Reckless Endangerment (13 page)

“Devon,” she said when her friend answered on the first ring, “City Councilman Rourke’s just been murdered at the Museum of Nature and Science.  I’m on my way into the station with a flash drive.  I need you to find out everything you know about Rourke, who he hangs out with, what projects he’s been affiliated with, where he gets his money from, both legally and illegally.  I want everything you’ve got on the man.”

“Did you say he was just murdered?” Devon asked.

“Yeah, but this story is bigger than that.  I’ll be at the station in ten minutes.  Don’t tell anyone what we’re researching, not even Marion.  Until we see what’s on this flash drive, I don’t want to attract any attention.”

“Stop.  You were there?  You witnessed him being murdered?  Where are you?”

The problem with dealing with other journalists was the perpetual questions. 

“I’ll be there in ten.”  She ended the call and walked toward her Jeep while sirens blared in the distance.  Maybe Rourke had been right in his assessment of her coldness, but she’d seen too many people die--friends she’d loved--and didn’t care about a dirty politician involved in a human trafficking organization.  If that made her cold, if that made her less than human, well...she couldn’t dig deep enough in her heart to give a damn. 

* * * *

He’d had another series of spasms and passed out after Gabriel had given him a shot of some kind.  Everything had gotten foggy.  He had woken to a nurse adjusting his pillows and saying something about dinner. Exhausted from the day and the pain that had ripped his body to shreds, he went along without saying a word.

After dinner, a nurse helped him into the shower and gave him his medication.  He insisted on dressing himself.  His pride may be shredded, but it still existed.  He combed his wet hair, gaze lingering on the scar that ran across his forehead. 

Coward, huh?  Maybe.  Becky’s words from yesterday rang in his ears.  He dropped the brush and stared at his reflection.  He gritted his teeth.  He had saved too many lives, faced death too many times, yet maybe Becky had been right yesterday with her assessment of his lack of progress. 

He eyed the bed.  Everyone told him that he should be able to do more than his legs would do.  He chewed the inside of his lip.  He felt something in his right leg…but it wasn’t pleasant and it wasn’t strong.  He had died and been brought back to life, had endured seven operations and yet here he sat about to lose his son and with a wife he didn’t deserve.  He checked the brake on the wheels and held onto the arms of his chair.  Damned if he would be called a coward.

He pushed upward, arms protesting after the day’s physical therapy, and pushed until his entire torso shook with the effort.  He would not be called a coward.  Not here, not by Hope or her sister, not in front of his child, never. 

Nothing.  No movement. He fell back into his chair and smacked his thighs with his palms. 

“You’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep doing stunts like that without anyone around,” Hope said from where she leaned against the doorframe. 

He snapped his gaze in her direction. “Don’t you have a job to do?”

“Oh, I’ve been doing it, don’t worry.”  She looked self-conscious as she entered his bedroom.  She tucked her hair behind her ears and grinned at him.  “So do you do that often?”

“Do what?” 

“Attempt to stand.” She sat on the edge of his bed and moved her gaze over him.

“Not as often as I should.”  He looked away from her, wanting to tell her everything yet unwilling to do so.  

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the problem.”  She shrugged, eyes full of gentleness. “It hasn’t even been six months yet since the…since everything happened…” she motioned between them. “It feels like it was years ago yet…sometimes it feels like it’s happening right now.”

He blew out a long breath.  The mandatory psychotherapy hadn’t done much to heal him, then again, he hadn’t said much during any of his sessions.  He knew she had pulled the strings to get him in here, wondered how many people she’d had to bully, how many favors she owed. He watched as she folded her hands together on her bare knee to stop them from trembling.   

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Define okay.” She grinned, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Us being together like this again after so much has happened.”

He undid the brakes on his chair and moved closer.  What was weird was seeing Hope almost docile, all quiet and sad.  That was weird. 

“I freaked you out, didn’t I?  Yesterday?” he asked.

