A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2) (11 page)

“
I
’d
like a word with you,” I say to Lindsay.

“No!” Harry and Marshall are in stereo.

“In private, away from the windows and anyone with a camera. That too stalkerish for you?” My words are addressed to Harry and Marshall, who look at each other as they decide. Not Lindsay.

She ignores them, grabs my arm, and yanks me angrily into the kitchen, where Connie is arranging fruit and cheese on a plate. Her head bobs up and she grabs the tray, busily walking down the hall to Harry’s office. People tend to skedaddle when tempers are close to blowing.

“I haven’t even had my first coffee of the day and you get yourself
fired
?” Lindsay hisses.

I pull my biceps out of reach and turn away, opening a cabinet.

“What are you doing?” she asks, furious.

“Looking for the coffee beans. I can’t have this conversation right now. Not when the taste of you is still on the tip of my tongue and your father just confronted me about sleeping with you.”

Not to mention the scarves set me the fuck up.

“Daddy
what
?”

I shrug.

“You have the most robotic range of emotions I’ve ever seen in a man, Drew.”

I find the coffee beans, pour some in the grinder, and before I press the grind button, I lean into her and whisper, “You didn’t think so when we were naked and in bed an hour ago.”

BZZZZZZZZ.

She can’t argue as a florid blush fills her gorgeous face. I know she wants caffeine as much as I need a distraction. Harry and Marshall aren’t going to give us much time together. Loose tongues can be found in any politician’s household, no matter how careful security is with background checks and ongoing evaluations.

Trust me.

I know that all too well.

How in the hell did someone snap that photo of me punching Blaine yesterday?

Anya appears, her face pale, eyes narrowed into glittering blue slits that make it clear I’m not on her list of favorite people.

Not sure I ever was.

“You okay, Lindsay?” she shouts over the grinder, the ever-present folders in her arms, her face lined with exhaustion. Anya’s been part of the background of Harwell Bosworth’s political world for years. And then I remember.

Back in the day – way back, before she came to work for Harry – she worked for Nolan Corning.

“I’m fine,” Lindsay shouts back. “Just trying to talk to Drew.”

“Looks like he’s not cooperating.” She glares at me.

I glare back.

“I’m making her coffee!” I smirk.

Anya’s perfectly manicured finger points to a spot over my shoulder. I turn.

A giant silver carafe full of coffee is on the counter behind me.

Lindsay rolls her eyes.

“I make better coffee than that mud.”

“Hey!” Connie’s offended voice comes up behind me. “That is organic Fair Trade ‘mud’ made from beans produced in a Guatemalan coffee plantation that Mrs. Bosworth has supported for years through her humanitarian efforts.”

“Fired,” Lindsay whispers to herself, blinking hard, looking at me askance.

I cock one eyebrow. “Let’s grab coffee and some privacy.”

“Privacy? Here?” She snags a mug next to the big coffee dispenser and makes a cup, her palms encircling the china, her sigh full of so much stress. Earbuds dangle from around her neck, the little nubs brushing against her nipples outside her t-shirt. She sips, her eyelids down, then she looks up at me.

The sad smile guts me.

“They set me up, Lindsay.”

“I know. And Daddy knows it, but he’s all about winning. Have to keep up appearances.”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

She shakes her head, a wry smile on her lips. “No. I just have the drill memorized. Daddy only has a few plays in his playbook, Drew. And they all revolve around getting elected.”

“You know I’m not what the newspaper – that’s just a bunch of lies.”

“Of course I know that!” A few sips later and she’s pensive. No one interrupts us, but in the background I hear phones ringing, copy machines and printers churning, the muffled busy-ness of a politician who has just declared his candidacy for president.

“You sure?” Every nerve in me is like a candle wick, on fire and burning down the line.

She squares her shoulders, the ear buds dropping, her pony tail bouncing slightly. “Yes. I trust you.” Looking around the room, she takes the chance, stepping into my space. My heat.

My body.

Her hands go to the nape of my neck as she leans in, hot breath against my jaw, and whispers, “I trust you. I know that now. Nothing you do could make me doubt you.
Nothing
.”

I go cold.

All these years I’ve chased her trust. The relentless pursuit of control over my body, my space, my work, my reputation, has culminated in this moment. I’ve served in combat, killed people, saved lives, nursed wounds, and put my own broken hull of a body and soul back together with duct tape and grit.

