Ravaged River (Men of Mercy #6) (9 page)

“Your brother is inside. Need me to carry your bag for you?”

Nothing. Not a flicker of regret, longing or even lust. Just nothing. Hayden lifted her chin. Screw him, she was a James. Her family ate guys like him for breakfast.

Hayden reached in the back, grabbed her backpack and got out, keeping her shoulders straight as a steel cross beam and marched to her brother’s front door. She lifted a hand to knock, but before she let her fist fall, the door swung open. Hunter stood there with Hank Jr. on his hip, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale. “Thank God.”

Thoughts of Hoyt and his new level of being an ass fled. “What’s wrong?”

Hunter thrust Hank Jr. to her and Hayden cradled her eight-month old nephew to her chest. He had a head full of midnight black hair, just like Hunter, but blue eyes like his mother and he was the most gorgeous baby on the planet, in her opinion. Right now, he was naked except for a diaper and was trying to swat at her nose.

“I think Jr.’s over the stomach bug, but he gave it to me and Evie.” Her usually stoic, tough brother wiped a shaky hand down his face. “Can you help take care of him?”

“Of course, but I want to know – ”

Hunter held up a hand. “Later. Just come inside and lock the door.”

And then he took off in the direction of his bedroom. Hayden walked inside and turned to lock the front door, spying an already empty driveway. Hoyt had fled the minute she stepped foot onto her brother’s front porch.

Hayden shut and locked the door, dropped her bag by the entry table and snuggled Hank Jr. to her cheek. “I guess it’s just me and you tonight, buddy.”

H
ank Jr. woke
her the next morning at the ungodly hour of eight a.m., crushing her hope to sleep in this Saturday. Last night, she’d dragged his pack-n-play into the spare bedroom, sprayed down a heavy layer of Lysol, and sang her nephew to sleep before passing out around one a.m.

Hayden changed his diaper, hoisted him up to her hip and checked on Hunter and his wife, Evie. Both of them were out cold on their own bed. Hayden quietly shut the door and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. “So what are we going to do today?”

Hayden propped him up in the high chair and then fixed him a sippy cup of milk. Hank Jr. downed it and tossed the empty cup on the floor. Clapping his hands and grinning in her direction.

Hayden bent to pick it up. “We’re not playing this game today. The last time you did this to me, I ended up scrubbing the kitchen floor because you broke your sippy cup.”

Her nephew clapped and cooed and pointed at the cup, totally uncaring and so cute she couldn’t tell him no. “Fine, just one more time. That’s it.”

After a few more rounds of fetch, Hayden managed to make him a bowl of baby cereal and get him to eat. Then she fed herself and went to the living room, put Hank Jr. down on his play mat, where he immediately grabbed the nearest light up toy piano and started banging out notes.

Hayden slid down on the floor next to him and flipped on the T.V.

Last night’s foray into the single world had gone quite a bit better than she could have hoped. At least until Hoyt showed up and Hayden had jumped right onto her typical emotional rollercoaster ride of joy and anguish.

The news came on the TV, showing a panoramic view of Stanley Hall surrounded by an unusually large amount of students for the weekend. Most were huddled in small groups of three and four, whispering the same way high schoolers did when the latest flash of drama hit the school.

The news crew followed the local anchor lady up the massive concrete stair case and through the double doors. Police ushered most of the crowd to the sides and held them in check with tightly wound police tape.

Dread crept up her spine like fire ants marching to her scalp, warning of impending doom.

The news anchor took a right, and then a left, striding down the puke-green tiles and tan walls, her mouth moving the whole time. Hayden recognized that part of the building. The hallway led to the row of professor offices. Hayden realized she had the TV on mute and quickly turned the volume up.

“He was found murdered last night by local law enforcement in his home. Police have locked down his office and are searching his files for clues as to who the perpetrator could be. They currently have one suspect.”

The anchor rounded the last corner and strode to an office at the end of the hall, cordoned off with more bright yellow police tape. The fire ants returned with a vengeance, lighting her on fire from the inside out. But on the outside she was ice-cold.

