CHERISH (29 page)

I shake my head, pressing two fingers to her lips to stop the torrential downpour of frantic questions. I want to find the right words, but there are no words that will make it less painful. No special words I can use that won’t break her heart. Hurting the one you love the most is a special kind of horror. Even with all my training, every mission I’ve been in, I have no magic for this. No roadmap to make it safely to the other side.

“We . . .” My fucking voice cracks at the first word and her eyes darken. “There’s more I need to tell you.” I take a breath. The joy drains from her face and I hate Louis. And then, I hate that I hate him because it's just passing the blame. The lie is on me, not him.

“What?” She blinks twice, slowly, and then she reads my face. It’s amazing how well she already knows me. “What happened? You said he was fine!” The pitch of her voice scrapes raw on my nerves. “Beckett! What’s wrong?” Her voice sharpens with each word until shredded screams fall from her lips. Caught in their momentum. Before I can force more words from my lips, she fires again. “You said he was fine!”

She twists and fights to throw the sheet off her legs, slapping my hand away from where I was holding her cheek.

I’ve lost my voice. There is no way to put the words in an order that doesn’t shatter her. I know now that she will never forgive me for this.

“Babe—” I steel myself, take a breath and ready myself to tell it all.

A solid knock at the door drags her eyes away from me for a split second, but this can’t wait. Whatever is on the other side of that door can fucking wait.

“Come back later!” I yell, not taking my eyes from Promise, who stares me down like a lioness guarding her cub.

“Telllllll meeeeeee!” she screams and slams both fists into my chest, shifting to kneel at the edge of the bed, finding her strength from somewhere deep down. Then she pulls herself up until we are eye to eye. I think my heart will never beat again.

Say it. You just have to say it.

“Jordan, he’s . . .” I swallow. “There was a—”

Another knock, louder this time and I turn around to bust someone’s teeth down their throat.

As I spin on my heel, the door squeaks open an inch, then swings wide.

My jaw drops. There’s Bruce, perfect in a fresh polo, canary yellow this time, and his usual Khakis. He’s holding a bouquet of pink miniature roses in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other.

And there, behind him, is Jordan.

Beckett

“Isn’t anyone going to say anything about the flowers?” Bruce snorts as he settles into the corner of the room by the window. He lays the flowers on the window sill and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

The first five minutes after Bruce walked in with Jordan in tow, I swear I forgot his ass was even here. Promise exploded in sobs, bounced off the bed, pulling the little IV stand behind her. Then, she practically tore the kid’s head off, hugging him around the throat until he had to fucking tap-out.

When the shock wore off, I managed to gather enough composure to ask what the fuck just happened.

Bruce explained he’d gone to the loft like Promise had requested, to pick up some clothes she wanted and the sketch I drew of her in court all those years ago.

He’d been heading into the street side door when a long black Lincoln appeared at the curb and sidled to a stop.

He went ahead into the building, up the stairs and managed to open the loft door. But before he closed it behind him, there was Louis with Jordan in tow, looking for Promise.

Jordan’s bullet wound went straight through, missing his heart by an angel’s hair and shot out the back between two ribs. The whole situation has the word “miracle” written all over it. I’m going to hit my knees later and thank the Lord that my ass has been saved.

“Fuck, man. What the fuck is happening?” I rub my forehead. I’m staring at Bruce, still unsure that this is actually real.

“Watch your language. I’m a kid, you know.” Jordan’s smile lights up the room. Promise pats his head like he's a puppy sitting on the edge of the hospital bed.

“So where’s Louis?” I ask Bruce. I don't want to ruin the moment, but there is still a shit cloud on the horizon and some details that need to be ironed out before I can finally exhale.

“He said he’ll talk to you later. When
you’re
ready. He’s back at his house.”

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Promise sits back on the bed, dragging Jordan practically into her lap with her. She’s had him in a choke hold since he walked in. The kid’s giving me a pleading look but I shake my head. There is no fucking way I’m coming between my girl and what she wants, not this time. And she’s wanted him for so long she’s not going to relinquish him now.

“I’ll tell you,” Jordan pipes up proudly. “Beckett came to rescue me. Louis’s dad shot me,
but I’m fine
.” He rolls his eyes as he emphasizes the last three words.

“Shot you?” Promise glares at me and tightens her lips.

Jordan flips his head around trying to get his sister in his sights before he starts defending me. “Don’t get mad. Beckett threw himself at me. Tried to block the shot. He tried to shield me with his body.”

“Then what?” Promise’s voice remains steady but she’s still trying to kill me with the spears coming out of her eyes.

“Then, it was all crazy. There was some big fight. I have no idea what they were all saying, but Louis scooped me up and took me to the hospital. Zaid drove and they screamed in Arabic the whole way. I stayed overnight at the hospital. Then that was it. Louis sent Zaid to the house to get our stuff and then we drove to the airport. So, I’ve been shot! Can you believe that?” Jordan’s chest puffs up as he looks between Bruce and me, like it's some sort of badge of honor. Something tells me Promise won't see it that way. “Louis took great care of me the whole trip, so don’t worry. It wasn’t
his
fault, Promise. His dad shot me. His dad is crazy.” Jordan pumps his blond eyebrows up and down and nods, his wide eyes staring me down.

