Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sedation is great, until you have to wake up.
And you realize there is a stranger in the house.
One that looks like he eats puppies or chews on the bones of innocent people for folly.
My scream is loud in my own ears.
I stumble backward, my foot catches on the chair and I fall on my butt behind the small loveseat.
Scrambling to my knees, I bolt toward the door like I’m a toddler on crack.
Two, big, very rough hands land on my arms and haul me upright, lifting me so high, my feet don’t touch the floor.
“Let me go!”
I’m plunked onto the floor and turned around to face a man that’s easily six foot six, and two-seventy. But as scary as his size is, the blackness of his eyes is what makes a fist of fear clench around my stomach.
I feel like I’m staring down the grim reaper. And I thought Scout’s icy eyes were disarming.
Gone mute, I consider whether kicking him in the balls is smart, or will it just get me snapped like a twig.
Maybe I can talk my way out of this.
Whatever this is.
All I know is I’ve never seen this man, and he looks like the kind of person you never want to wake up with in your house.
I blink, my vision not exactly right, and I know it’s from the drugs. Which makes me wonder if I could hit his balls if I tried.
“Where are you going?”
The man’s voice is like thunder and he isn’t bellowing.
“Um… I don’t know who you are.”
His eyes narrow as he grins. “So you’re Scout’s girl?”
I stare at him, too confused to answer. But the fact that he knows I’m Scout’s… Wait. I’m not Scout’s girl. Am I?
Straightening, he crosses his arms. “You’re a little thing, but you got some lungs on you.”
“I do?”
“Not too steady are you?”
I sway to the side and his hand shoots out and wraps around my upper arm. He’s got calluses and his skin is burning hot. Like he chops people up for fun.
Tremble in my voice, I whisper, “Uh, I guess not.”
“Those drugs will do that to you.”
He leads me toward the sofa and I still have the sense I’m being led around by a wraith that’s here to claim my soul .
I give my head a small shake. Something is not right in my brain.
“Did Adam Hill die and come back from the dead?”
When I drop onto the sofa, he takes the seat across from me. “I don’t know his name, but some guy did… uh wake up after visiting a watery grave.”
Crass. God.
“Way to sugar coat it.” I groan and press a hand to my uneasy stomach. “So this isn’t a bad dream.”
More staring from the reaper.
“Does anyone ever tell you you’re scary looking?”
He studies me for a beat then grins. “Usually not the ladies. Being 6’6 has other effects on them.”
I give him a small eye roll, even though I question whether taking my eyes off of him is safe.
“Where’s Scout?”
His lips press into a firm line.
Uh oh. I don’t like that look and he’s not saying, so that’s bad. Heaving my unsteady body up, I try to climb off the couch and he gently pushes me back down. “Nope.”
“I need to talk to him. Where is he?”
“The boys are off working.”
Working as in exacting a slow and painful death on someone? The gurgling in my stomach intensifies. “On the case?”
“Working.”
So much for getting answers out of Grim.
My stomach twists around itself at the thought of what working might mean.
He unfolds from the seat, rising to his ginormous height and looks down at me. “You need to eat.”
“Who are you?”
“You can call me Grim if you like. ”
My eyes shoot open. “Did I say that out loud?”
He chuckles—a dark sound—and strolls off toward the small kitchen.
“Is my brother here?” I call.
“Don’t know your brother.”
“Griffon Kane.”
He stops and pivots with military precision to look at me. A strange expression washes over his hard features, then disappears behind a wall of concern.
Um. I don’t like that look.
“You know him?”
He turns back to the kitchen and jerks open the fridge.
Feeling unsteady, I keep my butt planted on the couch. The last thing I need to do is crack my head on the coffee table. “What’s wrong?”
He gathers some items out of the fridge and places them on the counter. Fruit, yogurt, something I don’t recognize.
“Are you another of the silent brooding types?”
His eyes flick to mine across the bar, but then he silently focuses on his work.
“Come on now,” I plead with frustration in my tone. “If you know Griff, then just say it.”
He reaches for a bowl, rattles around in a kitchen drawer until he has a spoon in his hand. “I know him.”
“Jesus. Who are you?”
“Truck.”
I glance at the door and rub my forehead. If this guy expects me to get in a vehicle with him, he’s nuts. “Hell no,” I mutter. “I’m not going anywhere, I don’t even know you.”
He makes a face. “What are you talking about?”
“Truck?”
He goes back to working on the bowl of yogurt as he shakes his head for a few seconds as if I’ve lost my mind. “That’s my name.”
Oh. Truck—like Scout and Beast. Dropping my head back on the couch, I grimace. “Either I’m really drunk off that medication they gave me or this conversation is completely messed up.”
After some thunking sounds fill the kitchen, he returns. There’s a slight limp to his gait that I didn’t catch before. For a beat, I wonder if he has a war injury too. Not going to ask. Just like I don’t want people to ask about my wrists.
When he puts the bowl on my lap, there’s chopped bits of melon on top of the yogurt and sprinkles of shredded coconut.
For some reason this causes tears to spring to my eyes, making me feel ridiculously vulnerable.
“Oh brother, it’s just a bowl of yogurt,” he says gruffly and he takes a seat in the chair in front of me again. “Eat.”
I weirdly obey, maybe hoping it dissipates some of the fog in my head, or the emotions clawing at the inside of my chest. I’m exhausted too. Like the weight of the past two days is a heavy blanket draped over my shoulders.
He—the guy called Truck—watches me in silent tension. As if he’s looking for some kind of clue.
Well, good luck buddy. I’m clueless right now.
When I’ve finished most of the food, I place the bowl on the small end table and fold myself up in the corner of the couch. I feel small and out of place under his hawk-like observation. “Are you just going to stare at me?”
After rubbing the back of his knuckles over his chin, he starts to speak. “Do you know how Scout and Griff met?”
My brain is foggy, but not that foggy. “Yeah, they met on some kind of mission, I guess. I mean I don’t know the specifics. But Griff is a Delta, which you know, and of course you know Scout is a SEAL, so they work together sometimes.”
I find myself frowning at his stern expression. “Do you have something to add?”
“What has Scout told you about himself?”
I blink at Truck, the big, impossibly dangerous looking man, and realize that this is territory that I’m not comfortable entering. “Some things. But I’m not going to discuss those with you.”
Weaving his hands together, Truck cracks his knuckles. “Do they act jacked up toward each other?”
“Oh yeah.” I curl my arms around my knees. “Like they’re out for blood. Or they don’t trust each other. Or…I just don’t know.”
His eyes glint then he looks away. “You need to know what happened.”