Chapter 18
Black Knights Inc.
There are two kinds of pain in the world. The kind that uses you, and the kind that you use.
It was her father’s favorite saying. Eliza had never really taken it to heart until she’d woken up at noon to a throbbing head, an aching eye, and the memory of the carnage from the night before.
And then there’s what happened with Fisher.
She wasn’t sure if he was the cherry on top of a shitastic sundae or the only bright spot in an otherwise bleak and brutal night.
Maybe a little of both, she decided.
Because while he’d given her what she asked for, a taste of what could be, a distraction from all her grief and horror, he’d also hammered in the last nail on the coffin lid to her dreams.
Yes, despite telling herself he’d never love her the way she loved him, there’d been a part of her that had held out hope. That had thought…maybe, someday.
More fool me, she chastised herself now as she placed the sourdough in her favorite Dutch oven and popped on the lid.
Taking her dad’s words to heart, all afternoon she’d used her pain to cross things off her to-do list. She’d called her father to bring him up-to-date on the visit from the feds while assuring him again that she was safer at Black Knights Inc. than anywhere else. She’d phoned Agent O’Toole to ask if she needed to come down to FBI headquarters to give an official statement, but the nice lady agent had allowed her to simply email her statement instead.
“Best if you stay inside those ten-foot walls until we determine if we need to move you,” O’Toole had said. And when Eliza had asked if there was any new information on the Chastains’ deaths, she’d heard the hesitation in O’Toole’s voice. “I usually don’t share information about cases with witnesses, but given who your dad is, I’m sure you’ll find out sooner rather than later. Especially since he was the one to actually give us this lead.”
Eliza’s ears had pricked up. “I’m listening.”
“Everyone at the party, at least all the members of congress, were working with Senator McClean on a joint committee that was investigating congressional malfeasance.”
“So they were basically the congressional equivalent of Internal Affairs.”
“Precisely.” O’Toole hadn’t been able to disguise her intrigue. Her partner had called her a dog with a bone, and it seemed, thanks to Eliza’s father, she had picked up a scent.
“The question now becomes,”Eliza had said, “who were they investigating?”
“And I’m looking into it as we speak. Can you recall any conversations you had about any government employees who weren’t at the party?”
“I mean, that’s pretty much all that was talked about. I don’t know if you’ve spent much time around politicians, Agent O’Toole, but they’re the world’s biggest gossips.”
“Anything specific spring to mind?” O’Toole had prompted and Eliza had cast her mind back to the party and the small talk she and Charlie had exchanged with others before he’d dragged her toward the back of the patio so he could propose.
“A lot of people asked about my father. There was the usual chatter about the president and her husband.” The First Gentleman was a bit of a glory hound and was always appearing on the late shows and giving Washington plenty of material to buzz about. “The usual chitchat about whichever recent congressional scandal was making headlines.”
“Include all of it in your statement,” O’Toole had instructed.
“Will do,” Eliza had assured her.
“No detail is too small,” the agent had emphasized. “No impression is too inconsequential. Once I’ve read it, I’ll call you if I have further questions. In the meantime, stay inside the compound.”
After Eliza had gotten off the phone, she’d done inventory on the ammunition shed and had put in an order for more 5.56x45 mm NATO rounds. She’d answered the same question about Charlie a dozen times over, and her answer had always been the same. No, she had not accepted his proposal. Finally, she’d sat down to go through her cookbooks and pick out recipes for the next week.
Then she had started baking. And baking. And baking.
So far she’d used her pain to whip up two pans of banana bread—now that she knew Fisher loved it, she was determined to keep some on hand—two dozen red velvet cupcakes with homemade cream cheese frosting, one lemon tart, and she was on her second loaf of sourdough bread.
The sun had dipped below the buildings to the west. And it was way past time for everyone who no longer lived onsite to head home. But she found the kitchen full of the people she’d grown to know and love.
