Hold My Heart (28 page)

Mustering the last shred of courage I have left, I take one last leap. “I just had something to say, and I just wanted to—”

“Tommy?” a female voice calls from his bedroom, and within seconds, she appears. To add insult to injury, she's tall, gorgeous, blonde, and wearing nothing but one of Tommy's shirts, probably the one he wore to the club he picked her up in last night.

Finally, I really look around. There’s a dress among the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, as well as high heels. How did I not see that before? Some things never change. Suddenly, I'm angry with myself for being such an idiot, to open myself up again so he could reject me—again. I shake my head in disgust. I make myself sick. God, I've been such a fool.

“This is—” Tommy starts as if talking to himself. Shaking his head, he brings his hands to his head.

My throat constricts with grief. I need to leave. Now. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him see me fall apart.

I straighten up my shoulders using what’s left of my dignity. “I'm sorry I bothered you, Colton, it won't happen again.” My voice is void and even, trying to mask the pain killing me inside.

He just shakes his head and starts laughing like this is all a joke. The poor blonde is confused as hell as she looks from me to Tommy.

“I was just leaving, sorry for the interruption,” I say to the blonde as I turn on my heel and bolt for the door.

Tommy is just standing there laughing. He's laughing like a madman, muttering to himself. I think I'm too late. He's completely lost his mind.

قلب

I rush out of his apartment with the same intensity I rushed in, except my feelings are the complete opposite. Where I was filled with hope, now I just feel despair. The realization that our relationship meant more to me than it did to him has completely broken me, possibly beyond repair. All this time, I’ve been so grateful to have him in my life, never imagining my world without him. To know he doesn’t feel the same makes me want to run far and fast, until my legs give out and I can’t go on anymore. I’m gone for a few months, he has a fit, he’s over it, and moves on. Here I was, stuck seventy years in the past and all I could think of was him. Of solving our case. Of getting back to him.

Now I’m back and I’ve lost my best friend, my partner, and the one man I thought I could trust implicitly with my heart, body, and soul.

After all I’ve been through, if there was any doubt left in my mind that I was cursed, well, I’d say today is proof positive that I truly am.

By the time I reach Chris’s car, I’ve managed to pull myself together. I open the passenger door and strap myself in.

“Please take me home.” My voice is numb, as is the rest of me. Chris looks over my shoulder behind me, but there’s no one there.

“He’s fine. Just drive me home.” One look at me and Chris doesn’t ask. She drives me back to my apartment in silence.

Chapter 33

Tommy

“Tommy?” The blonde keeps calling my name.

You fucking kidding me? My life just went from clusterfuck to absolute shitstorm in zero-point-two seconds, and she’s still here?

“Go home,” I mutter, because at the moment, I can’t deal.

Lil. Was. Here. Why did she come? Fuck!

I fall on my couch and rest my head in my hands, but the blonde just walks over to me. If she so much as puts a hand on me I’m going to lose it.

“Are you okay?” She reaches for me. I don’t even remember her damn name. Jesus Christ. I hit bottom and kept right on going.

“
Go home
!” I yell at the top of my lungs, and she jumps out of her skin, horrified.

She backs away like I’m turning into a werewolf or something, snatches her clothes, and runs to the bathroom. She slams the door and I don’t fucking care.

Lil was here. She came back. She came back and I let her down again. I start laughing hysterically once more, because I don’t know which is worse: the fact that she thinks I don’t care, or the fact she has no idea I left for her sake.

Two minutes later, the blonde blows past me heading for the door, screaming “You asshole!” at me as she slams my front door.

“Take a number.” I mutter, and can’t stop laughing. It’s official: I’ve gone mental.

I
am
an asshole. That’s what Lil has told me a thousand times, so much so I think she began using it as a term of endearment. I should have never opened the front door. I need to start checking the damn peephole. Did she see my tattoo? I hope not.

She’s probably been to her apartment already and saw the damage I left. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was that last image of her that morning: her little upturned nose red from the cold, her inquisitive whiskey eyes. Those beautiful compassionate eyes staring up at me while she adjusted her cap over my ears. Her red lip curling slightly at the corner as she suppressed the small smile trying to escape, all while reassuring me she’d be there when I got back.

I sat in her apartment for weeks waiting for her.

I would still be waiting if it weren’t for Chris making me leave, which was good because Lil would have found a corpse on her floor, facing the door. That’s when I officially lost whatever shit I had left. The four-week anniversary of that morning she went into those fields. The anniversary of the morning I abandoned her out there.

I sat there going through scenarios and coming to the same conclusion. Whatever happened to her was completely and utterly my fault. I should have stayed on the scene. There’s no doubt in my mind that had I stayed there, she would have never gone missing.

The thought that she was missing was unbearable. The realization that whatever horrible or despicable things were happening to her were my fault for not being there was too much to bear. I thought about putting that gun in my mouth, and many times, I did.

