The Right Kind of Trouble (7 page)

Maris wasn't in it, either. And he was a miserable, selfish bastard if he kept letting her think otherwise.

He pushed back from the desk slowly, giving her time to back out of the way. She did, but instead of moving, she came around and settled in his lap. He closed his eyes, mind already whirling.

He couldn't leave
now
and he knew it. Not until he knew Moira was safe. There wasn't anybody in the department with the experience to handle what was going on. Deatrick could, in a few years. Pendleton, he might be the highest-ranking officer and he definitely had experience. He was also one quite happy in his current position. He had no desire to be in charge, a fact he'd made clear more than once. Hoyt had no desire to do it, either.

They'd have to look outside the jurisdiction, hire an outsider.

He could start looking now. Word would get out. But he wouldn't leave until this was settled. Until she was safe—all of them. They were family, in all the ways that counted. Save for Moira. She was his soul.

“Baby, what's wrong?”

He lifted his lashes and stared into Maris' eyes. She already knew, though. She was trying to pretend otherwise, but in the back of soft brown gaze, he saw the knowledge. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of it.

“Ever wished you had control of over who and what you loved in life?”

*   *   *

It was almost ten, and he was just one or two more drinks from being completely shitfaced when the phone rang.

Gideon glanced at it blearily.

It wasn't Zeke. The old son of a bitch had told him off when he'd finally returned Gideon's call.
I told you, damn it. I ain't selling to no lousy McKay.

Gideon wasn't done with him yet. But since he didn't really want to talk to anybody else, he had little interest in talking to the man on the phone.

He knew Brannon, though. The man was just as stubborn as he was.

He grabbed it in the middle of the last ring, just before it would have gone to voicemail. “You know, civilized people usually call before this.”

“Well, you and me both know I'm not civilized. I need a favor.”

“Too bad. I ain't in the mood to grant favors.” He splashed another liberal serving of scotch into his glass and held it up, watching as the dim light from the hall reflected through the liquor.

“You will. It's about Moira.”

“Again, too bad.” He ignored the tug at his heart. “Find somebody else.”

“Like her ex?” Brannon's voice was sly. “I bet he wouldn't mind driving her sick self home tomorrow. Sure, I'll call him.”

Gideon's hand tightened on the phone, but he managed a level tone as he replied, “You do that.”

He was lowering the phone when he heard Brannon's voice bark out, “
Wait!
”

He should have just hung up.

Blowing out a sigh, he brought the phone back to his ear. “What do you want, you pain in the ass?” Although he wasn't totally drunk
yet,
he was well past the point where his filter was fully engaged.

Brannon was quiet a moment. Finally, he asked, “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet.” Gideon lifted his glass and took a swallow, sighing in satisfaction as it burned its way down his throat. “I'm working on it, though. So please hurry this along.”

“Why are you getting drunk?”

Gideon tucked his tongue against his teeth and thought that through. “Why…” he murmured a moment later. “Well, let's see.”

He shoved himself upright and had to pause there a moment, his head spinning around. “Let me just see … I broke up with Maris. She left here crying, and I wish she would have just hit me. I—don't interrupt me, McKay. I'm talking here. I spent two hours after that writing up an ad for a new chief of police—gotta run that by the city council and ain't
that
gonna be a bitch? Gonna look at putting my house on the market, figure out where to go from here … yeah. It's been a bitch of a day.”

He wound down and stood wobbling in the middle of the room. “Yeah.” Brooding into his scotch, he mumbled, “Bitch of a day.”

Brannon's voice exploded in his ear. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Gideon tossed the rest of his drink back and stared up at the ceiling. “I'm done, man. I'm just … done.”

Then he disconnected the call and tossed the phone at the table. It missed by a mile, but he didn't care.

Stumbling back to the couch, he dropped down, face face-first. He was asleep in moments, but found no respite there.

Even in his dreams, Moira haunted him.

