A Harmless Little Ruse (Harmless #2) (6 page)

“Drew! You remember Blaine, don’t you?” I can’t read Harry right now. He’s looking at me, but I might as well be looking right back at a white wall. “He’s an up-and-coming state representative who’s making a play for my old House seat.”

I nod curtly at Blaine, who gives me a smirk. “Maisri,” is all I say. The less spoken, the better. The guy who gives as little as possible is the one who wins.

These scarves already took damn near everything from me four years ago.

They don’t get another drop from me.

“Foster.” His eyes don’t even meet mine.

Lindsay keeps calling me a coward, but the real one is right here.

My grin widens. “Good to run into you.”

His head jerks up and this time, I realize why he won’t look at me.

He’s fucking terrified.

Adrenaline shoots through me like a line of napalm set on fire.

“Actually, I was hoping to have a word with you,” I say, pretending to be chummy, working my throat like it doesn’t have an elephant in it.

The fear in his eyes disappears as if someone has programmed him, and his circuits have been rewired. His eyes light up as if he’s excited. Stoked.

Eager.

“Really? For old times’ sake?”

“Maisri has the backing of Nolan Corning,” Harry explains, as if I don’t know, his eyebrows going up with fake admiration. Those eyes are calculating, just like Lindsay’s. “On the fast track. Twenty or thirty years from now, you could be in the White House,” he says to Blaine, who doesn’t even bother with false modesty.

“From your mouth to the voters’ ears,” Blaine answers with a grin.

A photographer snaps pictures. Harry grabs Blaine’s hand and turns at an artful angle, controlling the picture. Image shaping is everything.

“You high school buddies go at it. I have more flesh to press,” the senator says, clapping Blaine on the shoulder in that collegial way men in power have.

So do I.

With my knuckles.

“Tell Corning I said
hi
,” Harry calls over his shoulder to Blaine.

A white rage I haven’t felt since combat back in Afghanistan fills me. It’s a hyper-energy, so strong I can barely control it, so addictive I want to feel it forever. Unnerving and maddening, it has a will of its own, taking over, hijacking me.

In combat, it’s my greatest asset other than my weapon.

As a security specialist, it’s like a nuclear bomb. A great deterrent if you don’t actually unleash it into the world.

“What the hell do you have to say to me?” Blaine hisses. “We have nothing to talk about. Ever.”

I nod toward the dead zone Gentian identified.

“Over here. Away from prying ears. Some things are better kept private, right?”

He makes a sour face. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

“You keep threatening Lindsay and you’re a dead man,” I say quietly, with a smile, as I reach for his shoulder and clap him on the back.

He looks like he’s choking on a snake.

I know how this works. The video cameras don’t have sound. If I’m careful, I can make it look like this is just a conversation between two old buddies, meeting by coincidence. The rising political star running into the owner of a private security company. The California state representative having a chat with the Purple Heart recipient.

The presidential candidate’s decorated war hero security detail shooting the shit with his old friend.

At least, I have to make it look like that until I can get him out of camera range.

“You’re threatening me?” He moves his shoulder away, then looks up, searching for a camera.

I grin. We’re a handful of steps away from the labor law sign.

“I’m warning you.” He hasn’t denied the threat to Lindsay. My white rage turns red. Sonofabitch.

“It goes both ways.”

“You can’t prove a fucking thing.”

A gong goes off in my head, like someone took the biggest felt-covered mallet in the world and rang the sun.

“You sick motherfucker,” I growl. “You don’t even deny it.”

His turn to give me a distorted grin. “Why would I deny anything to you, Drew? You’re next.”

Three feet. We’re three fucking feet from the dead zone when I hear --

“Drew? You can’t just leave me in a hot car to bake and – ” Her voice cracks, going subsonic. “Oh my God. Oh my God, no. You weren’t kidding. No, no...”

We both turn, Blaine moving in slo-mo, my red rage making every part of the hallway look like I’m on a fast train through a city of lights, all the white flying past me in pinpricks turned to lines.

One step.

Two steps.

