Chapter 25
Thea
Ipry open my eyes, the effort more exhausting than it should be. Why is there a bright light in my face?
“This will only hurt a bit.” A disembodied hand appears above me, and then something stabs my face.
I jerk, but firm hands hold me down. “Don’t move.” Pierce whispers. “They are going to stitch up your eyebrow.”
Stitches?
I blink, resisting the urge to flail. I remember now. How the infirmary doctor removed the hook from my eyebrow. I was doing fine until that moment, then he dropped the bloody thing in a metal tray right in front of me and I was out like a light.
“You caught me.” I whisper to Pierce as a thread tugs through my brow.
Like a knight in shining armor. He’d look good in armor, his hair slightly mussed from the helmet, the smell of his muscles through the chain-mail…
Can you smell muscles? The only thing keeping me from shoving the needle out of my face is Pierce’s hands on my arm.
His thumb rubbing circles dangerously close to a ticklish spot.
“I did.” Pierce whispers. “You've gotta stop doing that.”
“Falling or passing out?”
“Both, it’s terribly inconvenient.”
I giggle, but it feels like it’s coming from someone else. This is not a laughing matter. “Why would I stop when you always catch me?”
His left hand tightens on my arm. “Not every time.”
“It’s not your fault I fell on a fish hook. I’m clumsly.” I swallow and try the word again. “Clumsy.” Yeah that’s right.
He doesn’t say anything.
Another pain catches me off guard and I blink away the involuntary tears.
“Stay with me.” Pierce gently whispers, brushing a tear off my cheek. “I’ve got you.”
If I wasn’t semi loopy, I think I’d marry this man.
“Hey, do you want to marry me?”
He chuckles. “We’re already married.”
I know he’s only saying it for appearances, only caressing me to play the part of a good husband, but for the moment, I’ll enjoy it like it’s real.
“That’s it.” The doctor announces.
Pierce helps me sit up. The world spins and I tip into him. Pierce wraps his arm around my waist to steady me. Saving me. Again. He should really get paid more; I’ll have to talk to his boss.
“Take some more pain meds in two hours.” The doctor instructs.
I salute him as Pierce helps me down from the table, keeping his arm around my waist. I like it right there.
Pierce speaks quietly to the doctor. Who speaks just as quietly back. It’s rude not to include people in conversations. And I tell them as much.
“I’ll tell you later.” Pierce chuckles, dropping a kiss on my head.
I’m easily mollified by the gentle press of his lips to my crown. A nurse hands Pierce cream and then he’s leading me through the halls back to our room. My legs are still weak, but my mind slowly clears the longer we walk. Up some stairs, down one hall.
“Sorry.” I say, when I’m finally capable of holding up my body weight.
“Are you always such a lightweight?”
“Always. I never take more than Tylenol. When I had my wisdom teeth out, I was sure they’d taken my arm, too. I sobbed for hours. I even tried to call God to bring it back.”
“That explains the effects of alcohol and poisoning,” Pierce mutters before coming to a stop. He slips the key card from his pocket and waves it over the handle, then pushes open the door.
The light is on, though something looks different.
I frown. “This isn’t our room.” The thought sobers me, reminding me of the threat to my life and his.
Pierce doesn’t respond. Only pushes the door open farther and goes inside. Leaving me with no choice but to follow. I can’t protect myself even from the ground.
“I hate when you do that,” I hiss, shutting the door quietly behind me.
“Do what?” He asks flippantly as he stalks around the room.
“Don’t answer me,” I say.
He reaches a suitcase in the corner of the room and unzips it, then dumps the entire thing on the bed. Again, not answering me.
“Whose room are we in?”
“Cooper’s. I need to know who sent him.” Pierce tosses clothes aside, only stopping to search pockets.
“Assuming whoever sent him is dangerous, should we maybe try not to make this look like a crime scene?” I drop onto the bed and refold a pair of pants.
He doesn’t acknowledge my comment and reaches into the zipper pockets. “Huh.”
“What?”
“A parking pass for some company.” He slips it into his own pocket before I can get a look. “On his driver’s license it said he’s from Portland, but that company was in Los Angeles.”
“He could have moved recently,” I suggest, repacking the suitcase with items he’s already tossed aside.
“Possibly.”
“Care to explain?” I hesitate to ask since he likes to keep things quiet while he’s thinking.
“Still working it out.” He opens the drawers and pulls out a pair of brown oxfords. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What is it?”
“I saw a man wearing these, lurking around the cafe where I was supposed to meet Mr. Smith.” Pierce’s jaw clenches, and he squeezes the shoe in frustration. “I thought Cooper was Mr. Smith. But… he’s not.” He trails off as he drops the shoe.
“So… who’s Mr. Smith?” I ask, trying to follow his line of thought.
“I don’t know,” he grounds out. “The tourist who sat down at my table clearly wasn’t.”
My head is still too fuzzy to follow his thoughts.
“I’m going to use the bathroom.” I stand and enter the tiny cubicle.