*   *   *

“I'm not kidding, if you try to leave that hospital with anybody but me, Moira, I will have your ass.”

He listened for the pitiful croak that was his sister's voice, but he felt little sympathy for the obvious pain as she ground out, “It's not like I'm going to walk. Just hurry.”

“I can't hurry an OB appointment.” Then he disconnected and flung the phone down. The wind tore at his hair as he shot a look at Hannah. “Want the windows up?”

“No.” She had her eyes closed. “I like the air.”

“It's cold.”

“I have a coat.” Then she turned her head and looked at him. “You know he didn't mean it.”

He didn't respond. There weren't many things his fiancée was wrong about, but this was one of them. He kept hearing the bitterness that underscored Gideon's voice.
I'm done …

He'd heard that tone before.

In Hannah's voice.

Yeah, she'd given him another chance, but that was because he'd chased after her and realized what an idiot he was. Moira wouldn't look at Gideon and see him. Nobody could make her accept that.

“Talk to her.”

Hannah brushed her fingers down his hand as he turned his over, linking their fingers as he navigated the long, winding road that led to McKay's Treasure. “You a mind reader now?”

“Well. I know you.” She squeezed his hand and added, “Now that you've let me in, I'm getting to know you even better. And that look on your face? It only means one thing. You're brooding. You only brood about family.”

“Gideon isn't family.”

“Like hell.” Her voice was wry. “He's the brother you probably never realized you wanted, but he's family all the same. You'll miss him like crazy. But that's not the point, is it?”

Brannon heaved out a sigh and glanced over at the glowing face of his bride-to-be, the mother of his child. “Why don't you tell me what the point is, smart-ass?” he asked.

“Smart-ass, huh?” She lifted her chin. In a lofty voice, she informed him, “Cracks like that will land you on the couch, pal.”

“That house has got a lot of beds, sugar.”

She sniffed, the perfect Southern belle acting extremely put out. Nobody could do affronted like the women of the South. Brannon would have bet money on it. “Fine. It will land you in a bed without me in it.”

He brought her hand up and pressed his lips to the soft underside of her wrist, scraping his teeth along it. “I bet I could change your mind.”

“I'd love to see you try.”

He shot her another look, saw the gleam in her eyes. “Might be a fun bet. Some other time. Again, what's the point … Hannah?”

“Moira.” She said it plain and simple. “She's the point. If he leaves, she's pretty much done. She's shutting down more and more and don't tell me you don't see it. She used to go out to the pub once a week, have a drink, sit down with the girls and talk. She might come out once a month now. Once he's gone, she'll shut down even more. She's already laughing less. Living less. The two of them belong together. He knows it. Deep down, so does she. I think…”

When she trailed off without adding anything, he stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. “What is it?”

“Maris.” Hannah cleared her throat and said, “Maris changed something in her. I'd look at Moira's face when they were out together and you could see the misery there. I think she finally realized that he was done. That he couldn't keep waiting … but that she didn't
want
to wait anymore. I think she was finally ready to reach out.”

“
Fuck
.” Brannon tugged his hand free from hers and returned it to the wheel, staring down the ribbon of road. Not many miles remained between here and Treasure. He wanted to put the gas pedal to the floor, feel the engine come alive as he sped off, and let the controlled power of the car carry away some of the tension rising inside him. But he'd decided his need for speed was becoming an addiction of sorts and he needed to get it under control. He was going to be a daddy soon, a husband even sooner than that. So he gripped the wheel, absently twisting his hands back and forth as he stared at the road. “He's been waiting for years—like more than eighteen years in fact. My sister isn't stupid. What does she think he's been doing all this time?”

“It's not
him,
” Hannah said. “It's her. She'd either convinced herself she was over him or she's a knucklehead like you. Maybe she had convinced herself that life was just easier not letting herself fall for somebody and risk losing them. Maybe it's something else entirely … maybe she's blaming herself over something and this was her way of atoning. I don't know. I do know she was ready to try … something.”