I pivot, inserting myself between Blaine and Lindsay, acting as the shield I could never be on that night four years ago.

I act.

I do.

I am.

I
will
.

“Lindsay,” Blaine says, his voice low with pleasure, moving toward her.

The sound of her name coming out of his mouth breaks me.

My fist hits his face with a satisfying crunch as the fury drives me forward, like a spirit that inhabits my body and takes over. It feels good. Right. Powerful, my body going into overdrive as I do exactly what I need to do in this monumental moment. Four years.

Four years.

He moves back, his nose bloodied, eyes wild with some mix of confusion and outrage, his mouth opening to say something, but I fill those lips with my fist, turning this punch into my final blow, the one that has to be enough for four years ago.

And yet I have no logic, no rationality, no strategic purpose as my rat brain kicks in and does the job. The second punch makes my thumb joint slip between his teeth, saliva on my hand, the feel of the corner of his mouth tearing a brutal victory.

Lindsay’s breath on my ear, her small hands pulling on my shoulders, snap me out of it.

“Drew! You’re on camera!”

“You’re the dead man now, Foster,” Blaine hisses through a mouthful of blood. His eyes are unfocused. He’s not looking up. If he looks at Lindsay, so much as glances her way, I’ll crush his head with one targeted kick.

“Drew! Stop! You’re going to be arrested. He’s not worth it.”

That makes Blaine look up.

“You sick piece of shit,” she says. Her calf pulls back like she’s about to kick him.

A swarm of people come running down the hallway to my back. I hear the footsteps. Lindsay jumps out of the way, runs to the loading dock door behind Blaine, and opens it. I have no idea what she’s doing, and reach for her, wanting her behind me so I can protect her from Blaine, and then someone’s got my arms snapped behind me in a locked grip.

“Representative! What happened?”

“Someone assaulted the representative!” Lindsay gasps, pointing to the now-open door. “He went that way!”

My arms drop instantly, but I feel the heat of the security guy behind me, waiting for orders from Blaine.

“She’s ly -- ” Blaine gives me a shrewd look, then glances at the ceiling. His eyes float behind my shoulder. “Review the video.”

“There isn’t any here, sir. We lost visual on you, then heard shouts.”

Blaine looks at me in disgust, eyes narrowed.

“You’re wasting time!” Lindsay shrieks, pointing. “I witnessed the whole thing! Drew was protecting Representative Maisri and tried to punch the attacker, but he fled. All three men were just a pile of people. I was on my way to the restroom and found them and started calling for help!” Her eyes float to the women’s restroom two doors down.

Every second she calculates, every comment she makes, gives the story credence. Nice touch using his title.

My own guys appear, five of them, Gentian among them.

“Sir?” he asks, eyes cold, assessing the situation, knowing damn well what I just did.

“We need medical attention for Representative Maisri.” I look at him. “I’m sorry for the accident. I was trying to hit the target.”

Trying my damnedest.

Blaine gives me a rueful look as one of the members of his security detail hands him a handkerchief for the blood. Two medics appear, carrying a large first aid kit. “My team will investigate this.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding. Lindsay’s behind me, gushing out lie after lie to a group of security guys who listen intently. She’s got them wrapped around her little finger, spinning a story about events that never, ever happened.

Three of Blaine’s security team are already out the door, chasing an assailant who doesn’t exist.

“Oh, oh!” Lindsay says, grabbing Gentian’s arm. He braces her. “I’m – it’s so warm in here. I’m feeling faint,” she says, her voice tinny and thin. She used to faint sometimes...before.

Four years ago. When I knew who she was.

I have never met this version of Lindsay before.

She’s exciting as fuck and frighteningly calculating.

Gentian brings her to a seat. All the attention’s on her now, as handlers bring water bottles, one of the paramedics checking her pulse. Our eyes meet and she says in a weak voice, “Just get the man Drew tried to take care of!” with an impassioned plea worthy of an Oscar. “We just want to see Representative Maisri get the justice he deserves.” She lowers her head between her knees and sniffs.

“We’re taking care of that threat, sir,” I say nice and loud, so everyone can hear me.