Boss and Becky sat at the center island taking turns feeding each other cupcakes like they were newlyweds instead of being old hats at the game. Boss looked like a giant next to his tiny wife. But Eliza had learned it was Becky who was the real big cheese. Her scowling, scarred behemoth of a husband was firmly wrapped around her pinky finger just like he was wrapped around the pinkie fingers of their two pigtailed girls who were currently upstairs playing pool with three of their honorary uncles: Graham, Britt, and Hewitt.
Michelle sat on the counter beside the sink with Snake standing between her spread knees. She filled him in on her day and when Eliza turned her ear that way, she caught a snippet of their conversation.
“I swear this practice was out in the middle of nowhere,” Michelle said with exasperation. She was a pharmaceutical rep and spent her days visiting doctors’ offices and talking about the latest wonder drugs to hit the market. “I got lost three times despite the help of my GPS. And then the universe decided I needed an additional challenge and gave me a flat tire.”
“I’m sorry, babe.” Snake slid his hands up his wife’s linen-clad thighs and squeezed once he reached the bend in her hips. Eliza quickly turned back to her task because the gesture looked blatantly sexual. And right on cue, Snake added, “I’ll make it all better once I get you home.”
She didn’t need to glance back to know Snake had swept Michelle’s hair over her shoulder and leaned forward to kiss the woman’s neck. Anytime she heard that note of innuendo in his voice—which was often—that’s exactly what he did.
Ozzie and Samantha sat at the little bistro table in the corner play-arguing, which was one of their favorite pastimes. Eliza wasn’t sure where the conversation had started, but she tuned-in in time to hear Samantha tell her husband, “Of course I know that. I’m not an idiot.”
The look on Ozzie’s face said he was prone to argue. But the way Samantha lifted a warning finger let him know that if he opened his mouth, she was liable to scratch his eyes out.
Ozzie simply leaned across the table, grabbed one of Samantha’s riotous curls and let it spiral through his fingers. “Have I told you yet today just how adorable you are?” he asked with a wry grin.
Samantha told him where he could shove his charm using descriptive words that left no room for misunderstanding. But there was no heat in her voice while there was a definite twinkle in her eye.
As Eliza watched, Ozzie leaned forward to plant a long, lingering kiss on Samantha’s lips. By the time he let the pretty investigative reporter up for air, Samantha looked breathless and dazed.
“Fine,” she sighed. “You win.”
“Yes!” Ozzie shot a fist in the air with enough force to have his mad-scientist hair bouncing. “Victory is its own reward!” He lowered his voice and lifted a seductive eyebrow. “But you, love of my life, will be the one to reap the benefits of my triumph once we get the baby to sleep tonight.”
Eliza felt surrounded by love and affection. She usually drank it up. But this evening it only reminded her that her love would never feed her cupcakes or brush her hair back over her shoulder or tease her terribly before kissing her until her knees gave out.
Some of what she was feeling must have revealed itself in her expression because Becky reached across the large island with its soapstone countertop to pat her hand. “Hey, girl. I know intrusive thoughts when I see them. You okay?”
Becky had recently cut her long, blond hair into a flirty bob that suited her pixie face. Anyone looking at her would drop a jaw to learn she was the mother of two, because the haircut made her appear all of eighteen. But there was wisdom and understanding in her eyes as she let her gaze roam over Eliza’s face.
“Yeah.” Eliza nodded. “Thanks. I keep thinking if I just stay busy, I won’t have time to think. But I forget that baking and thinking go hand-in-hand.”
“It’s perfectly normal to miss him even if you didn’t want to marry him,” Becky assured her. “I mean, you liked him, right? He was a good guy. So I don’t blame you for replaying everything in your head. Just don’t let that film roll on for too long, or it tends to get stuck in a loop.”
Eliza felt like the world’s biggest ass.
Of course Becky thought she was remembering Charlie and the horror of the shooting. Who wouldn’t be remembering that?
Me, apparently, a lovesick fool and the world’s biggest ass.