The moment I’ve been waiting for is now.

And all I can do is feel a massive wave of guilt.

Because the man Lindsay finally trusts isn’t the person she thinks I am.

Which means she’s trusting a lie.

Marshall walks in, gives us a disgusted look, and addresses Lindsay as she pulls out of my arms and retrieves her coffee.

“Your father needs you for a short briefing.”

“I’m about to go for a run.”

“It’ll have to wait.”

“You don’t control my schedule,” she announces, gulping down the rest of the coffee.

She flounces out of the room like it’s an Olympic event and she’s a gold medalist in Condescension, pointedly going outside for a run.

Leaving me shredded.

“
D
rew
! Good to see you, though the circumstances sound intense.” Dr. Salma Diamante’s office is California Fresh, with turquoise walls, creamy sandy-colored carpets, and seashell-themed design elements conveying the feel of the beach. It’s serene, stark --

And all too familiar.

“Dr. Diamante.” I sit in my normal spot. Habit. You spend nearly two years coming for once-a-week sessions and you pick a spot that’s safe. You pick the same damn seat every week because that’s one less decision you have to make.

When your mind is like Swiss cheese at the center of a napalm tornado, the less complexity, the better.

“You booked a two-hour session, I see,” she comments, eyes intent, studying me calmly. Her body language is relaxed.

She has all the time in the world.

Good. She’ll need it for my problem.

“Yes. Figured I’d get it all out of the way in two hours and then I won’t have to come back.”

She doesn’t laugh.

Instead, she takes a deep breath, her way of controlling her responses. Kind eyes meet mine. They’re the color of deep brown, the shade a mixture like German Shepherd’s fur, reddish-gold flickers along the edges. Salma is my mother’s age, but tall and thin. If she were a teenager, I’d call her lanky.

She’s in her fifties, so I won’t.

Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, streaked with gray here and there. No makeup. No manicure. I know very little about her. Does she have kids? Grandkids? A husband?

Hell, a wife?

Don’t know. I came here for more than a hundred sessions and all the information is a one-way street.

That’s the point of therapy, though.

Right?

“Drew.” My name rings out in the small room. A seagull makes a strangled sound outside the window. “Drew, why don’t you start with the newspaper?”

“The newspaper?” I repeat dumbly.

She nudges her chin toward the coffee table.

Huh.

I’m on the front page.

“You don’t have to guess, then,” I say with a sigh, shifting in the overstuffed chair. There’s a box of tissues on an end table to my right, and another, larger box on the coffee table between us.

Not that I ever needed a tissue.

Two years, no crying.

They ought to give out awards for that.

“I don’t have all the details. Why don’t you tell me?”

I predict she’ll shift her position next, just enough to trigger some primal instinct in me to fill the silence.

She does.

I stay quiet.

I stay quiet until it eats away at me.

The anticipation, that is.

Not the anticipation of what’s coming next in this session, this room, this conversation.

But the burning anticipation of how close my own secrets are to being revealed to the world.

Lindsay’s not the only one with a past she wants to bury. But she trusts me now, and I can’t live with myself if I keep the truth from her.

That’s a more brutal form of betrayal.

“I’m back together with Lindsay.” The words aren’t the first ones I want to say. But they’ll have to do.

Salma doesn’t really react. Her eyes stay on mine, the skin underneath crinkling up, a non-reactive reaction.

The look encourages me to talk more.

“They let her come home. They made her stay at that mental institution for four years. Harry Bosworth called me and hired my company to be her security detail. Yesterday, Blaine appeared at Harry’s big announcement. It sent Lindsay into a tailspin.”

“Only Lindsay?”

I give a half shrug and say nothing.

“How does it feel? To be around her again?”

I can’t talk. The room fills with air, like a balloon being inflated. My eyeballs float in my head, my scalp rising up to meet the ceiling. My fists close and my thighs tense.

I have no control over my body’s reaction to Salma’s question.

“Great,” I rasp. It’s hard to choke out the word.

I tell the truth.

“You still love her.”

Notice how that’s not a question?

“Yes.”

“And when you saw Blaine near her?”

“I was prepared to kill him with my bare hands right there.”

She looks at the newspaper. “You showed remarkable restraint, then.”