Blaine just looks at me with eyes as hard as the barrel of my gun.

H
itting someone always involves paperwork
.

Gentian takes Lindsay back to The Grove with extra security and instructions that only he, or Paulson, is her core person. I have to stay at the event to wrap up the police report on the “attack” and to manage all the final issues that arise from running a company and being in charge of protection for Monica and Lindsay.

By midnight, I’m at my apartment’s security kiosk, the RFID chip on my car triggering the safety gate for the parking lot. Five minutes later, I’m nursing a swollen hand, a beer, and a renewed taste for blood.

I can’t stop reviewing those few minutes, over and over. Blaine always struck me as the weakest of the three, the follower, the guy who went along to be part of the crowd. It’s sickening, really.

Once I became an officer in charge of men like him, I realized they make great soldiers, but terrible strategists. Tell them what to do, stoke them up and make them think they’re part of something great, that their identity as part of the group is more important than any moral code outside the group, and you’re golden.

They’re yours to do whatever you command.

And while that’s great when your mission is good, when people like Blaine are controlled by someone whose sights are set on evil, these followers are the worst form of humanity. They’re the foot soldiers in concentration camps, the ones “just following orders.” They’re the people who support the bullies at the bus stop when kids get beaten. They’re the crowd of teasers on social media who encourage a kid to kill himself.

They are the tools of evil.

And without them, evil can’t thrive.

But they outnumber the good two to one.

Blaine is a follower. A foot soldier. A smart but pliable guy who puts external approval above doing the right thing.

That makes him dangerous.

But not as dangerous as whoever pulls his puppet strings.

All this philosophizing is a convenient excuse to avoid thinking about my feelings for Lindsay. Sympathy for what she’s going through. Passion for the minutes she was in my lap. Terror for the moments when those balloons and flowers came into the picture.

Arousal for the memory of her taste in my mouth.

Anger for the fact that she still doesn’t trust me.

By my second beer, I’m loose enough to go take a shower, wash off the shit of the day, maybe start to clear my head. My apartment is basic, furnished mostly from leftover furniture from my parents’ home. We sold it, my sister and I, after they died. Well,
she
sold it. I couldn’t be here, too busy on combat missions, too crazed to come back home for more than the funeral.

The leather recliner dad loved is my favorite. I rented an apartment on the ocean, with a deck, and I plunk down into the chair, looking over the water through my open patio door. If I sit on the deck, the next-door neighbor will invite me over to share a pitcher of margaritas, and I don’t want that.

You need to spend a lot of time alone when you do what I do for a living.

The alone time recharges my batteries. More than that, it helps make me fit for human company again.

You can’t kill people in an effort to protect and not have it change your soul.

Sometimes, the soul needs beer and pizza to even think about recovering.

After a minute of ocean-staring time, I realize it’s not working. Solace isn’t helping. All I can think about is Lindsay. Being intimate with her. Talking and bantering with her. Protecting her.

Kissing her.

Am I crazy to think that we have a chance? I don’t think so. There’s no reason we can’t overcome the wounds. The scars will always be there, a map that reminds us of the past, but we have room in our lives to make new memories. Forge new commitments. Create a stronger bond.

A perfect love between two imperfect people.

I know she wants me as much as I want her. I know she’s scared and in reactive mode, wavering between fury and agreement.

Getting her to trust me is my actual mission, I see.

A wave crashes hard against the shore and I realize we’re like the tides. An invisible force pulls us toward and away, close then far, the back and forth inevitable.

An ache in my bones, my biceps, my heart, my cock turns emotional and physical at the same time, making me vibrate for her. I can’t do this. I can’t not be with her.

I rub my face with my palms and wonder if I can get away with going back to The Grove to see her tonight. Under what pretense?

And will she care?

Tap tap tap.

I fly up, gun in hand, pointed at my front door, finger on the trigger. No one visits me. No one. Ever. I’ve trained the next-door neighbor not to knock on my door. She knows. If I’m on the deck, I’m fair game.

Otherwise, stay the hell away.

