Chapter 22
Fisher listened to the reasons why the feds were now determined to move Eliza to a safe house, and he didn’t like any of them. But what could he do? They were the FBI and he was simply a lowly motorcycle mechanic.
Supposedly.
“I’ll go pack a bag,” Eliza said.
“I’ll pack one too.” He’d been tentatively sucking on coffee in the hopes it would quiet the men operating large machinery inside his cranium. But now he set his mug aside and stepped around the kitchen island to follow in her footsteps.
“What?” She twirled on him. “Why?”
“Ya didn’t think we’d let ya go without a bodyguard, did ya?” He lifted a challenging eyebrow. “The Knights stick together.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wakefield.” Agent O’Toole shook her head. “That’s not protocol.”
Adrenaline tore away the dusty cobwebs of his hangover at the same time the danger to Eliza snapped his hold on the violence that lived inside him.
He slowly turned to face the agent. It was the deliberateness of his move that should have warned everyone he’d let the affable Fisher Wakefield’s mask slip to reveal the side of him that’d risen through the ranks of The Unit.
“I don’t give a good goddamnabout your protocol,” he said bluntly.
“Hey now.” Britt darted forward to give Fisher’s shoulder a squeeze. It was meant both as a comfort and as a warning for Fisher to keep his shit together. “We all want the same thing here.” The former Ranger’s tone was overly convivial. “For Eliza to be safe. Surely there’s a compromise.”
“What did you have in mind?” O’Toole asked, coolly eyeing Fisher.
“We let you keep an eye on our girl, and you forget about your protocol and let Fisher go with you,” Britt answered.
And this is why we’re best friends,Fisher thought.
“There’s no let when it comes to Miss Meadows coming with us.” Like all asswads who’d never had their dicks knocked in the dirt, Agent Dillan Douglas met Fisher’s anger with arrogance. “If we need to take her, we take her.”
“Try it,” Fisher challenged and felt Britt’s grip tighten on his shoulder.
Fisher could barely believe his eyes when Agent Douchecanoe stood and whipped back his suit jacket to reveal his shoulder holster. The idiot went so far as to thumb open the snap on the leather sling.
Guess he never got the memo ya don’t threaten a man with a bullet unless ya fully intend to make him eat it.
“I’m armed.” Douglas grinned. “Are you?”
“My dick’s in my hand.” Fisher made a rude gesture toward his crotch. “Does that count?”
“Bruh,” Britt whispered close to his ear. “There’s a fine line between tenacity and stupidity. And I think you’ve crossed it.”
“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy!” Eliza rarely raised her voice. So hearing her shout knocked Fisher out of his bloodlust. “I’m choosing to go with the agents, Fish. And if they’re saying it’s better, safer for me to go on my own, then that’s what I’ll do.”
He realized his gaze was a glittering knife blade that sliced into her when she stumbled back.
“Liza.” He reached for her while mentally kicking his own ass for doing anything to make her look at him that way. With fear.“All ya got to do is say the word and your old man will insist one of us comes with ya. Then these two can forget their protocols and?—”
“Fisher.” She placed a hand on his arm. It was soft and cool and reminded him it’d been hard and harsh the night before when she’d shoved his ass out of her bed. Not that he hadn’t deserved it. He had.What had he been thinking offering up friends with benefits? It was like a slap in the face considering what she really wanted was so, so much more. “I’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing. Besides, you’re needed here.”
The look she gave him was meaningful, and he was reminded he still needed to finish doing recon and analysis on their next mission.
“I hate the thought of ya out there without any protection,” he growled, suddenly feeling like his skin was too tight for his body.
“She’ll have Agent Douglas for protection,” Agent O’Toole assured him.
Agent Douchecanoe?
The woman was bat-shit crazy if she thought that was a comfort. The idea of the pretty-boy fed locked up in a room with Eliza for hours, maybe days, made the venomous, prickly legged thing that lived in Fisher spring to life and hiss.
And that, that exact reaction, was enough to have him blowing out a windy breath and relenting. “I want hourly check-ins. Calls or texts or…hell…email us if ya have to. But I want reassurances she’s okay every sixty minutes.”
