The SEAL's Rebel Librarian (9 page)

“Low-hanging fruit,” Keenan said with characteristic humility. “When your primary method of protection is to situate them in the middle of nowhere—Oklahoma—there's nowhere to go but up.”

Rose ran operations for Field Energy. Jack put two and two together and came up with, “How closely are you two working together?”

“Close enough to increase security while decreasing operational costs, which are
our jobs
,” Rose said, every inch the professional despite her extremely feminine outfit.

“And you?” Grannie said. “How's school, Jack?”

One of the worst things about family was the way a single phrase or question could take twenty years off your age. Jack experienced a dizzying sense of déjà vu, all the way back to high school, when he'd sat in this kitchen, thinking about his total lack of interest in school and which girl he was currently in trouble with. “It's fine,” he said.

Rose gave a little snort, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. “What's her name?”

“There is no girl.”

Keenan shot him a look.

“There's always a girl,” Rose said to Keenan, who diplomatically avoided answering by inserting a forkful of roast and horseradish into his mouth.

If Jack didn't know better, he would think Rose was using his reputation to divert attention from her own questionable behavior, except Rose never behaved questionably. She was elected president of the student council and the Latin club and was Homecoming Queen. She planned dances and fundraisers and blitzkrieg trips through Turkey. She never had anything to hide.

“Class is going fine, Grannie, thanks for asking.”

“What are you taking?” Keenan asked.

“It's a Psych class. I'm working on my final paper.”

“What's your topic?” Rose asked.

“PTSD treatments from a veteran's perspective.”

That halted conversation at the table fairly effectively. Grannie, bless her flower-loving, rump-roasting, my-grandkids-do-or-die heart, said, “You don't have PTSD, Jack.”

“I've got something,” he answered as he held out his hand. Everyone stared at the tremor.

“That's not PTSD,” Grannie said.

Keenan and Rose kept quiet.

“PTSD isn't always going psychotic and picking people off from a clock tower,” Jack said quietly, thinking of the way his whole body used to shake, the raw nerves in his chest and head that fired every time he had a cup of coffee, the feeling like someone took steel wool to his skin. “It's subtle, and insidious, and hinders all kinds of veterans in all kinds of ways.”

“Well. You're getting better,” Grannie said. “When you came home in January you looked awful.”

“Thanks, Gran,” he said over Keenan's quiet snort, Rose's giggle.

“And now you look better. Even in the last week or so, your color's better. Which is good, because you're all invited to the Garden Club's reception to welcome the high school's Hall of Fame athletes. Jamie Hawthorn is the guest of honor.”

“Got it,” Jack said. Jamie had been a couple years ahead of him in high school; he wasn't the most physically talented player on the team, but nonetheless Jamie had been the undisputed leader during the boys' basketball team legendary run to the state basketball championship his senior year. The fact that they ended up on the same SEAL team was a mild coincidence.

“They're honoring both the boys' and girls' teams from that year,” Grannie said.

“I'm glad,” Rose said. “A couple of the girls went on to play pro ball in Europe.”

“It was a very good year, and it's time to induct both teams into the Hall of Fame.”

“Sounds very cool,” Keenan said. “It'll be good to see Hawthorn again.”

“We hold the ceremony under a tent set up on the Garden Club's lawn,” Grannie said. “It's beautiful.”

“The club's president, aka the mayor's wife, rents the space to the high school for a nominal fee,” Rose added.

Keenan looked like he was having trouble following. “Hawthorn's mom,” Jack said.

“Ah,” Keenan said, clearly trying to reconcile badass Lieutenant Hawthorn, who'd once leveled a Russian soldier the size of the Hulk with a single punch to the jaw, with having a mother. “I figured him for a military kid.”

“Close. His dad used to be the chief of police and is now the mayor. Their family has been Lancaster PD forever,” Jack said. “His brother's in the police department. Hawthorn broke tradition to go into the Navy.”