“Foster? It’s Paulson.”

Shit.

“What the fuck, Mark? You know to call first.”

“I did. Went to voicemail.”

“Something wrong with Lindsay?” My blood sends a plume of heat through me.

“She’s fine.”

The heat doesn’t recede.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you’re
not
fine.”

I groan.

“Can we talk without the fucking door between us? Don’t you have any manners, Drew?”

I holster my weapon and sigh, looking at the half-empty pizza plate and remaining beers in the six-pack.

“Left them all in Afghanistan,” I mutter as I unlock the door and open it to find Mr. Blond DEA Dude standing there in surfing shorts and a t-shirt, holding a six-pack.

“Don’t you have a woman warming your bed right now, Paulson? Why the fuck are you bothering me?”

“Carrie’s fine. Great, in fact. But she’s having some girl’s weekend with her best friend.”

“How’s Amy doing?”

“Fine. Rehab’s helping her with the new arm. But I don’t want to talk about the past. Let’s talk about today.”

“No.”

“Try a different answer.”

“Fuck, no.”

“You were a suckass foot soldier.”

“I was never a foot soldier.”

“You take orders for shit.”

“I give orders, Paulson.”

“So now it’s Paulson? We’re off duty.”

“I’m never off duty.”

“And that’s why I’m here.” He plunks the six-pack down, takes one of mine, and opens it with his teeth. “Talk. You rolled a state representative today. I should be bailing you out of jail.”

“I know.”

“Dead zone in the video surveillance, huh?”

“Lindsay came up with the assailant story on her own. Even set it up by opening the loading dock door and making it look like the guy got away.”

“Jesus. She want a job at the CIA?”

“She could run the fucking agency.”

I laugh as he hands me another beer. Six is my limit.

Maybe seven tonight.

“I’m not even going to ask why you snapped. That’s obvious. But damn, Drew. That was one calculated snap.”

“Yep.”

“And you jeopardized your entire business for it.”

I say nothing.

“I understand the vendetta.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Then help me understand.”

“Why?”

He gives me a look made of granite.

“You really have to ask that? I’m not answering with a list, Drew. I’m asking because watching you throw away everything you’ve built because you can’t keep your fists by your side in the face of an enemy isn’t you.”

Huh. Word got around fast. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Now you sound like some eighteen-year-old recruit who doesn’t know the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground.”

Because sometimes it feels like I don’t.

“Blaine was one of the three attackers.”

“I got that loud and clear. Knew that already.” He takes a swig of beer and peers at me. “But you’re a better strategist.”

“I got him in a dead zone.”

“That’s still sloppy. You know better.”

“My temper got the best of me.”

“Not good enough, Drew. Still doesn’t explain it. I’ve watched you over the years. You came to Afghanistan like a hollowed-out robot, with a cold, calculating intelligence that masked a rage I’ve never seen in anyone other than shell-shocked guys with months of IED evasion under their belts. You were fucking scary when we met.
Eager
scary. And with some taming, that mind of yours became our best weapon. You’re smarter than this.”

I chug the rest of my beer, toss the empty in my recycling container, and reach into the cabinet for reinforcements, finding a bottle of Scotch from my parent’s house. I don’t drink hard liquor.

I do now.

“It’s personal.”

“More than personal.”

We bathe in the silence between us. The only sound is the trickle of amber fluid from the bottle into a shot glass. I pour two and shove one at him. He holds up a palm.

“No way. I need to get back to Carrie tonight in one piece. Beer’s good for me.”

I slam back one shot. “Liquid courage.”

“You need courage to talk?” Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. “This must be bad.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and starts tapping on the screen.

“Who you texting?” The room is a warm cocoon suddenly, and Mark is my best friend.

“Carrie. Looks like I need to stay here after all.”

“No. Go back to your woman. She’s waiting in your bed. Go make love and have fun. Smell her neck. Run your hands up her thighs and open them like she’s a honeycomb and -- ”

Mark grabs my arm with more force than he has any right to use. “Don’t talk about Carrie that way.”

“Wasn’t talking about Carrie.”