Embarrassed to admit the truth, she simply nodded. “Thanks. That’s good advice.” She glanced around the kitchen to find six sets of worried eyes fixed on her. “I know you’re all hanging around because you’re trying to distract me. And I appreciate it. But you have lives and kids and bedrooms to get back to.” She pinned a meaningful look on Jake and Michelle and then transferred it to Ozzie and Samantha. Samantha had the good grace to blush. “Please go about your evenings. That’s what’s going to help me the most, I think. I just need everyone to keep on keeping on as usual and?—”
Sam interrupted her when he walked into the room carrying Ozzie and Samantha’s baby girl like one might carry an active grenade.
“She needs a diaper change.” He quickly handed the baby off to Ozzie. “I’ll do feedings and clean up puke. But when it comes to poopy diapers, I’m out.”
“Coward,” Ozzie accused.
Sam was unfazed. “Say what you will. But I’d rather face an armed assailant than a Pampers full of soft serve. And if the sounds that just came outta her are any indication, that’s what’s waiting for you.” He gestured toward little Sophia Marie’s bulging diaper with an offended curl of his upper lip.
The pitter-patter of little feet heralded the arrival of Charlotte and Hazel, Boss and Becky’s two girls. And quick on their heels marched Britt, Hewitt, and Graham. Then Franklin and JJ, Snake and Michelle’s two boys, pushed through the back door. Both of them wore baseball mitts. Fisher sauntered in behind them, tossing a baseball in the air before easily catching it.
Just like that, the kitchen went from full to packed-to-the-gills.
The moment Fisher stopped by the back door to chuck the baseball in the cubby they kept for just such things, her mind flew back to the night before. To the way he’d kissed her. To the way he’d held her. To the way he’d told her under no circumstances would he ever love her the way she loved him.
They’d barely spoken two words to each other all day. Which, if she was being honest, was her doing.
She’d been avoiding him.
Or, rather, she’d been keeping herself so busy she hadn’t afforded him any opportunity to talk to her. What was left to say? They’d said it all the night before.
Her lips burned from where she’d been biting them all afternoon. Her pulse thumped so hard it hurt. But she managed to offer him a small smile and a subtle nod when his gaze found hers.
It was the only olive branch she had to give. And she hoped he understood that just because he wasn’t capable of giving her what she wanted, she wasn’t upset with him. Sad? Sure. But not upset. Never upset.
How could I be mad at him when he’s always told me the truth?
His chin dipped in response to her smile, but the rest of him was as still and as imposing as a mountain.
Good grief, why does he have to look so good?
His too-long hair was windblown from playing catch. His cheeks were tinged pink from the July heat. And the tan skin of his neck glistened with the faintest sheen of sweat.
All around her there was noise. The baby had started fussing. The two little girls were squealing and clapping their hands as their parents split a cupcake between them.
Hewitt and Sam were giving each other a hard time. “There are two things I don’t like about you, Hew, and both are your face,” Sam said.
To which Hewitt replied, “Oh, cry me a river, why doncha? And then go drown yourself in it.”
Snake and Michelle were loading pieces of the lemon tart into Tupperware to take home with them while arguing with their boys about saving the dessert for tomorrow because, as Michelle was quick to point out, “You’ve both already had three slices each.” And Peanut had followed the hoard into the kitchen and now wound himself around Eliza’s ankles, meowing pitifully and begging her to drop a morsel of something, anything, onto the floor.
She barely registered any of it.
It was background noise. Unfocused. Seemingly far away. Every cell in her body was attuned to Fisher and the way his lips twisted into a wry smile at the chaos that was the kitchen.
She held her breath as he sauntered in her direction. It shuddered out of her when he slipped an arm around her shoulders.
The warmth and weight of his arm made everything better. Or worse?
She couldn’t decide.
One thing she knew was that when he murmured her name or, rather, the nickname that sounded so right in his mouth, she was lost.
