Chapter 34
Tired.
Cranky.
Confused.
Sabrina was all those things four hours later as she crossed the blacktop stretch from BKI’s front gate to the front door of the old menthol cigarette factory.
Sweat slid between her shoulder blades despite the sun finally tapping out. What was left of the big, orange orb sent long, lavender shadows crawling over the compound. And the humidity in the air clung to her like wet denim.
Winter in Chicago could be miserable. She’d expected that when she’d first moved from Charleston. But what she had not expected was for summer to be so…summery, for the heat to compete with the sultry southern sun she’d lamented her whole life.
Don’t wish your life away.
She’d read that somewhere. But here she was, dreaming of autumn. Dreaming of falling leaves and cool breezes, scarves and hot chocolate and evenings out by the fire pit in deep conversation with Hew.
Hew…
It always came back to him, didn’t it? Although at the moment, she had no desire to converse with him and every desire to whack him upside the head because he was the cause of the current state of her tiredness, crankiness, and confusion.
Behind her, Martin waited in his car, engine idling. A gentleman to the core.
When she reached the front door and turned to wave at him, to assure him she was safe—as if she wouldn’t be inside a ten-foot-tall razor-wire-topped brick wall with a security guard posted out front—he gave her a huge smile. Waved back. And then slowly let his Mercedes crawl away from the curb.
Such a good man, she thought as she dejectedly opened the door. He deserves better than me. Better than someone who’s in love with someone else.
The familiar smells inside the big, brick building wafted over her. Motor oil, burned coffee, and that faint tang of scorched steel that always tickled the back of her throat.
Usually, the scents settled her. Lent her a sense of security she hadn’t felt since…
Actually, she’d never felt it.
Her childhood home had been a den of neglect and poverty, and the apartment she’d rented in Charleston once she’d moved out of her parents’ house had been susceptible to tidal flooding and palmetto bug infestations.
It wasn’t until she’d taken up residence inside the big-shouldered building that was Black Knights Inc. that she’d enjoyed true, unassailable safety.
Today, however, the three-story factory seemed to mock her. Seemed to whisper in her ear, Home is where your heart is. But where’s Hew’s heart?
She didn’t know. Couldn’t begin to guess because the mixed signals were mixed signaling, and she was too tired, cranky, and confused to sort through them.
The way Hew had touched her, so reverent and worshipful—like she was fragile and holy—had convinced her what they’d done together was more than obligation on his part. More than just him helping her over that final hurdle in her healing.
No man fakes that kind of care, she’d told herself as she lay naked in his arms.
Now? She wasn’t so sure.
He’d been so unbothered by the thought of her meeting Martin. So uncaring that they wouldn’t get to go upstairs and finish what they’d started. But more than that, he’d seemed…relieved?
That had been relief she’d seen in his eyes, right?
His body wanted her. There was no denying that. But physical attraction didn’t equal romantic intention. It certainly didn’t equal love. And she wasn’t fool enough to believe it wasn’t possible she’d projected all of her own feelings—her own wants and desires—onto him.
Was it reasonable to believe that what she’d thought was reverence and worship was just her good friend Hew giving her his all? Giving it his all? Because the man didn’t know how to do anything by half-measures?
Unfortunately, the answer to that question was yes.
So, where does that leave us now?
Then she remembered his promise.
Friends.
He’d vowed that, no matter what, they’d remain friends.
Unfortunately, now that she knew how much more was possible between them, now that she knew the joy of sharing her body with him on top of already sharing her heart and soul, the thought of going back to just friends felt unsatisfying. Depressing even.
With a dejected sigh, she shut the door behind her. Then, she straightened her shoulders and willed herself to get it together.
Any disappointment she felt was of her own making. Any awkwardness or confusion or heartbreak was hers and hers alone. She had been the one to offer up the arrangement. She had been the one to make the deal.
Grin and bear it.
That’s what she’d do. She’d put on the proverbial happy face. Suck it up and bury it deep, and then pave over it with two feet of asphalt.
The smile she forced was so fake it made her cheeks ache. But it faded quickly when she realized the shop was empty. No clanking tools. No revving engines. No humming machines.
She’d spent more time than she’d meant to with Martin at the pub down the street.
But it had been good to sit on the barstool and forget the horrors of the past two days.
