12. Warner
WARNER
DOCTOR DOCTOR – LOWBORN
I’ve never considered myself to be an angry person. Not like some of the hotheads working for Sabre Security. With authority comes an innate need to remain cool-headed and fair, attributes I’ve worked hard to embody across my years of service.
Then Ember came crashing back into my life, far more confusing and bewitching than the sharp-tongued slip of a girl I once trailed behind like a lovesick puppy. Years spent being beaten and tortured didn’t soften her.
Instead, her hard edges were filed into razor-like points that seem determined to cut me wide open at any given opportunity. Every time she speaks, I feel myself bleeding out at her feet, frantic for a second of her attention. All those childhood feelings are full-blown, obsessive earworms now.
My busted knuckles ache, the scabbed lacerations smarting each time I turn the car’s steering wheel. There’s not much dignified about being the team’s medic when you have to patch up the very man you beat bloody.
“Dickhead.” I slam my fist on the dashboard, mentally berating myself for the pain that rushes through my hand.
Dickhead is a polite word for that snake. I should’ve known offering Blaine Madden a plea deal would bite me in the backside. Though it never occurred to me that he’d even think about looking Ember’s way, let alone kissing her while vulnerable.
Car horns blare when I accidentally swerve, almost crossing lanes in my rage. Blinking hard, I focus on the busy road into Hackney. Even as the sound of fists hitting flesh still vibrates in my ear canals.
Fuck it!
Blaine deserved a broken nose. He also deserved to leave that bathroom in a body bag instead of slumped between two agents, but I held back for Ember’s sake. She doesn’t know what she wants. Hell, she thought it was a bright idea to hide a seizure from us.
Every time my phone rings via the handsfree, I decline the incoming call. Hyland and Axel will have to do without me running their disastrous asses for a few hours. I needed to get away—I can’t think straight in the penthouse with Ember there.
My tyres skid against the curb as I pull up outside the block of artsy apartments. I texted ahead, so I’m unsurprised to see Lennox lounging against the gate, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the evening din.
For an ex-patient of Harrowdean Manor, Lennox Nash has made a hell of a life for himself. From his newly opened gym to somehow successfully navigating a poly relationship with the inmates he escaped with, not many can say they rebuilt as well as he has.
The last decade hasn’t done much to soften his imposing presence. Like Hyland, Lennox packs a punch in pure aura alone. His broad, muscular shoulders, dark-chocolate hair and gym-honed bulk all scream intimidation, but I know him for the good soul he is beneath his damage.
“Fantastic parking,” he mocks.
“Fuck off, Nox. Not in the mood.” I slam the car door shut.
“So you decided to come spread your joy to us?”
“I need to speak to Ripley.”
With a final drag, he flicks his cigarette aside. “She’s coming down from a three-week manic episode. Don’t go in if you’re here with bad news. She can’t take it right now.”
“Ease off, I’m just looking for some advice.”
“You are?” He frowns at me.
“Don’t look so surprised. We all need a friend sometimes.”
“Jesus. You must be in trouble if you’re here looking for help.”
“Hilarious. Didn’t you quit smoking?”
“Hence why I’m hiding outside.” He smiles wolfishly. “Good to see you alive, by the way.”
Lennox accepts the hand I outstretch to shake his with. Old fighting scars pull taut over his knuckles as our palms grasp.
“Sorry about the scare. This case is getting out of control.”
“It’s Ripley you need to apologise to.” He nails me with a stern look. “She was worried sick when you didn’t call back.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Good. Come in then. Raine’s cooking tonight, so I hope you already ate.”
The thought of Raine, their visually impaired fourth house member, navigating any kind of meal prep is slightly amusing. He may be an aficionado with his violin, but the kitchen isn’t his strong suit.
“When’s he back on tour?” I ask as we ascend.
“Couple weeks. We’re all flying out to Stockholm.”
“Who’s covering for you at the gym?”
Lennox waves a hand dismissively. “Lincoln has it under control. We’re planning to expand next year by opening another two branches across the city.”
“Shit, Nox. That’s awesome.”
He shrugs, stopping to key in the code for their Sabre-provided security system. I updated it myself when Ripley sat down with reporters for a tell-all interview about their case. They’ve been harassed by the media ever since.