“Shit.”

“So … talk to her.”

“Shit,” he said again. He started to tap his fingers on the wheel as the town came into view. “Fine. I will. It ought to be you or Neve doing this, you know. I'm the guy. I don't do feelings.”

“I have faith in you.” She patted his shoulder and then shot him an impish grin. “Maybe I'll even make it worth your while … you do feelings and then I'll do … you.”

*   *   *

Gideon woke up hungry, hungover, and horny. Those three things added up to make him one miserable, angry bastard.

As he brushed his teeth, trying to remove the cottony taste from his mouth, he recalled his conversation with Brannon. It had been right before he'd taken that last drink, the one that had put him over the edge and sent him into oblivion.

He'd called about Moira.

Moira.

Immediately, he groaned, because he knew why Brannon had been calling, now that he was thinking with a mostly unmuddled head.

Moira was being discharged.

But Hannah was supposed to be seeing the doctor.

Shit, shit, shit …

He didn't want Moira leaving that hospital and going home to an empty house.

She doesn't want your help. She doesn't want you
.

He knew that—he'd gotten the original memo like eighteen years ago, and all the little reminders sent out since then. The one time he thought there had been a change in status? Back in the boathouse two months ago? Yeah. Forget that. It had been a momentary setback—that was how Moira, ever the businesswoman, would view it. The way she'd shut him cold in the weeks that followed had made him realize just how much she felt the need to keep him at a distance.

He had no doubt that she still loved him. But she didn't want to acknowledge it and she didn't want to let herself need him.

None of that mattered, though.

She was sitting at the hospital, probably waiting to be discharged and Brannon was supposed to be taking his fiancée in to get looked over. He could already hear the conversation.

We won't be long. You keep your ass there.

Moira would make that low murmur that people took for agreement and then she'd make her own plans while waiting for the doctors to discharge her.

Normally, Gideon would take that to mean there was time.

But the McKay Foundation, over the years, had pretty much bought and paid for the whole damn hospital. They didn't ask for special treatment. They got it anyway. Nobody was going to keep Moira sitting around waiting.

*   *   *

With the wind blowing in through his half-open window, Gideon punched in a call to the hospital and asked for Moira's nurse.

It was Kathy Rupert and he said a prayer of thanks. He'd grown up with Kathy and she was likely to be more reasonable than some. “Question … I'm rushing my ass to get to the hospital before Moira leaves. Am I wasting my time? You can find a way to answer that without violating patient confidentiality.”

“Gideon…” Kathy's voice was chiding. Then she laughed. “Dr. Jacobi made the terrible mistake of going by the cafeteria for some coffee, which gave Tijuana Gilmore time to get up to the floor. You do know who is here, right…?”

Gideon wracked his brain and then he groaned. “Do I need to get an officer in there?”

“Well, you're already on your way in. They saw the doctor before he could duck into Moira's room. He's cornered. You got time. Just don't stop for donuts.”

He disconnected and blew out a breath. His stomach twisted something awful, and he muttered, “Like a donut would stay down.”

The toast he'd eaten was sitting uneasily in his gut and it hadn't done shit to fill the empty void there, but he'd have to worry about that later.

The pale gleam of the recently renovated hospital came into view. It spoke of old-world charm, but under that façade was new-world tech. He parked as close as he could without abusing his authority—he'd done some of his training with a dirty cop, and cops who abused their authority pissed him off. Then he took off at a jog to get inside, ignoring the banging that took up within his skull at his fast clip.

Getting too old to drown my miseries
, he told himself.

He was getting too old for a lot of things.

Still, he took the steps because they were closer and less busy than the bank of elevators and he knew the second he stepped through the doors, he needed to get a uniform over here. Security was already up on the third floor, the top floor of the small county hospital, and they were handling the fraying tempers with aplomb, but he had a feeling fists were about to start flying.