“Yep. Trevor said they got back a few hours ago.” After she enters another set of commands, she makes a low, frustrated sound I’ve never heard her make before. Was that a…growl? “Succotash.”
“Succotash?” The laugh that rolls through me eases the last of the tension behind my eyes and reminds me just how fucking lucky I am. Even if I can’t keep up with all the odd words Wren uses in place of more conventional curses. “I love you, little bird.”
Her fingers still on the keys, and she peers up at me, a soft smile tugging her lips and her jade green eyes dark. “I love you too. And I’m glad you’re home. How was training?”
I ramble on as she works, and amazingly, she listens to every word and still manages to follow a set of financial transactions from one bank to another. “Everyone seemed glad to be back after West’s honeymoon.
“And you?” Searching my face, she huffs quietly. “Don’t answer now. But tonight…talk to me?”
How does she know? That if I peel back the lid on the darkness, I won’t be able to put it away and let her finish her work?
“I can read you, Ry. Some day, maybe it’ll stop surprising you.” With a quick squeeze to my thigh, she returns her focus to the laptop and shakes her head. “This is so weird,” she mutters. “Every single transaction has an extra piece of code that makes no sense. It doesn’t do anything. But it’s obviously important. This guy’s too good to put useless information in these wire transfers.”
Glancing over at the screen, I choke on my sip of beer, take Wren’s laptop over her sputtered protest, and stare at the string of letters and numbers I know better than my own birthdate.
94820RJT008000
In a little window off to the side of the screen, the surveillance video plays, and I pause, rewind, and zoom in.
“Holy fucking shit.”
“Ry? What the heck is this?”
I can’t force the word over the lump in my throat. Six years. Six years and eight months. Pulling out my phone, I send a text to my team.
HVT located in Afghanistan. We leave in three hours. Plan on being gone five days.
Within minutes, Inara, West, and Graham have all confirmed, and Wren’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
She arches her brow. “Ryker McCabe, what in the hockey pucks is going on here?”
“Pack a bag, sweetheart. We’re going to Boston.”
Ford
Joey’s quiet whimpers rouse me, and I skim my palm up and down her arm. “Shhh, buttercup. I’m right here.”
Her body relaxes, and she sighs, turning towards me and settling when her hand finds my heart. The deep purple bruises still ache, but if this means she can sleep peacefully, she can do this all day long.
For years, I fantasized about having her in my bed. In my life. And now that she’s here…I wonder how we’re going to find our normal.
An hour later, I’m still staring at her when her eyelids flutter, and she smiles. “Are you watching me sleep?” Joey asks lazily.
“No.”
“Liar.” Stretching her arms over her head, she groans. “Ow. I’m really looking forward to a day when I wake up without fresh bruises.”
Her nipples strain against the plain blue t-shirt she wore to bed, and my dick rises to attention, tenting my pajama pants. Quickly, I turn on my side and pull the blankets up to my waist. “Tomorrow. I promise, buttercup. No one’s going to bruise you today.”
With a sigh, Joey sits up and runs her fingers lightly along the edge of the swelling on my chest. “I’m sorry about this. I mean…I’m not. But I am.”
Twining our fingers, I bring her knuckles to my lips. “You saved my life. I think that’s worth a little discomfort. Now…what do you want to do today?”
Joey laughs, then plants a kiss to my temple. “I want a cheeseburger. French fries. Maybe a beer.”
“For breakfast?”
“God, no. How about we start with coffee? Then…maybe we can go to my place? Ella…she did a great job. But she didn’t pack my makeup, any of my sweaters, or…my journals.” Joey’s eyes cloud over, turning the gray-blue of an impending storm. “And there’s a box under my bed.”