But I never pulled the trigger.

The only reason I didn’t do it was Lil. The same reason I didn’t touch her room when I lost my shit that day. That one sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she would be back someday. I just couldn’t erase her like everyone else. She’s part of me, permanently inked on my skin right above my heart forever.

After my all-time colossal meltdown, Teague pulled me into his office and gave me the options. Either get fired or go to counseling and stay with the FBI to be reassigned a new partner. Like Lil could be replaced.

I left his office, called my buddy Marcus with the DEA, and he hooked me up with his DEA task force at the Chicago office. One meeting with them, and that was it. They were happy to have me. So, I went to Teague and told him to go fuck himself if he ever thought I could go back to that office and sit there, pretending Lily didn’t exist.

Nobody gets it. Life without Lil has been like living in some alternate universe where I’m the Tommy Colton my father always told me I was. The worthless piece of shit he believed me to be, and by God, I’ve lived to that reputation these last months.

The only beautiful thing in my life was Lil. Without her, there’s no me. There’s just this guy that gets up, goes to work, eats, fucks, and sleeps. I’ve done one hell of a job debasing myself since I lost her. Way to go, Colton. I can’t fucking do this again; I can’t grieve her again.

“Shit!” I grab the coffee table and flip it over, spilling putrid leftovers all over the carpet.

The news of her return completely blindsided me. One morning, I walked into work and Marcus pulled me aside and told me they found her in that damn field in Bloomingfield. I couldn’t believe it. I had to see her with my own eyes.

When I got to the hospital, I ran into Chris and she was kind enough to let me see her. I couldn’t wait to talk to her, tell her how much I missed her, and hoped that she’d forgive me. But she wasn’t awake. She had been stabbed and was fighting for her life.

Stabbed
.

Chris gave me the lowdown: she was lying in the same field
I left her in
, all alone, with a knife sticking from her gut, next to this fucker for hours.
For fucking hours
. She almost died because of me.

Chris said that after a thorough examination it was determined she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She didn’t show signs of malnourishment, and there were no other injuries besides the stab wound. She went on spewing something about a Neurologist, brain damage, normal activity, but all I did was stare at Lil. She looked so fragile and weak. Her brown hair was losing the highlights, her curls spread on the pillow around her beautiful, pale face.

Seeing her lying there, I realized the truth. There was a reason she went missing the exact day I decided to grow a pair and confess to her my real feelings. It had to be all part of the grand master plan. The fucking puzzle marker, as Lil called it, was sending me a message loud and clear: stay the fuck away from her. She would be better off without me. I was holding her back. I’ve been holding her back for the last eight years.

That clinched it. I knew I had to stay away from her.

I figured when she woke up, she would ask about me and call me. I don’t know why, I didn’t think she’d go to the trouble of coming all the way up to my apartment. She always hated coming up here. But she came. She showed up and I pushed her away. None of this is her fault. The least I could have done was explain everything. Instead, I blamed her.

Her! God, I am the biggest piece of shit that ever lived. All I do is hurt her. I hope she stays away, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

Chapter 34

“So, which one, Beckinsale or Winslet?” Simms asks the guys.

I hate this waiting game. We wait around a lot. Wait for backup. Wait for terps. Wait for transport.

We’re close to finishing our second tour in Afghanistan, and I’m sick of the “Would

You Rather” game. They name two women with the same first name, then debate which one they would “do.”

Lord help me. I’m surrounded by idiots. Horny idiots that I’m responsible for. This morning, it’s poor Kate Winslet or Kate Beckinsale. They can go forever at this game, which is why I banned Alba vs. Biel. So far, they’ve been at this one for over two hours today. I bet we finish our tour and they still won’t agree on a winner.

“Winslet,” Martinez chimes in.

“Beckinsale,” Colton counters.

“Beckinsale? No way. Which Beckinsale? Underworld Beckinsale or Van Helsing Beckinsale?” Simms asks.

I’ve had it. “Oh for Christ’s sake, this is so damn pointless,” I yell, “like any of you has a fucking shot at either!”

My men all turn to me in astonishment, like I just grew an extra head.

“Sorry, guys, this gets old,” I mutter under my breath. Surprisingly, one of the new kids, Jackson, speaks up.

“It’s all good LT, you’re, well, you know,” he motions up and down toward me, “so I guess it’s boring to listen.”

My men turn to poor Jackson and look at him like he’s the biggest dumbass in the battalion. I’m the only female in our platoon as well as their platoon leader and one of a handful of females in the whole Company.

“No, Jackson is right. I don’t get to play, and it’s not fair. So,” I pause, “I’ve got a great idea.”

I smirk, looking at Colton, and he shakes his head in an “uh oh, I know that look” gesture. My squad stares attentively, wondering what I’m up to. I get up and face my men, mustering the most commanding tone I can, under the circumstances.