“Done,” Agent O’Toole said at the same time Douglass grumbled, “Fuck off.”
“It’s the least we can do,” O’Toole told her partner. “They’re right to be concerned. And if hourly check-ins will keep everyone healthy and happy, that’s what we’ll do.”
Agent Douglas whispered something unsavory about Fisher’s parentage. But Fisher acted like he hadn’t heard. Because acting like he had heard, and then feeding the cleft-chinned bastard his fist, would inevitably end with him in handcuffs. And the last place he needed to be while Eliza was in federal custody was behind bars.
Instead, he told her, “I’ll keep ya company while ya pack.”
“No need,” she assured him.
“I need,” he insisted and then turned to Britt. “Ya okay to hold down the fort?” He slid a speaking gaze toward the two agents.
“I’m sure I can keep Agent O’Toole occupied with another cupcake.” Britt winked at the blond agent. “As for the other one.” He tilted his head toward Douglas. “I’ll try to hunt up a banana.”
Fisher chuckled at the perturbed look on Douchcanoe’s face before turning to follow Eliza upstairs.
“I need to grab something from my room,” he told her after they’d reached the top floor.
Once he was in his room with the door shut behind him, he didn’t hesitate to step to the side of his bed. He hadn’t bothered to make it. When he’d heard her softly close her bedroom door, he’d snapped awake with cringe-inducing memories of what a dickhole he’d been the night before. Determined to apologize to her as soon as possible, he’d hopped out of bed.
Well, hopped is a bit of an exaggeration.
More like he’d stumbled out of bed, slouched to the bathroom where he’d spent some time washing his face, brushing his teeth, and castigating himself for being thirty-four years old and still being stupid enough to think he could drink that much bourbon without it making him feel like death warmed over.
By the time he’d slipped on the only pair of clean jeans he had—they were black denim with a hole in one knee and hems that were frayed—and the last T-shirt in his drawer, he’d been anxious to get downstairs and see how many ways Eliza had devised to kill him. Slowly. And painfully.
Now, here he was back upstairs without having had a moment to apologize. And it was all thanks to the feds’ ill-timed arrival.
He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to arm himself. But he never questioned his sixth sense. So he lifted his pillow and reached for his Glock.
It wasn’t there.
A spurt of adrenaline fired in his blood as he threw back the top quilt and the flat sheet and?—
There.
His sidearm sat atop the fitted sheet on the opposite side of the bed—he was always a restless sleeper after he’d had too much to drink.
Instead of taking the time to walk around the bed, he simply grabbed the fitted sheet and pulled. The gathered corners ripped out from under the mattress and his favorite pistol slid his way.
The grip was worn smooth in places from the palm of his hand. The familiar smell of gun cleaner tickled his nose. And the metal was cold as he slipped the barrel into the back of his waistband.
Eliza had left her door open, so he rapped his knuckles against the doorframe before leaning against the jamb. “I’m sorry ’bout last night,” he said lowly. “I can be a real shit when I’ve been in the Wild Turkey.”
“You’re never a shit, Fish.” As she loaded shirts and pants into a leather duffel, her tone matched her expression. Both were affectionate. And maybe a little sad. “And besides, like you said, can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”
“You’re too easy on me.” He shook his head.
“Oh, I’d be happy to make a list of all your faults while I’m sequestered away under federal protection.” The sun had risen over the horizon, and the pink light of morning filtered through her window to make her dark eyes glint like rich mahogany.
He was happy to see she’d packed a pair of frumpy, long-sleeved pajamas. If she’d packed the flimsy silk set he’d seen her in two nights ago, he might have had to shoot Agent Douchecanoe as a precaution.
“Not sure there’s enough paper on the planet for that job,” he teased.
The cold, hard stone that was his heart felt even colder and harder than usual at the thought of not being able to see her. Touch her. Protect her. And he planned to stay on Agent O’Toole’s ass to get this entire thing solved so that she could come back where she belonged.
Back to BKI.
Back to him.
Except she doesn’t belong to you, the better angels of his nature reminded him.
She could if you’d only let her,the lesser devils teased.