“I should get a medal.”

She gives me a somber smile. “You have quite a few already, Drew. Do you need more?”

I can’t really react to that. So I don’t.

She breaks the silence.

“You punched him.”

“Yes.”

“Wanted to hurt him.”

“Yes.”

“For revenge.”

“Yes.”

“Who were you avenging?”

“What?” My brow tightens.

“You or Lindsay?”

The feeling that the room is growing extends, the walls stretching like taffy, the floor dropping into a pit, the space dark and blindingly white at the same time.

I know what she’s really asking.

“Both of us.”

“The unfairness of the sexual assault would make any person experience a triggering episode, Drew, upon seeing their attacker.”

My lips are numb.

“But the level of sexual assault that
you
experienced four years ago from those three men, combined with your combat experiences, make your encounter with Blaine all the more traumatic.”

She said it.

It’s out there.

I haven’t told anyone other than Salma. Emergency room doctors, my parents, my sister, and probably some NSA officers know what those bastards did to me that night.

And that’s
it
.

Salma blinks rapidly. It’s a sign she’s trying to approach me carefully. Finally, she asks, “Lindsay still doesn’t know the full truth from four years ago?”

“No.”

I can say that loud and clear.

Because the word is screaming like a bass drum in my head.
No. No. No. No. No.

NO.

This is the part where I admit I’m a hypocrite. I’m a Grade-A bastard. I hold Lindsay to a double standard. Where I have one set of rules for the rest of the world and a very different set for me.

I do.

I know I do.

Because I want Lindsay to confess to me and trust in me and lean on me and let me protect her and love her.

But I’m a liar.

I lie to her every day, every second, every breath.

Every kiss.

Salma shifts her weight again, blinking slowly, just waiting. The first seven sessions we had together, years ago, involved nothing but silence.

Mine and hers.

It took seven hours for me to realize she wasn’t going away. That she wouldn’t judge.

Didn’t help that I had no choice. My commanding officer threatened me if I didn’t go to therapy.

For seven sessions I stared at any object in the room and tried to ignore the screaming in my veins.

And on the eighth hour, I broke. I gave in.

I talked.

And didn’t stop talking for nearly a hundred sessions.

“How do you feel about that, Drew?”

Ah, there it is. That old chestnut.
How do you feel about that, Drew?
Salma has asked me that countless times, and I’ve answered it, mostly with the truth.
Mostly
. Sometimes I lie at first, but the truth eventually wiggles its way in.

Now? Not so sure what’s about to come out of me.

“I feel like Lindsay’s safety is my priority. She’s struggling enough with her own baggage from four years ago. I don’t need to add mine to the load.”

“You are very protective of her.”

“Of course I am. There’s no way those assholes are hurting her again.”

“Is there a serious chance of that happening?”

“Yes,” I bark, looking away. I rub one eye, then sigh. “They’re directly threatening her with text messages and covert communications.”

Her eyebrows arch. “I see. Including the picture of you that you mentioned in your voice mail.”

“I can’t tell her.” I plant my elbows on my knees and rake my hair with both sets of fingers, head down, fighting nausea. “Not yet.”

Not ever.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Does the difference matter?”

“You tell me, Drew.” She smooths her hands over her skirt, making it cover her knees, and leans forward, elbows on her thigh bones. The move is slick and designed to be unobtrusive, but for some reason it reminds me of Lindsay.

Everything reminds me of Lindsay.

“Can’t. Won’t. Both. Look, Salma, if I try to tell her what happened to me that night, she’ll – we’ll – I – damn it.” I feel this getting away from me. My hand rips through my hair. It’s shaking so hard I feel my teeth chatter.

She waits me out.

“It’ll complicate everything,” I finally choke out.

“The truth usually does. And then it simplifies.”

I’m losing it. I’m losing it and
fast
. Blood that normally pulses through me at a steady pace is roaring in fits and starts, making my chest heave and sputter. All that skin covering muscle and bone feels like it’s floating in outer space, like gravity stopped working.

The world telescopes and pinpricks, then it expands and widens until I’m living in a funhouse mirror.

And I’m the clown.

“Drew,” Salma says. “The longer you wait, the harder this will be. I understand your concerns for Lindsay’s mental health, but they wouldn’t have brought her home from the facility she was in if they didn’t think she was emotionally strong enough to handle whatever the world throws at her.”