Forget the hurricane of emotions making her heart swirl and her head twist. Forget that in the space of one afternoon, everything and nothing had changed.
There at the pub, surrounded by regular people enjoying regular lives, she’d been able to pretend she belonged to a world untouched by violence and fear.
And despite the foul taste it had left in her mouth, she’d lied to Martin about how she’d sustained her injuries, telling him she’d gotten them in the wreck.
Martin, who was so kind and concerned. Martin, who gave her the opposite of mixed signals. Martin, who was smart and funny and handsome and…not Hew.
That was the kicker, wasn’t it? He wasn’t Hew.
And although she tried not to compare the two men, she couldn’t help herself.
Martin’s charm was polished and polite. His confidence was borne of personal achievement and financial success—and having a face that belonged on billboards.
Whereas Hew? Hew was raw edges and callused hands.
He had the kind of confidence that came from feeling more at home in a cockpit or a mechanic’s bay than in a boardroom.
Where Martin dazzled with easy conversation, Hew spoke in a few words that somehow carried more weight than entire TED Talks. Martin’s smile impressed her. Hew’s smile unraveled her.
Damnit, why hadn’t she told Martin that her heart belonged to someone else?
She could have brought it up when he took her hand and held it beneath the bar. She could have confessed it when he softly cupped her cheek to stare deep into her eyes. She could have blurted it out when he pulled up beside the curb next to the front gate and leaned over to kiss her lips.
But she hadn’t.
Lord, help her; she hadn’t because it had been nice to sit next to a handsome man and know how he felt about her.
Nice to feel wanted because she was her, Sabrina Greenlee, a strong, independent, successful woman, and not because she was some damsel in distress who needed saving.
Or worse, some sort of final obligation.
She hadn’t told him. But she should have. She would the next time she saw him because it was only fair. Only right.
Sighing heavily, she turned for the kitchen. But she stopped in her tracks when she heard voices floating down from the second floor.
“—made it back with no one the wiser—”
“—bodies won’t be found—”
“—no record of our involvement—”
The Knights were in the War Room doing a sit-rep. Considering she’d been at the heart of their recent troubles, she should go up and chime in where appropriate.
But first? Water.
The gin and tonic she’d nursed at the pub should have been refreshing. But all it had done was leave a bitter taste in her mouth and make her stomach feel queasy.
Or maybe that’s just my mixed-up, messed-up emotions, she admitted dolefully as she resumed her journey toward the kitchen.
Half the can of lime sparkling water was gone when she stepped onto the second-floor landing. And she hid a silent burp behind her fist when she realized it wasn’t only the Black Knights discussing the events of the past two days.
A laptop sat open at the end of the table, facing Boss. Its display threw a cold glow over his stony expression.
On the screen, Sabrina could see Madam President, looking as stately and poised as ever in a blue blazer and a brown bob that could’ve passed for a bicycle helmet. Beside her was Leonard Meadows. He looked like he’d just bitten into something sour.
“How did you find the abductors?” Meadows was asking.
Boss answered smoothly, “Ozzie matched CCTV footage of the van that followed Sabrina out of town to images we later captured at an old bottling plant. The Knights were ready to drop in the second Sabrina’s abductors called to reveal the location of the drop.”
Given what the Knights had learned from Black Widow regarding Bishop and his position in government, they'd decided not to inform Madam President or her chief of staff about Kerberos's involvement or Black Widow's capture.
The Knights no longer knew whom to trust. And perhaps that was the most disturbing thing to come from the events of the last two days.
Sabrina skirted around the table, careful to avoid the laptop camera’s line of sight because she’d never been comfortable talking to two of the most important people in the country. And now that one of them might actually be a traitor? She was even less inclined to show her face.
She dropped into the first open seat, next to Fisher. He greeted her with a downward jerk of his chin, and she nodded back. Then she slid her gaze around the table, looking for…
There you are, you sexy, confusing, infuriating thing, she thought when her eyes landed on Hew’s profile.
She willed him to look at her. To give her some clue about what he was thinking. What he was feeling. What he wanted to do going forward.
He didn’t. He just stared straight ahead, expression unreadable.
“And I’m assuming the cash is back with the treasury?” the president asked.
Boss nodded. “Signed, sealed, and delivered by our two favorite G-women.”
Meadows’s voice was as sharp as a tack. “And the abductors? Were you able to ID them?”