A fat policeman, his lapels soaked in sweat, crowded the entrance, the poster model for a walking heart attack. He coughed, wiped his face with a dingy stained cloth, and adjusted the utility belt that was barely holding up beneath the weight of his bulging belly.

“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” The news anchor shoved her mic into the cop’s face.

The cop hiked his belt up and shuffled his shoulders back. "I'm sorry, miss, but I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation."

"Get your hands off me, you filthy pig!" The video camera swung around to the left and zoomed in on another cop dragging Professor Rhoden from her office. Her hands were cuffed behind her back and her spiky hair in disarray. "This is sexual harassment. You can't treat me like this."

The steely-eyed policeman shook her once and propelled her in front of him. "Keep moving."

"Nazi! This is abuse. I have my rights." Rhoden's boots clunked down the hall in a forced stumble.

As they came closer, Hayden instinctively cringed. The professor's normally cold, calculating gaze was wild. Her dark red lipstick was slightly smeared.

"My lawyer will be all over you!"

Professor Rhoden's gaze slammed into the camera. Hayden sucked in a breath. There wasn't any spite or hatred in the woman’s gaze this time. The overwhelming emotion on Rhoden's face was fear.

The anchor kicked into action, shoving her mic in Rhoden’s face and chasing her down the hall. “Ma’am, were you with Professor Latham at the time of the attack? Are you a suspect? Can you tell us what happened?”

Rhoden snarled and bared her teeth like a rabid dog and the anchor lady snapped back. The camera followed the pair as the police man shoved Rhoden down the hall and outside —a circus spectacle for a crowd of students who mostly despised her. Hayden heard a smattering of applause break out from the crowd, in small waves at first and then growing in force like a tsunami.

A tsunami that threatened to crush Hayden. Her cell phone rang from the bedroom and Hayden jumped up and ran to get it. Malik’s number appeared on the screen. Hayden answered the call, her heart racing out of control.

She could feel his despair before he spoke. “Hayden?”

She stumbled back down the hall and collapsed on the couch as Hank Jr. continued to play, oblivious to his aunt’s world imploding.

“I just turned on the news,” Hayden said.

“Me, too. The professor is dead."

"Dead?" The world tilted.
This can't be happening.

"The police found him last night around midnight. He was murdered."

The living room contracted around her and she couldn't catch her breath. Midnight...midnight...she'd been at the frat party. She'd been enjoying herself...

And Professor Latham had been suffering. Had been
dying
.

Another thought hit her and she fell back against the couch for support. He'd been on a date with Rhoden and the cops had just towed her ass away like she was the wrong half of Bonnie and Clyde.

"Why did she do that?" It came out in a rough, hoarse voice.

"I honestly don't think she did."

"Are we talking about the same woman? The one that likes to flunk students just for fun? Did you not hear her? She just called that cop a Nazi pig!"

"She was frightened. Did you not see her face?"

Malik just pissed her off. "You were there,” she insisted. “You heard Latham say he had a date with her last night. Maybe she held a grudge against him because all the students liked him and not her."

Malik sighed and she could picture him rubbing a tan hand through his dark hair. "I don't think Rhoden is the type of woman to care about that. And I think she genuinely cared about Latham."

Professor Latham, who had been like a grandfather to her. Urging her to go out and have fun. And the moment she started to have fun...

"He insisted that we go out last night,” Hayden choked out. “We should've been doing research with him. Maybe if we had been there..."

"Don't you dare think like that. The professor didn't want us to spend all our time drowning in research. Alone. You know that. Besides, he was looking forward to a night out himself.”

Tears threatened again, and she blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. "But—"

"It's not your fault."

Then why did she feel so guilty? "I can't believe he's gone."

She heard Malik sniff and then cough and she realized he had to be hurting just as bad. "Malik, I'm so sorry."

H
oyt kept
his eyes shut and fumbled for the night stand, knowing the dim lamp light would pierce his throbbing skull like an icepick. He felt for a bottle of water with a shaking hand, inadvertently knocking something heavy to the ground. He grabbed the glass bottle and cradled it to his chest. Shit. He'd have to sit up and open his eyes.