“Tom Cruise or Tom Hardy?” I pose the question to them.

They all groan in unison and I smile. Colton just chuckles.

“Who’s Hardy?” Jackson asks.

“The dude in
Black Hawk Down
,
Band of Brothers
?” one of the guys answers.

Colton is the first to chime in. He always has my back. This is our second tour together, along with Sergeant Martinez, so both men know me well enough to know when I’m jesting and when I mean business.

“Well, I’m not saying for me, but if I had to pick for you, LT, I’d say Hardy,” Colton says, assessing me.

“Really,” I say in a flat yet incredulous tone, narrowing my eyes at him in question. A smile escapes my lips. He smiles back. I’m wondering how he came to that conclusion, when I hear Jackson.

“No way, Sarge, for LT? Cruise. Definitely.”

“Cruise? What the fuck are you talking about, Jackson?” Simms chimes in, as the other guys begin to discuss which Tom would be good for me.

After a few minutes, they’re still at it. They are actually arguing. I hear, “She can kick Cruise’s ass,” and “Hardy? No fucking way would LT do a guy with tats.”

Smiling, I scan the road both directions. Two hours and no word from Explosive Ordinance Disposal up ahead. Since this road was deemed
unsafe
, our small recon convoy was ordered to stop and wait for EOD to clear the road. We’re heading back to base after gathering some Intel from a neighboring village. Hours of interviewing got us some info that can help our side, and now we’re ordered to sit tight and wait.

I told my guys to take cover in the shade beside the passenger side of the truck, away from the road, but not to wander too far. We’ve been trying coms periodically with the latest ETA, but EOD says they’re working on it. We are literally in the middle of a dirt road, with nothing but dirt and sand in every direction and just the outline of mountains far in the distance. We are in the open, wind blowing everywhere and the scorching sun beating down on us mercilessly like this war. Each of us is wearing about seventy pounds of gear, and every inch of our skin is covered up, except our faces.

We’re hot, we’re tired, and we’re coated in a fine powder that gets into everything—and I mean everything.

I can’t admit how much I care about these guys. As soon as I think that, I bury it deep. If I want to keep them alive, I need to do my job. I have such a great group of guys serving under me, starting with Tommy Colton. While the men are debating, I slowly approach Colton as he pushes his large frame away from the vehicle and meets me halfway.

“So, Hardy, huh?” I ask.

“Yeap,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“Can I ask why?” I say, eyeing him curiously.

“Does it matter? What matters is who you’d pick,” he says, voice low and deep, smiling down at me.

Suddenly I realize the guys have stopped their banter and are honed in on our conversation, apparently awaiting my response.

“Well, LT?” Jackson asks.

I assess each of them while I remain impassive. “Well what?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Sarge has a point. We can argue all day, but who would you pick, LT?” Simms is curious as well, and they all start chiming in, pleading with me to reveal my choice.

“All right already, settle down.” They stare at me anxiously as they await my response.

“It doesn’t matter, it’s not like I have a shot with either of them anyway.”

They complain and start their booing at my response while I laugh.

And that’s when I feel it.

The ground beneath my feet is vibrating; the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. I walk away from the guys, heading to the back of our vehicle and peering down the road behind us. Colton follows me.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” he whispers as he stops beside me. Humming starts at my feet, working its way up my body, like a bolt of energy.

“You feel that?” I whisper back.

Colton does a 360-degree perimeter check, his stance locking up as he prepares to engage. “Feel what? I don’t see anything.”

I don’t see anything either, but it’s palpable. It courses through my veins, accelerating my pulse as my adrenaline starts to churn. Instinct takes over and I turn to my men.

“Move out of the shade to the front of the vehicle!” I yell over their voices, still looking around the perimeter. Something is coming. I can feel it.

Moans and muttering protests rumble, along with sluggish movements.

“Quit bitching and double time it!” I bark over my shoulder. Glancing over at Colton, I don’t have to say a word. He knows me. He knows this is bad.

“You heard the LT. Move it!” Colton commands the men.

Not thirty seconds after Colton walks away yelling at the men lagging behind, tension creeps up my spine and a ringing pierces my left eardrum. I tilt my head to the left as air whizzes past my right ear. I spot a flash of sun glare down the road. It’s a vehicle, and sure as hell, it isn’t ours.

Then it clicks. They’re shooting at us. That’s what I felt—a bullet whizzing past my ear.

“Sarge!” I scream as I open fire—

A loud scream wakes me and I realize the scream came from my throat. I’m drenched in sweat. My breathing is so labored and I’m so agitated, I’m lightheaded. I’m hyperventilating. I need to get a grip and calm down. I need to take deep breaths.

It's been two
weeks since my impromptu visit to Tommy's place. What a colossal mistake of epic proportions that was. Sometimes I wish I never came back. This is worse than hell. I’ve lost everything.