Thinking of breaking tradition reminded Jack of Erin, and all the ways she was starting her life again. He mulled this over through the rest of the meal, coffee, and dessert while they looked at pictures streamed from Rose's laptop to Grannie's TV. Ruins, history, his grandmother bright-eyed and smiling, arm in arm with her best friends and Rose under a wide expanse of sky. Afterwards he and Keenan cleaned up the kitchen while Rose and Grannie put the food away. “Look at us,” he said, elbowing Keenan in the side, knowing the running water would cover their conversation. “Washing dishes after Sunday dinner.”

Keenan wore a red-and-white checked apron with a frilly eyelet ruffle as serenely as he'd worn cammies and a grenade launcher. “Not where you want to be?” he said quietly.

“I'm just surprised you're here,” Jack said.

Keenan shrugged and passed him the roast platter, scraped and ready for the dishwasher. “We'd always talked about working for Gray Wolfe as a team. I was ready to come home,” he said. “Finally.”

“Was it the job?”

“Among other things,” Keenan said. “They haven't hired a replacement for me.”

“They haven't?”

“They want the right man for the job. You should think about it.”

“I'm not ready,” Jack said reflexively, even though he'd told Erin he was looking at jobs with security contractors. He'd had to say something, look like a man with a plan, when she gave that “no messy emotions” speech.

“How are you going to know if you're ready or not unless you give it a shot?”

Because he knew. Deep in his bones, he knew. “I need a favor,” he said, changing the subject.

“Name it,” Keenan said.

“A friend of mine is buying a motorcycle. I need someone to ride it from the dealership to the airfield on Highway 75.”

“Why can't he ride it out there?”

“Because she's new to riding. Sure as shit she's going to lay the bike down, and I don't want her doing that in front of the guys from the dealership.”

Keenan's gaze sharpened. “Your librarian?”

“No comment,” Jack said, and shut off the water. “What about you? You never go this long without someone on a string.”

“No comment,” Keenan said. “What's she buying?”

“A Duc Monster 696.”

“That's a hell of a lot of bike for a beginner.”

“She can handle it. Hey, Rose, can I borrow your motorcycle leathers?”

“Of course,” Rose said, “but you'll find them a little short in the inseam.”

“They're for a friend.”

“You ride?” Keenan said to Rose.

“Got my license same time he did,” Rose said.

Jack didn't like the look on Keenan's face. The last thing he wanted K figuring out was that his sister was actually the coolest woman he knew, smart, determined, taking no shit. “Great. Thanks. I'll pick them up later.”

“I've got some errands to run, so I'll bring them over later tonight.”

“I'll meet you at the dealership tomorrow,” Keenan said. “Take an early lunch or something.”

After the good-byes, Jack texted Erin.
11 a.m. at the dealership tomorrow let's do this.

*   *   *

At 10:59 a.m. the Ducati dealership held only Erin, clutching her brand-new helmet, the salesman, clutching the biggest check Erin had ever written out of her post-divorce checking account, and the receptionist. At exactly eleven o'clock, the parking lot filled with engine noise from Jack's purring Duc, and a squat, tough-looking truck driven by a guy in a suit and tie. Jack took off his helmet, said a couple of words to the guy as he swung out of the truck, and patted her Duc as he walked by it into the dealership.

“Nice bike,” the man following Jack into the showroom said, sounding impressed.

It
was
impressive. A Monster 696, in excellent condition, bright red. Her dream bike. She'd done it.

“Morning,” Jack said, and looked around. “What's the situation?”

“Um, he's got a check. I've got the bike.” Her heart was pounding, her stomach pitching and rolling. She'd done it. She'd bought a motorcycle, negotiating the salesman down to what the internet said was a fair price. They'd gassed it up, washed it, and parked it outside the showroom.

Now all she had to do was get on it and drive it away.

This was the part where Jason always talked her out of something. Getting started on a dream was never a problem. It was the logistics that overwhelmed her. Buy a bike? Sure. Ride it home, through Lancaster's stop-and-go traffic on the main thoroughfare? That's where he always got her, and from the look on the salesman's face, he could see her nerves.

