Chapter 7 Priority Target
Chapter seven
Priority Target
Lance felt like he was 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 that had 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 for Lance 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 of concern. 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, but it 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.”
“It’ll probably be a minute before either of us sees money.”
“Then I guess I’ll do it for the thrills.”
“How’s your leg?”
“Took my first steps today,” Lance quipped. “Hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s getting better.” He paused. “So, private rescue company, huh? You realize that’s like a legitimate version of my superhero idea, right?”
“Listen, asshole, I can still uninvite you.”
“Nope, too late, I’m invested. I’m gonna hang up and research the permits and shit you need. Staves off my boredom since your girl’s kidnapped my girl. I expect her back, by the way.”
Jon blew out a hard breath. “I just realized this means I’m stuck with you.”
Lance laughed. “For life, Johnson. Told you I’d cover you.”
“The permit research would be a big help. I’ll call around, too, see how fast I can get things moving.” From his tone, Lance pictured Jon shaking his head.
“Any ideas what you wanna name this company of ours?” Lance asked.
“Shit,” Jon muttered. Then, louder, “Not yet. Text me some thoughts if you have any real suggestions and I’ll do the same.”
A soft tap came from the door, alerting Lance that his next round of something was about to begin, so he said, “Looks like I gotta go. But I’ll get on that.”
“Thanks, bud. Heal up, and stay sharp.” Jon disconnected as an unfamiliar female in nursing scrubs stepped into the room.
The nurse was shorter than average, about five-foot, two-inches by his estimation, and he was sure he hadn’t seen this one yet.
She had bright blonde hair pulled into a braid and loosely draped over her shoulder, a slightly darker complexion, and brown eyes.
Her makeup was colorful in a soft way that made her look youthful and approachable.
She carried nothing more than a tablet, like most of the nurses, and her nails were an effeminate statement if ever Lance had seen one.
They were long, tapered, bright pink, and each one held chunky gold sparkly pieces that reflected the light with her every movement.
Her face flushed red and her shoulders drew tight as she took a couple of small, almost hesitant, steps forward.
Alarm bells went off in Lance’s head and his brow furrowed. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, keeping his tone gentle, “but you seem uncomfortable. Do you not like helping male patients or something?”
Her eyes widened and her face reddened. “Oh, no! It’s not that.
I’m sorry.” She pressed a hand to her chest, the deep blue of her scrub top only emphasizing the color of her manicure.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, taking another step forward.
“I’m Amy. I actually work the nursing desk, but …
well, this is highly inappropriate and I could definitely lose my job for involving myself at all, let alone a patient, but—”
“Hey,” Lance interrupted, sensing her building mania.
He stretched up the hand that was nearest her in a gesture meant to encourage calm.
It was a reflex, but he made no effort to curb the motion.
“Take a breath, Amy. Sit down if you need to. I’m Lance.
And I assume you have a good reason for breaking protocol, if that’s what you’re doing? ”
She rolled her lips together and drew a deep breath through her nose, then nodded clearly.
He lowered his arm. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me what you know, and why you came to me.”
Her brow pinched, anxious worry tightening her features, and she gripped the tablet in both hands.
“I’m … being a bit presumptive. A lot presumptive.
” She gulped in another breath. “I’ve developed the impression that there might be something …
at least building, let’s say, between you and Lynnette.
And that’s not an accusation. I don’t know her well, she doesn’t usually work this unit, but I like her.
She’s not as cliquey as a lot of the other nurses around here are.
And the only time I’ve seen her lose composure at all was when we talked a bit about you, so I developed some suspicions. ”