Slowly unbending his arms and body, he pushed up. As soon as he got vertical, he cracked a lid. The whole room pulled a one-eighty and he fell to his knees. Nausea rolled around in his gut. His throat burned.

Fuck, he must have hit his head harder than he’d thought in the accident.

Hoyt palmed the floor, sliding his hands out past shoulder width to brace his weight. He dragged a breath into his lungs and eased his eyes open.

An empty fifth of Crown lay at an angle next to his right hand. He didn't remember drinking... Hoyt propped an elbow on the mattress and then used his whole arm to ratchet himself up to his knees. His bed stand was cluttered with crumpled paper.

His gut rolled. He crawled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time to puke.

Last night edged back into his consciousness. He had come home after finding the dead body, but that hadn’t really bothered him. He’d seen hundreds of dead bodies in his life—after about the tenth one he'd gone numb to sightless eyes and stiff limbs.

No, the professor's death hadn’t even pricked much emotion.

It was the party that had dug its nails into him. The sight of Hayden with those guys. The way that girl had taken one look at him before running for the hills. And how goddamn golden boy, almost a replica of Hoyt’s younger self, had emerged from the crowd, ready to slay the beast.

Hoyt gave a harsh laugh. He wasn't living in a Disney fairytale. Hayden wasn't Belle, and he sure as hell didn't have an enchanted rose to restore his good looks.

Or to remove the black mark on his soul.

And then he’d been forced into close quarters with Hayden and it had taken every ounce of his control not to take her into his arms.

When he was fairly certain the puking session was over, Hoyt climbed to his feet and stumbled to the sink to splash cold water on his face. He stood and faced the slightly darker light tan oval on the wall. There used to be a mirror there. His brother had removed all of the mirrors in the house while he was at the VA, either in an attempt to help Hoyt get over his reflection or to subvert another suicide attempt.

Either way, the blank spaces where the mirrors used to be had become a glaring reminder of his stint in rehab.

He'd learned to get comfortable with himself and the fact that he was broken. But broken things could still do damage. The counselors had told him it would help if he found something to live for.

He knew his reason to live—it was a cold hard fact. His team needed him.

And he needed Hayden.
Why couldn't he stop obsessing over her? Shit, they'd only dated a few months before his time on Crowe Mountain. But those months had been pure heaven.

He remembered what it had felt to have Hayden pressed against him. Her soft skin, soft hair, soft lips. Everything about her had countered him, completed him.

But that was back when he still
could
be completed. Now he was a puzzle with missing pieces, its edges sliced out of alignment.

She deserved better. She
was
better.

Maybe he needed a change of scenery. Jared and Sparrow didn’t need him here with them. If nothing else, he could bunk at the command center, in one of the cots in the back. The place suited him better. Cold. Hard. Empty.

What mattered most was for him to keep his shit together long enough to take out Mr. J and his minions. The thought of sleeper cells in Mercy left a bad taste in his mouth. At least he and Merc had downed some of them last night.

Hoyt found a half-drank bottle of water and downed it in one gulp. The liquid splashed in his empty stomach and immediately rushed back to the surface. He was praying to the porcelain god a second later.

"Dammit. Are you stupid?"

Hoyt let his body work through another heave before answering his brother, who'd apparently let himself into Hoyt's bedroom. "Yes."

He could practically feel Jared shaking his head behind him. "You'll be off the team if anybody finds out, and they'll plop your ass straight into the VA Hospital. Again. Colonel Grey has been watching you closer than the NSA. One trip up, and that’s it. You're gone."

Anger sliced through him and he rose unsteadily to his feet. "Shut up."

"You can lie to everyone else. Hell, you've actually gotten pretty damn good at it. But you can't lie to me. I’m your brother. I practically raised you. I know when you’re lying. And brother, you've been lying since the day you got home from Tennessee." Jared advanced, his huge body dominating the bathroom.