After I rushed out of his apartment that day, Chris drove me back home. I kept it together as long as I could. I assured her I was fine, that I just needed to rest. She promised to call later and I thanked her again. The second the door closed behind her, I walked to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed, and I stayed there. I went from my bed to the bathroom, back to bed, to the kitchen, back to bed. For five days. I told Chris my wound was hurting and I felt tired, but it was a lie. I just couldn’t face reality.

I returned to work assigned to desk duty. I’ve been ordered to see the FBI shrink, and attend physical therapy. I’m moving a little slow for my taste, but I’m getting there. I’m glad to be back to work; I needed to get out of my head. I kept mulling things over, going over scenarios and what ifs. What if Tommy and I had slept together all those years ago? What if I had asked for a different assignment instead of Chicago? What if I had waited for him that day instead of going into that field alone?

Maybe deep down I always loved him, but didn’t want to admit it. Truth is, even though there was the occasional guy, none ever measured up to Tommy. Tommy was my constant. I never felt good enough about myself. I always had the need to prove something. Tommy’s support kept those thoughts at bay. He teased and joked, and made me feel good. He inspired me to be the best soldier and the best agent I could be. Without him, there is just no point. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.

I go through the motions every day. I’ve been back to work a week. It is pure torture. He’s everywhere I am. My apartment, the hall—even Mrs. N. brings his name up. She told me how he checked up on her while I was gone, and how worried he was about me. I try to smile, but I can’t. She says she knew I’d be back, that she never doubted it for a minute.

The few first days back to work were brutal. Two full days of questioning and briefings. Wayne’s DNA was a match to the DNA found on the last victim in New York and the two victims from Chicago. I had to write it up and close the case by myself. This was our case, and I was the only signature.

The case that broke us.

That day I went home and cried all night. I should have been happy that all my efforts to catch Wayne brought some kind of resolution, but all it did was make me mourn Tommy more. At least I was able to bring closure to the families.

This morning the nightmares are back.

I haven’t been to the gym since I returned. Even if I was allowed to work out, punching a bag won’t bring him back. Nothing will. I’ve thought about this a lot, and now more than ever I’m sure of what I need to do. I need to transfer out of Chicago. I’ve told no one but Chris. It upset her, but she understands why I have to do it.

Now back at the office, I barely talk to anyone. Tommy was the social one. I just come in, keep my head down, do my work, and go home.

This morning I feel Nelson’s gaze on me from the desk next to mine. I don’t even look up anymore. That’s where Tommy’s desk is. Well, was. It’s not his desk anymore.

“You okay, Harper?” Nelson asks. I barely glance up from my computer.

“I’m all right, still hurts a bit, but I think I can get back out in the field soon.”

“That’s not what I meant.” That gives me pause.
Uh oh
. Chris is starting to spill on him.

“You’re becoming a nag just like your wife, Nelson,” I answer, and the mention of Chris brings a huge grin to his face.

“Sorry, she’s contagious,” he says as he chuckles.

“Apparently.” Then I know. Chris and her big mouth. Damn married couples, it’s like they share a brain.

“She told you, didn’t she?” I’ve turned my chair around to face him. No one knows in the office, not even Teague. I look around to make sure no one is eavesdropping.

“Don’t worry, Harper, I won’t say anything,” he promises. “Also, I’m obligated to inform you that you are required to come to dinner tonight. Chris is worried because you won’t leave your apartment.” Nelson gives me a supplicatory stare—he knows he won’t be able to show his face at home if he can’t obtain my compliance.

This guy is six foot four, carries a gun, and he’s afraid of his wife. Then again, he’s married to Chris. I don’t blame him for being afraid.

“What do you call this?” I motion around to our office space. “
This
is leaving my apartment.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

He’s getting impatient. “This doesn’t count, this is work.”

“Yes, it counts. I can do this all day, Nelson.”

He resorts to begging at this point. “Please, Harper, I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Sorry, Agent Nelson, you’re on your own. Good luck, sir.”

He sighs in resignation. “Way to have my back.”

I glare at him. “You think
you
have it bad? You didn’t know her in college, Nelson, she was relentless.”

His expression changes as he pictures his wife in college, and it goes from wonder to one of desire. God, they’re gross.

“You remember what she used to wear? You have any pictures?” he asks with a dreamy look in his eye.

“You have issues, Nelson. Trust me. You don’t want to know.” I know he’s going to be in deep trouble tonight, so I make a mental note to silence my cell phone later.

“So,” he switches gears, “have you heard from Colton?”

Shit.
Why
.

“No.” My answer is short. I turn back to my computer and jump back into business. Hopefully, he’ll get the hint. He doesn’t.

“I was talking to some of my buddies over at the DEA and they tell me he’s doing really well.”