Lost in the gold glinting in his eyes. Lost in the way his expression held equal parts hunger and kindness—he wanted her, but mostly he wanted her to be happy. Lost in the way his hot skin smelled of sunshine and clean, healthy sweat, and just a hint of that smoky aftershave.
He gestured around the packed kitchen. “If ya ever needed proof of how much you’re loved, it’s all right here.”
Every emotion she’d been keeping in, all the grief and guilt and loss, rose to the surface and there was no holding back the tears that filled her eyes.
He didn’t hesitate to pull her into a hug. And she clung to him as what felt like the weight of the world, and certainly the weight of her wounded heart, bore down on her.
“I know.” He whispered close to her ear. “You’ve been goin’ ninety-to-nothin’ all day. But now it’s time to stop runnin’ ’round like a chicken with your head cut off and feel all the things that need feelin’.”
Damnit! Why did he have to be so…amazing?
Instead of stopping her tears, his words made them fall faster.
She wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that, him holding her together even as she fell apart. By the time her tears were reduced to soft sniffles and she pushed out of his arms to grab a tea towel and wipe her runny nose, the kitchen had cleared out.
That was another way everyone at BKI showed her they loved her. Because she’d said she wanted them to go about their evenings, and they’d taken her at her word.
They hadn’t fawned or fussed. They’d seen she’d reached her wits end and they’d quietly and respectfully left her to it. Or, rather, they’d left Fisher to hold her through it.
She wasn’t sure what family was supposed to look like. She’d been so young when her mother died, and her father had always felt more like a benevolent ruler than a relative. But if family was supposed to look like people who respected and supported you through thick and thin, who loved you and laughed with you through the good and bad, then what she’d found at Black Knights Inc. was family with a capital F.
“Who knew the easiest way to clear out a room was to burst into tears?” she said with a watery laugh as she continued to mop up her face. The swelling near her temple had disappeared. But the structures beneath were still sore. She was reminded of that when she got too aggressive with the tea towel and hissed.
“Have ya tried puttin’ arnica on it?” Fisher asked.
“What?” She frowned at him.
“Arnica gel?” He cocked his head. “No one’s ever told ya ’bout arnica gel?”
She shook her head, and he crossed the kitchen to rummage through the cabinet where they kept the Band-Aids, pain relievers, Icy Hot, and all the other things used by men whose jobs required them to put their bodies through the ringer on a regular basis.
After he found what he was looking for, he rounded the island and patted a barstool. “C’mere. Hop on up.”
Her legs were a little wobbly—and Peanut’s continued figure-eights around her ankles didn’t help—but she did as instructed. The big tomcat hopped onto her lap and started making biscuits on her thighs as soon as she was situated atop the stool. She absently scratched between his eyes as she watched Fisher uncap the tube and squeeze onto his fingertip a good dollop of clear gel.
It didn’t look like much. But it felt divine when he gently spread the gel over her injuries. He started with the bruise on her cheek—the thing had turned blueish in the center and sickly yellowish around the edges—before moving on to the sore spot near her temple.
The arnica was cool and smooth. But it was mostly the tenderness of his touch that brought relief.
“God, that feels good,” she breathed.
“Mmm.” He nodded, going back to add more gel atop her bruised cheek. “When you’ve spent the last fifteen years gettin’ bruises, breakin’ bones, and bein’ shot, ya tend to learn all the tricks for takin’ away the pain.”
She’d seen him without his shirt plenty of times—the Black Knights weren’t a bashful or a modest bunch. She knew about the puckered scar on his left shoulder.
Bullet wound, she’d guessed the first time she’d seen it.
He wasn’t the only one to sport such a souvenir. Most of the Knights wore scars as easily as they wore their biker boots. And it was kind of an unspoken rule that they didn’t talk about them.
Except…he’d piqued her curiosity. And she needed something to focus on other than his nearness. Other than his body heat that reached out to wrap around her.
“How many times have you been shot?” She winced and pulled out one of Peanut’s claws when the cat got a little too zealous with the biscuits.
“Three.”