“No, you don’t freak me out.  I get you.” 

“Then what’s up?  You look agitated.”

“Gee, why would I be agitated?  My husband would rather be here than come home to me.  I was at the museum earlier...have you thought about what you’re going to do about Dalton?”

“I’m not discussing Dalton.”  He leaned back in his chair and studied her from beneath half-closed eyes.  “Why were you at the museum?  I heard something on the news about a shooting there today...was that you?”

“Me?  You think I’m an assassin now?”  Her twisted grin didn’t reach her eyes.

“You know what I mean.” He squinted, his certainty growing that she’d been there.  “Were you a part of that?”

“No comment, Colonel.”  She looked away from his gaze and glanced around the room.  “I’m a lot like you.  I don’t fit either.  I can’t stand the quiet so I sleep with the television on.  I stay busy because I can’t sit still or I think about things too much.  I don’t know how to be back here, but I can’t go back over there.  I make promises I’m not sure I can deliver, which isn’t like me at all.  It’s all a mess.”

Confessions weren’t her style, especially when they revealed a weakness of some kind.  Something was definitely off.  He’d been too caught up in his personal hell to even think about the nightmares she must have.  She had seen her best friend die, had another friend commit suicide, had watched her husband blown up…had watched him die and be revived on a helicopter in hell.  He wanted to touch her, but instead he folded his hands in his lap.  Seeing her again confused him even more.  He’d been so certain that he wanted to do this alone, but she was messing it all up for him. 

“Yeah, it’s all a mess,” he said when she stayed silent.  “What do you want?  Why are you here?”

She shook her head and looked at the ceiling.  “You’re such an ass, I don’t know why I’m here.”

“That makes two of us and, yes, I am an ass.  Maybe you should go.”

“I don’t want to go.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and met his gaze.  “Do you think I’m scary?  Not the sexy kind of scary but the cold-hearted kind?”

Her question caught him off guard.  For a second, he considered being mean.  After all, with an opening like that, how could a genuine jerk pass it up?  But the fear in her eyes stopped him.  Sighing, he shook his head no.  She could be menacing, fierce, passionate, but never cold hearted.

“I didn’t know there was a sexy kind of scary,” he said when she remained silent and staring.  “What’s going on?  Why are you here?”

“Since when does a wife need an excuse to see her husband?”

“Since it’s you and me and we’re not exactly living a conventional life.”

“Screw convention.” 

“It’s your story, isn’t it?  It’s always about a story.”  He edged closer to her without looking away from her face.  “You’re not here checking on me, are you?  You want to talk to me.”

“That’s what people do, Michael.  Talk.  Has it really been that long since you’ve had a normal conversation with anyone?”  She grinned, but concern shadowed her eyes.  “It has, hasn’t it?  Didn’t anyone visit you at Walter-Reed?”

“Only to talk to me about this.” He motioned to the chair and his legs, feeling stupid for being shocked that she wanted to have a conversation that didn’t involve his recovery, transition or therapy.  She had a life, a big, often messy and chaotic life.  “Talk to me then.  Tell me what has you so on edge.  What is this story about?”

Abruptly, she stood and paced the room.  “Yeah, I was there this afternoon, but let’s not make that public knowledge, okay?  I saw him get shot.  He’d been a source of mine.  He gave me something that’s most likely evidence in his murder, yet I walked away with it, didn’t even admit to being a witness.  He’d told me earlier that I was cold hearted.  I proved him right.  And you know what?  I’m more upset that he’s right about that than his death.  I just went back to the studio and dove into work.  There’s something wrong with that, right?  A disconnect?”  She shoved her hands through her hair and tilted her head toward the ceiling. 

“I thought you were avoiding danger these days, playing it safe.  I thought that’s why you came to Denver, to do feature stories, avoid being shot at.  What’s wrong with you?  If you wanted to be in the crossfire, you should have stayed in a war zone.”  Damn it, he wanted to yell at her to stay out of danger for once, to tame down, to be a watered down version of the woman he’d fallen in love with.  But that would be wrong and he knew it.  Weariness weighed him down. 

