She crossed her arms. “Did they blame you?”
“No.”
“Did they tell you to leave? Were you fired?” Her eyes moved across my face, reading something I couldn’t hide even if I’d wanted to.
“No. I made that call myself.”
Lark was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful and clear.
“Do you trust Hunter?”
“With my life.”
“Then tell him your concerns about tonight.” She held my gaze. “Being honest with each other changed everything for us. So trust that it’ll work the same way with him.”
I wanted to argue. Stepping back was one thing. I could do that on my own, quietly, and nobody had to know why. What Lark was asking me to do was stand in front of Hunter and say it out loud.
“Those men are your team.” She picked up the clipboard and held it against her chest. “And the team deserves the same honesty I just got.”
She was right. I didn’t like it, but she was right. I didn’t want to bail on the guys when I was needed, but on the other hand…Hunter needed to know a member of the team was flawed. It wasn’t fair to catch him off guard.
“Okay.”
“Good. Go find him before your stubbornness talks you out of it.”
I kissed her once, brief and hard, and walked out of the barn before I could think about it too long. The gravel crunched under my boots and the late sun was low enough to throw long shadows off the barn roof, and every step toward that conversation felt heavier than the last.
Hunter’s truck was already in the lot. He was leaning against the tailgate with his arms crossed, watching the road. Beckett and Coop hadn’t arrived yet, but they’d be here any second.
“Got a minute?”
He studied me. Whatever he read made him push off the truck and walk with me toward the paddock fence, away from the house, away from the barn.
“I need to tell you something before tonight.”
“I’m listening.”
“You know why I left Warrior Security. What happened on that last op, the ten seconds I lost in the corridor, Beckett having to bring me back.” I gripped the fence rail. “I haven’t had an episode since. But tonight, it’s trying to surface, and I can’t promise it won’t happen again when things get real out there. I’m a liability.”
I hated that fucking word. Actually, the word wasn’t the problem. I hated that the fucking word applied tome.
Hunter was quiet for a beat. He turned to face me fully, his forearms on the top rail, and gave me the same unhurried focus he gave a tactical problem.
“I appreciate you telling me. And here’s what I’ll tell you back.” He held my gaze. “You’re not the only one on this team carrying something like that. I’ve had episodes that shut me down so hard my hands wouldn’t work.”
He let that sit. “Beckett’s had it happen. Cooper. And Travis, hell, he was a fucking basket case for years. Every one of us has a version of PTSD.”
“That’s different. You all still operate.”
“We operate because we know each other’s edges. That’s the whole point of a team. The problem isn’t the ten seconds. The problem is if nobody around you knows it could happen.”
He straightened up. “But now we know.”
“And if it happens again?”
“Then someone will be there. We’ll all be watching for each other tonight. I’ll talk to the guys individually so they know what’s going on. And now you know to keep an eye on them too.” He clapped my shoulder once, brief and solid. “That good enough?”
It was better than anything I’d gotten from my own head in the past six hours.