Promise gives me
the look
and I raise my hands in surrender. “You didn’t have time to tell me any of this?” She pins her eyes on my face as she waits for my reply.

I keep my hands high as I huff out a breath. The relief is overpowering the guilt, but I'm still feeling like I just took a bullet myself. “Since I walked in here yesterday, you’ve been asleep. Then we had the ultra sound and the baby doctor—”

“
Baby doctor?
” Jordan’s mouth drops open. “You’re having
a baby
?”

He looks at Promise, scoots back from her never-ending half nelson and wipes the back of his hand under his nose with a sniff.

She gives him a crooked smile while crinkling her nose and I hear Bruce chuckle in the corner and stomp his foot.

“But . . .” Jordan looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Wait. But, you like
just
got married. Like yesterday.”

Promise gives me the deer-in-the-headlights look as if to say it’s my fault. I want to argue that it wasn't yesterday that we got married, but somehow I don't think that would solve the problem.

“It happens,” Bruce chimes in.

Jordan looks up at me, then back to his sister. Then me again, before he squishes up his face which turns ten shades of red.

“Oh my God. Ick.” He shakes his head back and forth like he’s tasted something terrible.

“You’re going to be an uncle.” Promise reaches over and gives him a playful punch on his shoulder.

I let out a deep breath and look over at Bruce, who couldn’t smile any bigger if someone painted it on his face with clown makeup.

“Louis is waiting for you at his house,” Bruce says, tipping his head to the door. “He said he’ll wait up. I’ll stay here if you want. Keep an eye on these two.”

“I’m not sure one of you is enough to handle both of them.” A shiver snakes down my back as I consider what kind of conversation I will have with the man I thought was my best friend. The one who betrayed me.

“I’ve got skills.” Bruce stands up, wiping his hands down the front of his polo. “Trust me. When you do what I do for a living, you learn to juggle the crazy.” He snort-laughs one more time, and Jordan and Promise resume chattering away behind me.

Okay. Time to find out what Louis has to say for himself.

Beckett

Louis’s house is not quite Donald Trump's, but it’s generous. Not gaudy, but classic center hallway. Red brick, with a front porch that drapes from end to end with white pillars and lush ferns hanging between.

I’ve been here more times than I can count. It’s on a street with only a few houses. Louis’s place sits a third of the way down the road and beyond his there are only two more. One is similar to his, a bit newer, set on a big, open, five-acre lot with a manicured lawn and designer landscaping.

The last house is the one that’s always caught my eye though. As I pull the Suburban slowly down Louis’s quarter mile drive, I see the black and gold ‘for sale’ sign in that lot.

The old farmer at the end of the road used to own all this property where the newer houses have been built. But the original homestead still sits back on its own land. Nearly fifty acres of white fencing defining pastures. Beyond their straight lines, I notice a few horses nibbling the grass. The century-old farmhouse is not in its original state but it looks like it’s about to get a new lease on life.

I hope whomever buys it doesn’t tear it down and chop up the land to put in a cookie cutter subdivision. What a fucking shame that would be.

Every window in Louis’s two-story colonial glows with light. I pull in the drive, put the Suburban in park, shut down the engine and try to steady my breath. I can’t imagine what he has to say to me.

I’m trying to decide if I want to break every fucking bone in his body or listen to him, the man I’d thought was my friend for so many years. It takes me ten minutes of stillness to settle the contradictory voices in my head.

I pop my neck a few times. I only realize I am grinding my teeth when the pain starts to shoot into my ears.

I can be an asshole. Especially if you are on the wrong side of me. But even with everything life has shown me, I believe there is still some good in this world. It may be hard to remember right now, but Louis was part of that good stuff for so long that I have to give him a chance, have to give him that part of me that still wants to hear his side of the story. I want more than anything for his explanation to make sense. For there to be something there I can hang onto and maybe even open up a sliver of forgiveness.

I’ve got a shit ton of questions for him to answer before we can even consider re-building any level of what we had, but I decide to leave the door open. Everyone has a history. A past. Maybe he has something to say that will help me understand. And the truth is, with Jordan home and Promise on the mend, he's caught me in a good mood. Well, better than it would have been a few hours ago.

I push open the car door and my boots hit solid on the geometric pattern of brick pavers. He knows I’m here. I’m sure of it. Maybe it's my army training or maybe it's a sixth sense, I don't know. But he’s letting me come to him. He knows me well and that’s a good sign.

I sniff and climb the five steps to the porch, then lurch forward with a knot in my stomach the size of Texas, knocking my knuckles onto the walnut carved door twice.

It’s a gesture. I’m sure he knows exactly where I am. And within three seconds I know I’m right because I hear the latch click. The light from inside streams out in a white streak across my face and Louis steps back, nodding gently and opening his arm to invite me in without a word.

His face is tired. He looks older and his hair is grown out, longer than I’ve ever seen.

“Thanks for coming.” He shuts the door with a little click behind me, then steps to the side as I turn and try to decide how this is going to go.

“What the fuck, Louis?” It’s not the opening I’d rehearsed, but it tumbles out and what the hell, let’s get to it. At least it's honest.

His chin drops as he stuffs his hands into the back pockets of his black pants and drops his eyes to the floor. He’s always been bigger than life to me. An icon of stability, kindness, power. Right now he looks broken. Smaller. I hear him let out a stream of air.