook her head. "Not really, no. I just know her from the hospital."

"Oh. I thought…well, I guess it doesn't matter. I can just talk to her during the tour."

Bridget frowned, tilting her head to the side as she watched Mat. "She's coming on the tour?"

"Yeah. I mean, isn't she?"

"Why would she?"

"Isn't she here for the wedding party?"

"No. Why would you think that?"

"I don't know. I just thought…I mean, she's here with you so I figured—"

Bridget laughed, the sound soft and gentle. Any other time, her laughter would have lightened his mood. But not now. Instead, the sound filled him with anxiety, like something wasn't quite right and was about to get worse.

"Mat, she's not here with me. I just happened to run into her last night."

"Oh. I thought…" His words drifted off and he glanced over at the crowd, saw their waves as they motioned for him and Bridget to hurry up, to join them. He swallowed back his disappointment and forced a smile to his face. "Well, no worries. I'm sure I'll run into her tonight."

Bridget's hand folded around his arm, her touch gentle. He was sure she meant it to be reassuring but his gut twisted and knotted when he looked down at her, saw the worry in her soft eyes.

"Mat, from what she told me last night, her flight was leaving this morning. She's probably already on the way back home."

"Nikki! What are you doing?"

The shriek echoed up the stairs and straight to the back of her neck, scraping every nerve along her spine and causing her to jerk back in the chair. Nicole grabbed the edge of the makeshift desk as the old chair tilted sideways, nearly dumping her to the floor. Her elbow hit the cup of water; it teetered, threatening to spill everywhere.

"Dammit." She grabbed the plastic cup just before it fell, holding it out to the side as she tried to regain her balance in the old chair. Her heart hammered in her chest and she took a deep breath, then another, trying to restore the frazzled edges of her nerves. Footsteps, hesitant but still loud, echoed outside the room, getting closer.

Nicole closed her eyes and took one last deep breath, this one to steady her before the confrontation she knew was coming. It was always a confrontation, no matter what she did. Why did that still surprise her? And why, after all this time, did it still have the power to disappoint her?

She reached for the computer mouse, trying to save the images on the screen and back out of the program. But it was too late; the steps were louder now, coming to a stop just inside the doorway to the small room. A hiss of disbelief, followed by a sigh that clearly expressed disappointment.

"Really, Nikki? You're still wasting your time with that nonsense?"

"Could you please stop calling me that? And it's not nonsense, Mom." She didn't bother turning around, already knowing what she'd see: her mother, leaning against the doorway, her thin lips pressed into a pale line of disapproval and censure. Nicole bit back the words that wanted to tumble from her mouth and focused on saving the latest files, on making sure they were properly backed up to three different locations. Paranoid? Overly cautious? To others, maybe. But it had only taken one time—one cruel act of spite—for her to learn her lesson the hard way.

She had learned a lot of lessons during that one very long year, lessons she wouldn't soon forget, no matter how much she wanted to.

Nicole closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly as she pushed the unwanted images from her mind. She had been young and stupid, making a long series of mistakes in a short span of time. But that had been over two years ago. Surely enough time had gone by. Hadn't it? Or would she be paying for those mistakes for the rest of her life?

She shook her head, almost afraid of the answer, then pulled the memory stick from the computer and tossed it into the open backpack resting on the floor. She unplugged the external hard drive and carefully placed it inside the metal security box, making sure to lock it before pocketing the key. Her mother blew out a breath of impatience, the sound a sharp hiss in the stifling air of the small room.

"I don't know why you bother locking everything up. You act like all of that nonsense is so important."

"It is important, Mom. To me." Nicole grabbed her camera and tucked it into the backpack then zipped the bag closed. She held onto the arm of the chair and carefully stood, holding the battered thing steady so it wouldn't tip, then grabbed the bag and tossed it over her shoulder.

Her mom was still leaning against the doorframe, her thin arms crossed tightly in front of her, a frown on her worn face. Nicole caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke, just above the mixed scents of alcohol and perfume. But she didn't say anything. Why, when it didn’t matter? It was her mother's disappointment that came first, always. Nicole could feel it even now, sharp and biting, radiating from the woman in front of her. She shouldn't be surprised, she knew that, but it still stung.

Would it ever get better?

Nicole adjusted the strap and tugged the bag higher on her shoulder, her chin held high as she watched her mother. Tired, worn out. A faded shadow of vibrant beauty battered by years of hard living and careless loving.

Was Nicole looking at a reflection of herself ten years from now? Fifteen? Five?

Please God, no.

Guilt immediately swept through her. Deep down, she loved her mother. She really did. She just didn't want to be her. Was that so wrong? So terrible? To actually want something from life instead of just coasting along? Not even coasting—more like being tossed from minute to minute, day to day, year to year.

No, Nicole didn't want that. But she had come so close to doing that same exact thing, to making the same exact mistakes, in an attempt to avoid becoming what she feared most. She'd learned her lesson. At least, she hoped she had.

Nicole stepped forward, the small room suddenly stifling, unbearable, but her mother didn't move. She swallowed, ignoring the beads of sweat forming along her hairline, and tried to smile. "Mom, I need to get going. I'm going to be late."

Her mother's lips pressed together more tightly, her thin shoulders hunching around her ears. Nicole stiffened, trying to hide her sudden irritation and wondering if she'd be allowed to leave in peace—or if she was in for another lecture.

A minute dragged by, long and silent. Her mother released a long sigh. She raised one shaking hand and dragged it through the tangle of graying brown hair, causing the short strands to stick up even more.