Salma has no idea how much that is.

“I -- ”

“And you deserve to clear the air. To own your experience. Until you can talk with her, I’m not sure you’re going to be able to move on.” She’s using shorthand. We don’t have to go through all the layers of the past because Salma and I have processed what happened. Jargon and shortcuts mean we can get to the heart of the matter fast.

Too
fast.

“Move on from what? Lindsay?”

“Move on from your victimhood.”

“I hate that word. Victim. Let’s use the word
survivor
.”

Warrior.

She nods slowly. “It’s a better word. It is. But you were a victim before you were a survivor, and we need to honor that phase.”

Victim.

My fingers dig into the arms of the chair I’m in. The pain radiates into my knuckles and I welcome it. Fuck. It was a mistake to come here. I don’t have time to dig up my past.

My future is in jeopardy.

And Lindsay’s present is nothing
but
danger.

“I shouldn’t be here.” I feel a trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck. My underarms are soaked, like I’ve run a 10K.

“Drew.
Drew
.” Salma says my name firmly. “We don’t have to talk about anything. Not at all.”

She goes silent.

My heart beats. And beats. And
beats
, each thump for Lindsay.

Who is at home now, confused, being watched by whoever Paulson assigned to her, all my texts to her unanswered since I saw her yesterday morning in the kitchen. Who knows what Harry has her security team doing now. I know they’ve shut me out. That much is certain.

She slipped one through to me somehow, on Jane’s phone.

It just says,
Shore. Tonight. Eight.

Clarity hits me between the eyes, the feeling so intense it’s tangible. I pinch the bridge of my nose as if a mosquito just stung me.

“No. I do have to talk. I’m here because even I know this is destabilizing. I love Lindsay more than life itself and I’m afraid I’m fucking this up already.”

She glances at the newspaper. “I see.”

“That punch got me fired. Harry Bosworth took me off the case protecting Lindsay. We were just getting closer again,” I say, my voice filled with regret.

“Intimately close?” Her voice is so neutral she might as well be screaming. The dichotomy makes no sense, but nothing makes sense right now.

“Yes.”

“And how was that?”

I shoot her a speculative look. “I’m not a kiss-and-tell kind of guy.”

She laughs, the sound genuine. I’ve surprised her. “I’m not looking for lurid details, Drew. I’m asking about your psychological health.”

“What does sex have to do with that?”

Her turn to give me an incredulous look.

My laugh surprises me. It’s deep and rough, and sounds like it’s coming from outside my body. “Sex was good. Great, actually. Especially when she doesn’t steal my gun afterwards.”

Peering intently, Salma asks, “Is that a euphemism for something sexual?”

“I wish.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“It’s a long story.”

“You booked two hours.” Her comment comes with a small smile.

I give her one back and cross my arms over my chest. I’m playing games. I shouldn’t. The mess with Lindsay is a tornado filled with flaming pieces of my soul, my career, my life. All of it spirals, pushed by forces beyond my control. I hate it.

I hate not being in charge.

But I’m here because it’s the right place for me to be. Paulson nudged me, and being fired was all I needed to call and get in with Salma.

I’m here.

I should be productive with my time.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important,” I start.

“Of course. Reconnecting with Lindsay is important.”

“And destabilizing,” I add.

“You’ve used that word twice now,” Salma notes.

I shrug. “You introduced me to it. It’s a good word. Fits how I feel.”

She nods and stays silent.

“Four years ago,” I start, my mouth going dry. I cough, clearing it. “Those bastards drugged me. Made me watch. And then...”

I close my eyes.

It’s like the last four years didn’t happen. I’m back in that room, at that party in a rented beach house. We were all buddies from high school. Blaine, John and Stellan had been on the lacrosse team with me. I’d known them since middle school. Wasn’t a fan of Blaine and John, but they were okay. Good for partying and having fun. Lindsay was with Tara, Mandy, and Jenna, and Jane was there, shy, against one wall in her own little category. Alcohol flowed.

I was graduating from West Point in a few weeks, home for some family event. The Saturday night party was a fluke. Lindsay’s dad was running for re-election to the U.S. senate, and earlier that day he’d talked to me about my future. Said he could help me get in with the Secret Service.