“I can’t complain. The place is full every day.”
“You should be damn proud.” My shoulder nudges his. “I know we all are.”
“Thanks, man.”
Their loft apartment is a modern, open-plan layout that benefits from vaulted ceilings and huge steel beams. Ripley has the space divided by rows of drying racks and a massive bookshelf, all draped with art paraphernalia and damp canvases.
The kitchen faces their living room, cluttered with mismatched, antique furniture. Raine is stirring something in a saucepan behind the stove, his glasses-covered eyes fixed ahead as he cocks his blonde head.
“Hey, Raine.”
“You should take a shower,” he says by way of greeting. “I can smell you from here. Old coffee and three-day sweat aren’t attractive if you’re searching for a girl to turn that frown upside down.”
“How do you know I’m frowning?” I rebuke.
He gestures in my vague direction with a sauce-slicked spoon. “You’re here on a weeknight, and I know for sure it isn’t because you want my spaghetti carbonara. Something’s up.”
My whole body deflates with a loud sigh. “Missed you too.”
“There’s beer in the fridge. Xan’s finishing up a phone call.”
“I’m here for Ripley.”
“Then… you’re in luck.” He stops to listen then resumes stirring the pasta sauce. “She’s just washing up in the studio.”
“Do his freaky Batman senses ever get old?” I head for their fridge.
Lennox leans against the kitchen island, watching Raine cook. “After about three seconds, yeah. There’s no such thing as privacy in this flat.”
“Just because I make being blind look cool.” Raine chortles. “No need to hate.”
“You wouldn’t know cool if it smacked you around the face,” Lennox supplies.
“One more word and you get to go to bed hungry.”
Lennox’s grin twinkles with mischief. “Why wasn’t I told that was an option earlier?”
“That’s it. No dinner.”
“Thank fuck.”
Swallowing half the beer in three long pulls, I ignore the way Lennox studies me and Raine falls silent to decipher what I’m doing. When Xander strolls in and pulls a face at my presence, I decide Ripley’s had long enough to clean up.
“Next time you almost die on an active raid, have the decency to call us back,” Xander deadpans. “She’s your fucking friend.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I rub my tired eyes.
“Make it right with her.”
“On it, Xan.”
His cool stare follows me across the room and into Ripley’s art studio. It’s a bright, airy space, despite being cluttered with used palettes, half-finished canvases and more splattered oil paint than clean surfaces.
Ripley’s up to her elbows in soapy water, rinsing off a stack of different-sized brushes. She offers me a look when I walk in with a sheepish smile. Her curls are pinned back from her face today by two charcoal pencils tucked into the updo.
“Hey, Rip.”
“You’re alive. That’s fortunate.”
“I called you back,” I try to justify. “Left a voicemail.”
“Days later, sure. I had to hear from Ember that you weren’t blown to pieces or shot by a rogue sniper. You’re an asshole.”
Nearing her, I risk laying a palm on her shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”
She shakes me off. “We were all terrified when we heard the news.”
“It’s been an intense few weeks. The team’s running on empty, Ember’s brother is still sedated, and we lost someone in the crossfire during the raid. It’s no excuse, but I didn’t ignore you on purpose.”
“I guess I know that.” Ripley heaves an exasperated breath.
“Thanks for coming to the hospital.”
“Ember’s cute, by the way. A bit standoffish, but who isn’t?”
“She’s kinda the reason I’m here. I know I don’t have much of a right to ask you for anything right now, but…”
Pulling the plug free, Ripley drains the sink then stacks up her clean brushes. I watch her dry off before she turns to face me fully with a cocked brow, her septum piercing askew from where her nose wrinkles.
“Did you come here for a girl talk, Warner?”
“Maybe?” I wince.
“Kill me softly.”
“I just need some advice.”
“Alright, fine. But I need a drink for this.”
Ripley shouts at the guys to make themselves scarce then breaks open her emergency ‘inspiration’ juice. Namely, a half-empty bottle of dark rum. We set ourselves up in two armchairs, tucked into the corner of her cosy studio.
She curls her legs beneath her, tugging her long sleeve down to cover the tattoo botched by old scar tissue. Years later, she hasn’t bothered to fix the mess made during her time in Harrowdean.