"I don't know why you even bother going. You're just wasting your time. It's not like they pay you."

Nicole bit the inside of her cheek, telling herself not to respond, not to rise to the verbal bait. They'd had this conversation before. Too many times.

No, she didn't get paid for her work at the hospital. But it was still important to her. Important to the kids. It gave her photography a sense of purpose—it gave
her
a sense of purpose. But her mother didn't understand that. She didn't think she'd ever understand.

Nicole pulled the strap higher on her shoulder, her hand tightening around it, and tried to hide her irritation before stepping around her mother. "Mom, I need to go."

But her mom didn't move. She just stayed there, leaning against the doorframe, her mouth pulled tight in that disapproving line. She finally sighed, the sound too loud and harsh, and shook her head.

"Will you be home for dinner?"

Nicole knew her mom was really asking if she was going to bring dinner home. She swallowed her impatience, tried to keep her voice neutral when she spoke. "No, Mom. I have to work tonight. I won't be home until late."

Her mother's shoulders slumped and Nicole was immediately filled with guilt. She shouldn't be, knew her mother well enough to know it was a calculated act. Everything was with her. But the guilt still came, unwelcome and bitter. Nicole pressed her lips together, knowing she shouldn't do it, she shouldn't give in.

She couldn't afford to give in, in more ways than one.

But even as she told herself that, she reached into the outer pocket of the backpack and pulled out her tattered wallet. She didn't have to look to see how much she had: sixteen dollars. She thumbed through the bills, hesitating, then finally pulled out the biggest bill she had, a ten, and held it out.

"Here, you can have this."

Her mother reached out to grab it, her hand closing over the bill and snatching it away, like she was afraid Nicole would change her mind. She didn't miss the scowl on her mother's face, though, the look of disappointment and accusation as she tucked the bill into the pocket of the robe.

"I need the rest, Mom." And she did. But that didn't stop her from feeling guilty for not giving it all to her mother

"I didn't say anything."

You didn't have to.

But Nicole didn't say that out loud. She couldn't. And it wouldn't have made a difference even if she had because her mother wasn't listening anymore. She had what she wanted and now she was moving down the stairs, her steps slow and hesitant, her hand gripping the railing. Nicole watched her, wondering if the money would be used for food—or something else.

She swallowed back more guilt and disappointment and followed her mother down the stairs, watching as she turned and moved through the door leading to the kitchen. Nicole almost followed, almost gave in to her mother's silent accusation to give her the rest of the money, but she didn't. Past history told her the futility of that. So she kept moving, straight out the door, pulling it shut behind her and checking to make sure it was locked before descending the cracked steps leading to the sidewalk.

She checked her watch then hurried her steps, walking the two blocks to the bus stop, afraid she'd miss it. It was too far to walk all the way to the hospital, and she didn't have enough for a taxi.

She just made it, finding an empty seat as the bus pulled away from the curb. Stale air filled the inside, not even coming close to passing for air conditioning. Nicole adjusted the grip on her pack and leaned against the window, not really seeing the dirty streets and block after block of broken down rowhomes they passed.

Yes, every penny mattered. It had to, if she wanted to get out on her own, make something of herself. She wanted to do more than just survive, and she didn't want to rely on anyone else for that. Her mother had done that—was still doing that—and it hadn't turned out well.

Nicole herself had thought she could do the same thing, and look where that had gotten her. More than a year in hell, and over two more trying to claw her way out. But she was getting there. Slowly, so slowly. She had money saved up now, all cash, in a secret cubby her mother didn't even know about. She couldn't use a bank, not yet, not without risking losing everything. But she was getting there. She'd even had enough for that quick trip to New Orleans. A trip to celebrate her recent freedom.

Her hand patted one of the side pockets of the backpack, her fingers tracing the ridges of the plastic beads tucked inside. She felt herself smile before she realized what she was doing and tried to stop it. A month had gone by, she shouldn't still be smiling.

But she couldn't help it. She'd only been there for two nights, barely long enough to get a quick taste of the city. It was so alive. The architecture, the people, the food…no, she hadn't splurged for any of the finer meals but she'd still been able to get a taste. It was amazing the deals you could find when you were looking. And she'd been able to capture so much with her camera so she had more than just memories.

But it was her last night that stayed with her. Her night with Mat. She shouldn't have gone back to his room, she knew that. But she'd taken one look at him, one look at those unusual deep green eyes, and all common sense had flown from her mind. She knew better, but she did it anyway.

And she didn't regret one second of it.

No, that wasn't quite right. She did have one regret: she hadn't been able to get a picture of him. She'd thought about it, thought about snapping a quick one before she left the next morning, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do that, no matter how much she knew the camera would love him. It seemed too…perverted. Cheap. It didn't matter that it had only been one night, it wasn't a cheap encounter.

Not to her.

She'd seen Bridget at the hospital once since then and had thought about asking her about Mat. But she changed her mind at the last minute. She didn't know Bridget that well, more like a passing acquaintance. And she didn't know if Bridget knew she had gone back to the hotel with Mat. She thought the woman probably did but still, just in case…. No, it was better if Nicole kept the memory to herself, to savor and revisit when she needed.

The bus pulled to a stop, jerking her to the here-and-now. She grabbed her bag and stood, her hands running along the back of each seat as she jostled up the aisle with the handful of other people getting off at this stop. There was still another block left to go but it would be an easy walk, one she would enjoy while savoring the memory of deep green eyes and softly whispered words.