Back to him and hands on her hips, she looked out the window.  “You’ve gotten judgmental since I last saw you, Michael.  That’s something I didn’t expect.”

He couldn’t deny it.  Maybe he’d forgotten all social skills.  It’s like he couldn’t even form a thought that wasn’t defensive or hostile these days. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.  You don’t have Peter anymore...or me, for that matter.  Who has your back?” he asked.  

She snorted and shook her head before walking back to the bed.  “I thought you had my back.  I’m looking right at you.  You’re not lost, not dead, not stuck a thousand miles away from me.  I simply want to talk to you, is that such a bad thing?  You’re my friend, too, aren’t you?” 

He reluctantly met her gaze.  Yeah, that’s what he’d promised her, that he’d always have her back, always be her confidante, always be her safe place to fall.  “I keep disappointing you, don’t I?  I’m not that guy you married anymore.  I’m not.  I can’t have your back...I can’t even take care of myself.”

“You frustrate the hell out of me.”  She fisted her hands at her temples as if about to pull her hair out by the roots, but didn’t look away from his face.  “Why won’t you let me in?  I need you.”

He flinched at the need in her voice.  This was new.  He didn’t like it.  She’d never looked so...alone and sad. 

“Don’t.  Okay?  I don’t want you to need me. Didn’t we already discuss this?”  When had he become such a liar?  He looked away from her and wished he had enough energy to toss her out on her ass.  Yet, at the same time, he wanted to be that guy she’d married, the guy with the promises...the guy who didn’t lie. 

“I can’t do this on my own,” she said so quietly he wondered if she’d actually spoken.  She sat on the edge of the bed, her face pale and eyes full of unshed tears.  “I’m faking it every day.  Please, Michael, I don’t know whether I should smack you, scream at you or kiss you to bring you back.”

“Don’t cry for me.” Seeing her like this threw him off.  He preferred the irreverent spitfire who would go toe-to-toe with him any day.  He’d wanted to spare her pain, but it was obvious he had inflicted more. 

“It was never hard for us, not even in a war zone.  We met and—wham—that was that. We made it work.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at her.  She wore a black dress that rose up on her thigh when she crossed her legs.  Black leather boots went to her knees.  Hair cascaded around her shoulders, lush lips frowned and eyes glistened.

“You’re not okay, are you?” he asked. “Despite your badass looks, you haven’t healed, have you?  Have you talked to anyone or just stayed in perpetual motion?”
“What do you think?”  Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating grin.

“I think we’re too much alike.”  He grinned despite the circumstances. 

“I wouldn’t presume to feel the same as you do.” She dragged the back of her hand across her cheek without meeting his gaze.  “Things happened that you don’t know about...and now isn’t the right time...but you’re right that I understand you.”

He nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from her face.  Anger long gone, heartache remained.  All words sounded inadequate in his brain.  He wondered what had happened that she hadn’t written about, wondered if he would ever know.  Sorrow clung to her.  He had not only failed as a husband, but also as a friend. 

They had once been the best of friends.

“What do we know about being married?” she asked, her gaze focused on a distant spot on the tiled floor.  “Maybe you’re right.  I’m a mess.  You’re a disaster.  Neither one of us is being honest.”  She met his gaze.  “We’re just a couple of liars who enjoyed the danger of sneaking around in a war zone.  We’re the good story without a happy ending that we’ll think about when we’re old and alone.”

He winced.  He deserved that. Hell, he’d been singing the same song.  It felt like a boulder crushed his chest as he waited for the final blow. 

“I understand,” he said. “You don’t need to make any apologies.  I’m a lot to handle.  A disaster, like you said.  Just give me the divorce papers and that will be that.  End of our story.”