His grip softens.

“This is about Lindsay,” he says under his breath.

“It’s always about Lindsay,” I say, like someone’s ripped my vocal cords in two. “
Always.
But what I did to Blaine today was as much about me as it was about her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The words are on the tip of my increasingly numb tongue. I want to say them.
Need
to say them. I’ve only ever spilled my guts to one person, and she has a Ph.D. and an M.D. after her name and can write a prescription to help me with the obliteration.

My hands shake as I pour a second shot.

“It means I’m a fucking fool.”

He puts his hand on mine and carefully removes the shot glass from me with a look that says
enough
. “That was established long ago.”

“Then my foolishness expands.” The word
foolishness
sounds slurred.

“Man, I’ve watched you get shitfaced before. After we found that bombed-out village with the kids in the school building...” His voice trails off and he gets the thousand-mile stare I know all too well, except right now, I don’t give a fuck about anything.

I tear off onto my deck, where a giggle greets me.

“Drew!” It’s Tiffany, my fifty-something cougar neighbor who is wearing a gold bikini at midnight, with a bucket of makeup on her face and a huge pitcher of margaritas on her table. She’s smoking a clove cigarette. A gust of wind blows hard just as Mark stomps after me, coming up short when he realizes she’s here.

“Oh!” she purrs. “Who’s your friend?” Tiffany stands.

She’s wearing high heels. Gold ones. They match the string bikini. For a woman my mother’s age, she’s in great shape.

But definitely not my type.

Mark does that thing with his voice that guys do when they’re surprised, but are trying to hide it.

“I’m Tiffany!” she chirps, shuffling over on stilettos and holding out her perfectly manicured hand.

“Mark. Hi.”

“Hi there,” she says back, giving me a wide-eyed glance. “Drew! You look like a bear ate you and spat you back out.”

Mark’s lip twitches as he tries not to laugh.

I have to say, normally Tiffany is a fun neighbor to kick back with and have a few drinks, but she’s a stereotype of a stereotype.

Tonight, though, the edges of the world are fuzzy and my body’s full of adrenaline.

She’s still not my type, but that pitcher of margaritas is looking damn fine.

“Been a long day,” I say, rubbing my stubbled chin with my hand, then wincing. The knuckles ache from connecting with Blaine’s facial bones.

I grin at the memory.

“That’s better!” Tiffany giggles. “You look so fierce when you frown!”

“So fierce,” Mark mutters.

I glare at him.

“Like that!” Tiffany gushes.

“Smile, Drew,” Mark says with a laugh. His eyes dart from me to Tiffany, asking a pretty big question without saying a word. I shake my head
no
imperceptibly, except he catches it.

She doesn’t.

“Drew and I hang out all the time. You might call us pitcher buddies!” She shuffles into her apartment suddenly.

“You’re nailing her?” Mark asks under his breath as I grab his beer and finish it off. Suddenly, our serious conversation from before is so boring.

A door slams shut inside me.

Good. Let the demons pound on it from the inside. I’m done.

“No. She wishes.”

“She’s, um...”

“Well preserved.”

“You always were the one with tact.”

“If I’m tactful, you’re Miss Manners.”

He guffaws, the sound carrying on the blast of wind that pushes against my t-shirt, making me realize I’m sweating. One more shot and I’m close to snoozing out. I need to hold off.

I shouldn’t care.

An image of Lindsay in bed flashes through my blood, hot and coursing through me at a million miles an hour. Naked, wrapped in my arms, her sweet skin against me.

Hard. I’m hard in seconds. This day feels like emotional ping pong.

At the Olympics.

Tiffany re-appears, carrying a third glass, and she pours enormous drinks for the three of us, waving Mark and me over. “Come on! No one wants to drink alone. Especially with such intriguing men just a few feet away. Indulge me?” She gives us a duck face pout.

Mark shrugs and says, “Why not?”

I join them. As I sip my drink, I know I’ll regret it in the morning, but I don’t care.

I stopped caring the minute Lindsay disappeared with Gentian, who was following my orders, and didn’t say another word to me.