Lynnette eased back and reached for her food again. They switched topics, touching on easier things. They shared random funny memories. He told her how one of his old buddies—now deceased—had challenged him to get one of the more classic Marine tattoos, they’d gotten drunk, and ended up with matching tats on their chests. She told him about the white dove memorial tattoo she’d gotten in honor of her mother. How her father had pushed her to learn self-defense and it turned out she had a knack for Krav Maga.
Lance seemed especially impressed with that. She wrote it off as typical macho-meatheadedness.
Their food was long consumed, trash deposited, and conversation flowing much easier when Lynnette’s phone intruded on the moment. She quickly dug into her purse, seeking to silence the call, but guilt bit into her when she saw Jenna’s number and laughing smile on the screen. If she were a better friend, she would have followed up with her morning text that had gone unanswered all day.
“Go ahead and take it,” Lance said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She flashed him an appreciative smile and swiped to catch the call, putting the phone to her ear. “Hey, Jen,” she greeted, doing her best to keep her tone calm and normal. “Busy morning?”
Chapter seven
Priority Target
Lance felt like hewas riding possibly the most fucked up roller coaster.
He had been flooded with concern and a very targeted form of protectiveness when Lynn had barreled into his room and practically tucked herself into a ball on the far side of his hospital bed. Her upset had been visible, tangible, and he’d cursed every name he could think of that he couldn’t even wrap his arms around her to help her through whatever it was. Let alone to punch the source in the face. Repeatedly. Until it failed to get back up.
But she had let him touch her, however slightly. She’d even reciprocated, and that had felt like a win he didn’t deserve.
Then she’d left. Only to breeze back in twenty-eight minutes later in civilian clothes and carrying food for two from somewhere beyond the hospital cafeteria. It was absolutely the sight of her in fitted leggings and a flowy, scoop-necked top thathad his mouth watering, but the food turned out to be damn good, too. His woman had excellent taste.
They’d finally gotten to just sit and talk. Her smiles came more freely.
He counted the freckles that dotted her skin from cheekbone to cheekbone.
Until her phone rang and her attention was pulled away—by Jon’s girl, of all people. Because, of course, the women were friends. Close friends, he gathered. Which was good in the long run, but frustrating in the moment, because whatever Jon’s girl needed, she needed it promptly. So, Lynn had given Lance’s hand a lingering squeeze, wished him a good rest of his day, and disappeared out the door.
He’d dropped his head back in an emotionally confused state of arousal, frustration, and something like schoolboy giddiness because she’d touched him voluntarily. With no external purpose, no motivating factor. She’d simply laid her hand over his and not shied away. And whatever that meant for her, he took it as a damn good sign.
The asshole day doc and sour-faced male nurse trailed in not ten minutes later and Lance found himself being encouraged to his feet for the first time in days. Though the staff was openly astounded, they had judged his wound had progressed enough that it was safe to put pressure on the leg in the interest of a full recovery. They made him take the stupid IV pole and lean on the thing exactly the way he’d seen in movies, and they had him walk to the end of the corridor and back.
It hurt like a bitch, of course, but he figured he could have done more without popping his stitches. The day doc insisted that little jaunt was enough for a first day, though, and Lance was returned to bed.
It was another fifty minutes before Jon finally called. The renewed ache in his leg had begun to taper off enough forLance to remember that he’d wanted to give his buddy shit, but that was short-lived. Once again, a spark of irritated frustration bloomed in his chest.
Jon had been forced to eliminate the shifter that had wounded him. The fuckers had circled back to clean up loose ends from their shooting, or at least, that was how it seemed.
Lance bit back a groan at the notion that Jon had called out ofconcern. He wasn’t sure if he was more pissed for that, or the fact that Jon had some justification. He held his breath for a beat, forcing himself to swallow down his aggravated pride as he thought over Jon’s actual words.
The two shooters from Monday had tracked Jon and ambushed him while Jon was isolated on his newly inherited property. Apparently, they both spoke Spanish and presented as Hispanic. They hadn’t given away much, just a lame nickname for an associate who’d sent them with what might have been a trained fucking attack bird in the form of an actual goddamn blue jay—which was, possibly, the strangest damn thing Lance had ever heard. He finally exhaled. “So, you’ve got a pissed off pajama-boy to worry about, and I need to keep my eyes open for shady fuckers. Sounds like a normal day.”
He expected Jon to correct his pajama translation back to ‘PJ’ which was, apparently, the actual nickname for the associate they didn’t yet know. Jon did not.
“Just wanted to give you the heads-up, man,” Jon said instead. Then he asked the craziest question. “While I’ve got you, how do you feel about helping me launch a private rescue company?”
Both of Lance’s brows jumped up his forehead. “You wanna do what now?”
Jon sighed. The sound was familiar enough that it spoke straight to Lance’s bones. “You might not have realized, but there’s a big problem with missing people—particularly young women—around here. It’s always been a degree of an issue, butit seems to be spiking lately. A college girl vanished just days before we rolled in, and that young girl behind the counter at the bakery? She disappeared Monday night.”
Lance grunted. “Well, shit. That’s a fucking problem.”
“Exactly.”
His lips twitched. “And you’re itching to do something about it in a permanent way, because temporary fixes make you twitchy, right?”
The sound of an engine rolling over in the background carried before Jon’s response. “That about sums it up. I’ve got land I can build on and money to invest. I’ve got the skills. But if I want to sell the idea to whatever suits hold the licenses and permits, it’ll probably look better with an equally qualified partner on my six.”
Lance grinned. “You don’t gotta stroke me like that, Jon. We’re friends. I’ll do it for the regular pay.”