“Let me guess. She doesn’t love you back?”
I choke on a mouthful of rum. “You could beat around the bush a little.”
“Not my style. Spill the beans.”
“I don’t think… uh, loving me is the problem.” My stare fixes on the glass. “It’s her feelings for my teammates and our criminal stowaway that’s causing the issue.”
She snorts into her drink. “So that’s why you came to me.”
“Rip,” I groan.
“Come on. You’ve watched us navigate a shared relationship for a decade, and your bloody directors are married to the same woman. What’s the issue?”
“Ember is vulnerable. I’m trying to protect her.”
“Protect her or protect yourself?”
“Rip…”
“She’s far from vulnerable,” Ripley points out. “If Ember knows her own mind, you damn well better respect that. She’s an adult.”
“An adult embroiled in an international criminal investigation with stakes higher than any of us signed up for!”
“Yeah, whatever. What’s really the problem?”
“We’re all falling apart, Rip,” I admit after a beat. “It’s my job to keep our team safe.”
“Safe or controlled?”
“Stop with the closed questions already. I know you learned that shit from me.”
“You always asked open-ended questions, actually.” She grins while sipping her drink.
“Bloody smartass.”
“Cut the shit. Why are you here?”
My aching fist balls, thudding on the hollow expanse of my prosthetic. “Because I just beat the shit out of the criminal my girl was tongue-fucking, and now she won’t speak to me.”
The quiet thud draws Ripley’s eyes down to the carbon fibre limb I keep covered. As shadows dance over her face, I know she’s remembering the accident that took my leg from me. She was there too. It’s one of many shitty memories we share.
“I don’t know what to do.” I sigh.
“Was it consensual?” She looks up at me. “The kiss.”
“Apparently.”
“And are you exclusive with this girl?”
Unease churns through me. “Not exactly. It’s complicated.”
“Then she’s done nothing wrong, and you need to check your jealousy before you lose her for good. Ember spent years being held against her will. She’s allowed to explore.”
“Not if it risks her safety!”
“We’re all vulnerable,” Ripley argues. “We all get hurt. Nothing you or anyone can do will ever stop that from happening.”
“So what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Get in the boat, or let it sail away without you.”
Not fucking happening.
“And if I don’t want it to sail away?” Frustration thickens my voice.
“Then you best be good at grovelling to barter your way onboard. If one of my guys tried that shit, I’d break their fucking kneecaps for presuming to tell me what I can do with my own body.”
“Well, shit.” I slurp another mouthful of liquor. “You got all grown up and smart. When did that happen?”
“Shut up, Langley.”
“Whatever.”
With years’ worth of emotional baggage between us, she matches my smile. The shared trauma of that case bonded me to Ripley and her men for life but also earned me their friendship. I should never take it for granted.
“I’ll talk to her,” I decide with a nod.
“And apologise.”
“Yeah, I heard you. I’ll fix this.”
“While you’re fixing things… Next time you almost die chasing bad guys, give us a head’s up so I don’t have to leave my apartment to track you down.”
“What have you got against getting some fresh air?”
Ripley rolls her eyes. “It’s way too people-y out there.”
“You’ll get bored of the quiet life one day, Rip.”
“Nah. I fought hard for my peace after Harrowdean. You can be sure I have no intention of jeopardising it.”
With our drinks finished, I stand up to envelope Ripley in a bear hug. Her head tucks beneath my chin, the scent of paint and varnish clinging to her oversized tee. Still, the embrace soothes something wild inside me.
“Stay for dinner?” She squeezes me once more and steps back.
“I’m not sure that I fancy getting food poisoning.”
“Raine’s cooking isn’t that bad. Ignore those idiots.”
“I should get back to the team. The case is getting to us all.” My head shakes. “It feels like we’re constantly three steps behind, and there’s no end in sight.”
“Sounds familiar.” Ripley’s lips twist into a grimace.
“Doesn’t it just?”
She clasps my shoulder, smiling sadly. “We won against all the odds before. That investigation nearly killed us too, but we still made it.”
“And it cost us everything.”
“Not everything,” Ripley challenges. “Not us, and not this family. Don’t lose hope yet.”