“They were all ex-military. Except one, who was ex-CIA.”
“You don’t think that’s…coincidental?” Meadows pressed.
Boss’s insouciant shrug was award-worthy. “If there was more to it, the people who could tell us about it are dead.”
“Okay.” The president’s strident voice sounded through the laptop’s speakers. “What’s done is done. We’ve kept you long enough this evening. Go home to your families.”
“Sorry, Madam President,” Meadows cut in just as Boss was about to shut the laptop. “But I have one more thing to ask before we sign off.”
Even though Sabrina couldn’t see the screen from where she sat, she imagined President Sandra J. Stevens nodding her head regally.
“Do you all still feel equipped to continue this work?”
Meadows’s question hung in the air like a lead anvil. And for long moments, it was met by silence. Deep, resounding, soul-sucking silence.
“Sorry, sir,” Boss said carefully. “What, exactly, are you asking?”
“You were all confronted with a situation wherein the promise Madam President and I made to you years ago was put into play. The promise that we wouldn’t intervene, for good or for bad.
The promise that we would protect the president’s plausible deniability at all costs.
” There was another pregnant pause before he finished.
“I suppose I’d like a little reassurance that this most recent incident hasn’t changed our working relationship. ”
“Leonard.” The president’s tone held a note of reprimand.
Meadows didn’t budge. “We need to know, Sandra.”
The easy way they used each other's first names felt oddly uncomfortable. Sabrina shifted in her chair.
Boss glanced around the table, locking eyes with each of the Knights before once again facing the screen. “The Black Knights continue to serve at your pleasure, Madam President. Nothing’s changed.”
Except…everything had. Because the White House had a conspirator walking its hallowed halls.
“Good,” Meadows said. “Then, we’ll let you all head home for the night. Thanks for the update.”
And then, mercifully, Boss shut the laptop lid with a satisfying snap. Multiple people around the table exhaled like they’d been holding their breath.
“Is it just me?” Becky looked around. “Or does everything they say now sound shady as shit?”
“I hate being paranoid,” Fisher muttered.
“Try being the daughter of a maybe-traitor,” Eliza grumbled, and then gave Fisher a wavering smile when he lifted her hand to kiss her fingers.
“Sorry, darlin’,” he told her quietly. “I hate this for you.”
“I hate this for all of us,” she countered.
“Here’s a silver lining,” Ozzie interjected, looking at his phone.
“Graham just landed in D.C. He’ll spend a couple of weeks shadowing Lura Dougherty.
If she’s clean and clear, he’ll ask her to be our eyes and ears inside the White House, and Operation Find Out Who Bishop Is will officially be underway. ”
Becky wrinkled her nose. “Let’s workshop that title. Doesn’t quite slide off the tongue.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sabrina chuffed out a laugh.
That was the thing about the Black Knights. They could joke even when they were knee-deep in shit.
“Black Widow?” she asked, looking at Boss. “Is she…?” She didn’t finish the question.
“Gone,” he assured her, and her shoulders sagged with relief.
“Hopefully for good,” she muttered, still unsure if she’d made the right call. Still worried about what would happen to them if she hadn’t.
His rugged face softened. “Mercy is never the wrong move, Sabrina.”
She gave him a weary nod but couldn’t keep the skepticism from her expression.
“It’s been a helluva couple of days.” Boss rapped his knuckles on the table and then pushed to a stand. “I need my kids, my wife, and a large meat lovers’ pizza.” He offered Becky his hand. “Take me home, Goose, or lose me forever.”
And that was that.
The room broke into motion, chairs scraping, conversations starting and stopping as goodbyes were said. Those who lived off-site headed for the exit, and those who didn’t scattered into other parts of the building.
Which left…Hew.
He was finally looking at her, although his expression was unreadable.
If the Guinness Book of World Records ever decides to open up a category for Best Poker Face, Hewitt Birch is a shoo-in, she thought irritably.
She had just convinced herself to grin and bear it, to suck it up and let things go back to the way they were pre-multiple orgasms. But screw that.
She needed more than his taciturn expressions and vague commentary. She needed answers. Actual words. The unvarnished truth straight out of his mouth.
Only then would she be able to bury her feelings deep and pave over them.
Her fingers twisted together beneath the table. But above the table, she firmed her chin and blurted, “Can we talk?”