The familiar claws of panic dug into him. Chest tight, heart punching his sternum, no oxygen.

Jared's nostrils flared in recognition and Hoyt used that moment of silence to dart around his brother into the bedroom. Hoyt faced the corner where the full-length mirror used to be, hands fisted at his sides.
Come on asshole, count to ten.
Even the fucking dope heads in group therapy could do it. Hoyt was a highly trained special forces operative, capable of taking out a target at over fifteen hundred yards. He could get his racing heart under control.

"You need to stay away from alcohol." Jared said from behind him. “You keep doing this, you’re going to find yourself back on pills. Fast way to ruin your life.”

"My life is already ruined!"

"No, it's not. But if you don't change, it will be."

"You’ve seen the way people react to me. I can't even go out in public without giving kids nightmares. What kind of life is that?"

"People only look at you that way if you let them." Jared's quiet voice sliced through a nerve.

"And what would you have me do? Go around glaring at every person in Marcy?" Hoyt said.

"No. I’d have you walk down main street with your head held fucking high because that's exactly what you deserve. Very few men can survive the kind of torture you did—and those who survive physically usually don’t recover mentally. Is that what you want to be just another statistic?"

Hoyt could only look at him.

"Me and you, we’ve already lived through hell. You came out smiling. Are you really going to let them win now? Are you going to let a few little cuts bleed you dry?”

“If it’s just a few little cuts, why’d you take the mirrors down?” Hoyt gestured to the empty wall spaces in the room.

Jared dropped his head and shoved his hands in his jeans. “Because you’re my little brother and I want to protect you, like I did when we were kids. I thought it would be easier on your recovery.”

Hoyt’s throat clogged up.

“It’s not. It reminds me every damn day of my weakness,” he choked out.

His brother nodded. “You’re right. I’ll put them back.”

“And you’ll stop looking at me like you’re waiting on me to crack?”

“Yes, if you stop acting like you didn’t survive the attack.” Jared crossed to Hoyt and held out his hand. His brother never showed his emotions. He’d always locked it down and kept moving forward, but right now, burning pain lingered in his midnight gaze.

Hoyt swallowed and grabbed Jared’s hand, and yanked him into a hug. His flesh tightened instantly, but he took a breath and worked through his shit for his brother. Just like Jared had always done for him.

Jared pounded him on the back and stepped away, covering a cough with a fist over his mouth. “I guess I should tell you the other team arrived last night.”

“Yeah, I saw them parked at headquarters last night when I got back.” Hoyt shoved his hands in his pockets, the tide of emotion had receded and left him feeling awkward, yet somewhat healed. He hadn’t really realized how much he’d been hurting his brother.

“Want to head over there? Colonel Grey wants us to meet up with the new team and make plans. Plus, I think Ethan may have found a new lead on that guy you and Merc pegged last night.”

“Malik?”

“Yeah, he’s been digging and digging but the guys record is locked up tighter than a virgin’s knees. But, he confirmed the link between the uncle and ISA.”

“Shit, he was with Hayden last night, they acted like they were friends.”
Or more.

“Looks like Al Seriq had recruited Malik’s uncle back in the eighties, before he started ISA. The guy turned radical fast. Took out a whole crowd of people at the local market with a suicide bomb.”

That bastard had laid his hands on Hayden. He’d kissed the back of her hand. Bile rolled hot up his stomach. That would be the last time Malik got near her, Hoyt would make sure of it.

“Let me change. Does Hunter know?” He needed to keep Hayden extra close.

“Nah, Hunter’s been puking his guts up.”

“He needs to make sure he keeps Hayden at home.” Hoyt went to his dresser and yanked out a change of clothes.

“Why don’t you get dressed and we can go tell him right now?”

Hoyt caught a movement out his bedroom window. Hank pulled down the drive, the camper hitched to the back of his truck. “I don’t need to tell Hunter, Hank’s home.”

Hoyt yanked on a new shirt. Hayden’s father was the most overprotective man Hoyt knew. He’d keep her under lock and key.