Jack gestured at the man beside him. “Erin Kent, Keenan Parker.”

“Ma'am,” Keenan said and held out his keys. Uncomprehending, she took the keys from his outstretched hand and looked at Jack. “Keys are in the bike?” Keenan asked.

“Yes,” she said, answering the question without seeing the bigger picture.

“Great. Let's go.”

The other shoe dropped when they were moving toward the door. Jack had found a way to get the bike off the lot without her having to ride it away under the curious eyes of the dealership staff. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“The airstrip out on Highway 75. Know where it is?”

“I'll follow you,” she said.

Jack was already straddling her motorcycle, shifting it back off the kickstand. He started the engine and listened for a few seconds. “See you there,” he said, then shot them both a wicked grin before tugging his helmet over his head. He revved the engine up, lifting his boots from the asphalt as the bike started to move, then shot across three lanes of city traffic. In seconds, the engine's high whine was fading.

“I hope he doesn't get a speeding ticket on the way there,” Keenan said.

“Let's go,” she said, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Let's go, let's go, let's go!”

Fortunately Keenan's truck was an automatic, but she still drove carefully, accelerating slowly, giving the big vehicle lots of time and room to brake. Bouncing around like a flea on the back of an elephant, she followed Keenan, who was on Jack's Duc. When they arrived at the airfield, Jack was riding in big looping figure-eights, accelerating, braking, testing the bike. She parked by Keenan, who was getting off the bike and straightening his tie, and nearly fell over her feet getting out of the truck. Jack saw them and rode over.

“It's in great shape,” he said when he climbed off and took off the helmet. “Brakes are tight, engine purrs like a kitten, handling is really responsive. You got a smoking deal, Erin.”

“And you just got the first ride on my new bike,” she said, and reached over and ripped the sticky price tag off the gas tank.

“It was an honor,” he said, serious, but his eyes were laughing as he tossed her the keys. “We'll pretend it never happened.”

“That was the most fun I'll have today,” Keenan said, eying Jack's bike. He tossed Jack his keys. Erin tossed Keenan his keys. Sheer joy was burbling in her throat, the fun, the adrenaline rush, the camaraderie of standing on an airstrip with two Navy SEALs. She felt like she was in a movie.

“Keep the shiny side up,” Keenan said.

“I'll try,” she answered with a laugh.

He made a vaguely salute-ish gesture, then climbed in his truck and drove away.

“How did you know?” she said to Jack when the sound of the engine faded.

“Know what?” he said, smiling down at her.

“That the hardest part was getting the bike off the lot.”

He bent his head and kissed her, quick and hot. “Because I knew,” he said, then turned her hand palm up. Her fingers closed tight on the keys. “Now you just have to get it home.”

She turned to look at the bike. Red accents, black and silver everywhere else. It looked cool. It looked sleek and fast and like it would change your life. It looked, in fact, like the mechanical incarnation of Jack. Fast. Dangerous. Able to make her dreams come true.

Oh. Oh uh-oh. This was not a good way to start thinking about Jack. She'd told him she wasn't looking for anything permanent, and she was going to keep her word. Keep him separate from the bike, no matter how difficult it was.

Jack shrugged out of his backpack. “Here,” he said, digging out a bundle of leather and offering it to her. “I borrowed these from my sister.”

She shook out two garments, a jacket and leather pants. “Thanks.”

“How long do you have?”

“My shift starts at two,” she said absently, looking around. Nowhere to change, but also no one around. Moving as quickly as possible she took off her slacks and pulled on the leather pants, then zipped the jacket over her blouse.

“Over you go,” Jack said.

She swung her leg over the bike's seat and looked over the instrumentation. “Kill switch on,” she said, running through the checklist she'd learned in the beginner rider's class. “Turn the key, make sure I'm in neutral, press the start button.”

The engine roared to life, warmed up and ready to go. She pulled the clutch, shifted to first gear, and slowly released the clutch.

The bike lurched and the engine stalled. Heat rushed into her ears and cheeks, fortunately covered by the helmet. She reset everything, tried again. Same thing.