“He said as if it’s no big deal.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Comes with the job.” He recapped the tube.
She couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved when he stepped back to study his handywork.
“The one on your left shoulder and…?” She let her question dangle.
“Right thigh.” He sat on the stool next to her and patted the outer edge of his denim-clad leg. “And groin.” He grimaced. “Two inches to the right and that one would’ve turned me from a bull into a steer.”
She shuddered at the thought of all that pain. And despite having made a concerted effort not to think about it, the picture of Charlie’s riddled body bloomed to life inside her head.
“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly and then made a face of self-disgust. “Sorry. That was a dumb question. Of course it hurts.”
When tears threatened again, she looked up at the punched tin ceiling tiles. She’d always loved the kitchen at Black Knights Inc. It was huge and industrial, but the brick walls and the tin ceiling lent architectural interest and warmth.
“I was thinking about Charlie,” she admitted hoarsely. “About how much he must’ve suffered.”
“Honestly, for me the pain didn’t come until later. In the moment it was more of a shock. I felt the impact and a sort of burn. But it wasn’t excrutiatin’ or anything. I’d bet, given what you’ve told me ’bout McClean and how many rounds he took, he didn’t feel much of anything. The poor bastard was probably dead before the pain could set in.”
I hope so, she wished silently.
Aloud she said, “Thank you, Fish. There’s comfort in that.” Then she looked around at the empty kitchen and the countertops strewn with dirty measuring cups, sticky mixing bowls, and the occasional dusting of flour.
She’d felt what needed feeling, as Fisher had said. It was time to get busy again. “Welp.” She nodded firmly. “Guess I should clean up.”
When she scooted Peanut off her lap, he meowed his dissatisfaction. But before she could stand, Fisher stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Why don’t ya let me do that. You head upstairs and run yourself a bath.”
She shook her head. “I need to bake that last loaf of sourdough and?—”
“I got ya.”
She lifted a dubious eyebrow. “In what world? You can’t boil an egg without it turning into a rubber ball.”
“But sourdough is easy. Ya bake it at 450 degrees for twenty-five minutes with the lid on. Then ya take the lid off and bake it for an additional fifteen minutes. And once ya take it out, ya set it on the coolin’ rack.” He pointed to where her first golden loaf of sourdough sat.
She blinked like he’d just revealed himself to be an alien wearing a Fisher skin suit. “How in the world do you know all that?”
“I’ve watched ya bake a hundred loaves of the stuff over the years. Reckon I learned through osmosis.”
“You never cease to amaze me.” She shook her head.
His expression was teasing. “I’m goin’ to take that as a compliment.” Then he stood and grabbed her hand to pull her up next to him. “Now, go on upstairs and hop in a bath.”
A long, luxurious soak in a tub full of fragrant bubbles did sound wonderful. She’d been moving since the moment she woke up. But now that she’d stopped, she could feel the stiffness in her joints and the soreness in her muscles.
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Major, sir.” She offered him a mock salute.
“Sassy.” He smacked her ass when she turned to leave.
She jumped at the shock of it. He looked just as shocked when she slowly glanced over her shoulder.
“Hellfire and damnation.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where that came from. It just happened sort of automatically. But I never should’ve?—”
“It’s okay, Fish. What’s a little ass-grabbing between friends?”
He still appeared apoplectic. But her words had his expression softening. “I’d be mighty honored if ya thought of me as a friend, Liza. Mighty honored, indeed.”
She wasn’t sure what came over her then. And later she’d want to kick her own ass for the words that tumbled out of her mouth. But blame it on grief or guilt or stress or…freaking PTSD, but in that moment she didn’t give a rat’s ass about continuing to disguise her feelings. “That’s all you’ll allow us to be. Right, Fish? So friends it is.”
For the span of a few thundering heartbeats he stood there silently, his gaze searching hers. Then he said the most beautiful and heartbreaking words she’d ever heard. “I love ya too much not to love ya enough, Liza.”