Montana frowned. Until now, he’d made it clear where he stood on the half-a-million-dollar rock. My promise to Natasha. Thebawbagwas never serious. Cocky?Aye. Funny? Given the circumstances,nae. But now there was a weight to his voice. “Did the soldier speak?”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him no, that the bastard had saluted me, when my phone lit up on the counter. A soft buzz. Natasha.
Picking up my beer, I muttered, “Noooo.” Exhaled so hard the glass bottle whistled.
She’d called when we were in the middle of nowhere, dumping the bodies. I couldn’t take it then. Couldn’t fake normal. I had texted five words:
Don’t come tomorrow. Explain later.
Man, that sounded like a brush-off.
The phone had vibrated when I’d dropped it into my pocket and returned to digging. One ping, then a second. Never got around to checking it. Just took my shower, washed off the blood. A coward.
Now, a third message came in. The screen glowed.
“You better answer that girl.”
“I know,” I groused. I reached for it and clicked into our correspondence to start from the top.
NATASHA: So don’t come tomorrow? K. Can’t wait for your explanation.
Her tone sounded strained. Disappointed. Or confused? Then the next message from earlier landed a harder blow.
NATASHA: Then I’ll grovel about Greece, Lach. I’m texting Nan for a Dundee cake recipe. She’s gonna want something in return. Like baby pictures of me. Consider that every time your coach digs into you because of Greece.
That first textwasn’t sarcasm. She was concerned. The second? Regret. Sympathy. An apology in which she took the blame and friggen offered to bake my favorite Scottish Dundee cake.
Natasha Resnova was too good for me. How had I forgotten the lassie was more than my weakness? She was my best friend. All those smaller moments in the beginning? Then almost two years of craving her, falling madly for her. She didn’t push. Manipulate. She just showed up for me. And this night made me forget our bond?
The third message—senta minute ago—hit while I reeled over misjudging her first text.
NATASHA: Going to sleep now. And yes, I sent her an embarrassing picture of me toeing my first birthday cake. Wish I didn’t feel so guilty. But whatever it is, I love you, Lach.
My breath caught.
I wanted to tell her.
Had already planned to.
But not with some half-sarcasticDid yer da try to off me? layered with my thickest brogue to soften the blow.
No. Not that.
Forget pointing fingers. I’d state the facts.
Three men came for me. Two were dead. A third, trained. Efficient. Silent.
I picked up the phone, ready to type out something—something real, something tender. But my fingers didn’t move because I felt awful deep down for killing a man, killing infrustration. That wasn’t me. That was Little Brody. Camdyn. Jamie … in some instances, before he became a Marine.
Not me.
I was Lachlan MacKenzie. Boy Five. Not particularly funny—unless I had to go toe-to-toe with my mate, Montana, but I charmed millions. Made others crush empty beer cans to their heads as they slapped their hands to make their Dodger-painted bellies quiver like Jello shots.
Boy Five was cool. Loved by kids and adults. I just needed to move my fingers and assure her of my love and that we’d hash out this situation.
Later.
Montana leaned forward, watching me. “Brah … looks like you’ve seen a ghost. You honestly think her dad?—”
