“I do. But it’s one in the morning there, and I’ve got a husband at home who will not be pleased if I’m gone another day.”
“Cruz.”
She covered his hand, which had formed a death grip on the table’s edge. “Priorities, Price. The base would’ve called you if it was serious. Or the caller would have left a message.”
“Maybe.” If it was something that would be escalated that high officially, then yes. If not, then no. And if the calls were connected to Vaughn, he doubted the matter would go through the base at all.
“Let me dig,” Mel offered. “Determine if it’s connected while you deal with the other issues first.”
She was right. The problems—with Vaughn and his father—were known.
Possibly—probably—worse and most definitely immediate.
As was his need to see a certain federal agent.
He loosened his grip and straightened. “All right, let’s go home.”
Two
Priority departure, yes.
Priority landing, not so much.
They circled an hour before finally touching down at SFO, and by the time Nic hit the elevator for the hipster-infested hive complex he now called home, it was midnight. His disgust, amplified by the K-pop playing in the elevator, was almost enough to distract him.
Almost.
Key an inch from the lock to his third-floor unit, he looked down and noticed the scuffs on his oxfords, visible in the light streaming out from under the door.
The scuffs he didn’t care about; the light stopped him cold.
Maybe the complex’s management had been in for maintenance or inspections. But they would’ve given him notice of that; they legally had to.
Glass shattered inside the unit.
Nic snatched back his key, dropped his bags, and reached for his sidearm. Maintenance wouldn’t be in his apartment at this hour.
He visualized the one-bedroom floor plan. Small faux wood foyer, bathroom and bedroom to the left, laundry on the right, a carpeted hallway that led to the main living area and kitchen. The glass had shattered from somewhere deep inside the unit—not in the foyer or bathroom. With the rest of the area carpeted, it had to have been in the kitchen. If he entered quietly, he wouldn’t be heard or seen in the entry hallway. He could sneak up on the intruder before they knew he was there.
He pressed the door handle down—unlocked—but when he pushed the door, it didn’t give. The deadbolt was still engaged. Sliding his key in gently, he rotated it right, millimeter by millimeter, minimizing the click of the lock being thrown.
Weapon in hand, he eased open the door and snuck inside.
And with one deep breath, he realized his caution was unnecessary. The aroma of beef stew tickled his nose and a string of curses, long on the vowels and short on the Rs, reached his ears. He’d know that voice anywhere, and the ache in his chest eased a little at hearing it live and in person again. B&E culprit identified, Nic holstered his weapon and collected his bags, dropping them in the foyer next to a stack of moving boxes. He shut the door and unclipped his holster, setting the weapon atop the boxes. “Boston, you okay?”
“Fucking finally.” Cam appeared around the corner, and Nic nearly stumbled at the handsome grin that greeted him. “Got hungry unpacking your shit, so I threw some stew on.” He lifted a dish-towel-wrapped hand. “Until this happened.”
The shattering glass.
“Bathroom, now,” Nic ordered. From the foyer stack of boxes, he lifted off the top one marked Bedroom and dug through the Bathroom one for a first aid kit.
“You gonna fix me up?” Cam crowded his side, the heat of his body and the smell of his beer on Cam’s breath throwing Nic for a loop. The painted-on tee that showed off his ripped chest and arms and the ratty jeans that hung low on his hips spun him further. Cam looked good in a suit, but Nic liked him best dressed down, unusual for his tastes.
But this was Cam—Boston.
Nic tore his eyes from the outline that was making itself known under those threadbare jeans and stepped toward the bathroom. “Well, you did get injured unpacking my shit,” he said with a smile tossed over his shoulder.
“Missed that,” Cam replied, voice gravelly.