The rest of the room was tidy until Pierce ransacked it, but the bathroom is a wreck and smells faintly of puke.
Cooper partied too hard last night. “On second thought, I can hold it,” I say, turning out of the room.
I trip on a pair of pants and catch myself on the door frame as I stare at the offending article of clothing.
There’s a piece of paper sticking out of the edge of one pocket.
It’s probably a brochure or something Cooper got on board, but what if it’s not?
I pinch the corner of the paper and pull it out. It’s folded in eights, and I unfold it. There’s a copied picture in the top left corner. An ID of some kind? I hold it closer to my face, trying to make out the grainy picture and name.
My breath catches in my throat.
Pierce Abernathy. The photo confirms it. He's younger, maybe five or so years ago, but the strong jawline and perma-scowl can only belong to one man. I scan the rest of the identification card, my vision narrowing in on big, faded words.
CIA!? Pierce is CIA? Back when I was spouting all my nonsense about him being a killer, why didn’t he tell me? I would have trusted him much quicker.
I burst out of the bathroom and hold up the paper as if it’s evidence of his misdeeds. “CIA?”
Pierce looks up from the phone he’s searching. His features don’t shift in the slightest. Because he’s a trained agent. No wonder I’ve had such a hard time getting him to open up. “You’re CIA and didn’t tell me?” I ask again because he must not have heard my outburst.
“Not anymore,” he says simply, taking the paper from me. He glowers at his little face, a mirror image, then crumples the paper up and sticks it in his pocket.
“Oh right, you’re an “undercover operative” now,” I say, complete with air quotes.
“Exactly,” he deadpans. “How did he get that?”
It’s a rhetorical question, and I have no answers. My brain is overwhelmed and exhausted from the long day of once again running for my life. Danger takes some getting used to. Will it ever end?
I don’t realize how weak my legs are until I sink to the edge of the bed. “Cooper was looking for you,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Mexico is looking for us.”
He hums in agreement.
“We’re in so much trouble.”
“Yes.” I appreciate his simple answers with no teasing. My brain can’t handle that right now.
I look up at him. “Is there any way out of this?”
He places a gentle hand on my arm. “Yes. And I’ll find it.” He helps me from the bed and into his warm, comforting chest.
“You were right about Cooper. He’s not a good guy.”
“The fight in the woods didn’t prove that already?” He chuckles. The movement vibrates through my body.
“Maybe you just like to throw your fists around.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“You are ex-CIA after all,” I say, more realizations hitting me. “I’d be surprised if someone wasn’t after you.” Perhaps I should have asked a few more questions. “Care to fill me in on why you left?”
“Not at the moment.”
It wasn’t an outright no. I’m getting closer.
“I finished my search,” he says. “Let’s go back to our room and order some food.”
“Thanks, Mr. Larsen.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Larsen.”
***
I don’t know what I love more. Eating food in a bed I won’t have to clean, or Pierce’s commentary on Twilight. It was either this or Titanic, which was quickly vetoed for obvious reasons.
“Why would anyone want to go to high school so many times?” Pierce tosses a cashew into his mouth.
“I take it you never read the book?”
“Vampires falling in love with humans while trying not to eat them? No. And who would believe that Emmett and Rosalie are in high school? They look like they’re thirty. Not to mention, why would they be ‘together’ if they are technically family? This is messed up.”
“They aren’t really related.” I take a drink of my water.
“Well, everyone seems to think so. Try explaining that one to the principal. Or maybe incest is considered fine in that state.”
I snort and water comes up my nose, burning the back of it. “They already explained it. Are you always so terrible to watch movies with?”
“You have to admit it’s weird.”
“Wait till you meet the werewolves.”
“Make it stop.” He falls onto the bed, his head near my scrunched up knees.
“You haven’t seen their cute kiss at prom yet.”
Pierce pops an eye open. “Does he kill her? And then go on a rampage and kill the entire school?” he asks, sounding vaguely interested now.
“No! It’s after he saves her life. She’s broken and scarred, but he treats her gently, and it’s romantic.”
He rolls onto his side and props a hand under his head. “So all this stuff I’ve been doing for you is romantic?”
My heart trips and falls, landing on its own fishhook somewhere in my chest. I walked right into that. “Seeing it firsthand is a little harder to appreciate. I’m going to need some more angles.”
His opposite hand lands on my leg—my thigh, to be exact.
Not a little grandmotherly “how you doing, hon?” pat, but more of a possessive hold.
My red skin burns beneath it. All I can focus on is how big his hand is.
It covers half my thigh. It’s a hand that says I got you, and a hold that says, you’re mine.
“How many more times do I need to save your life then?” His tone is low, seductive. He’s teasing me, and I breathe a little easier knowing this is all for show, even though no one is here to watch.
“At least three,” is my automatic, yet stupid response.
The corner of his lips twitch. “I expect an excellent movie-worthy kiss after number three then.”
“A good kiss requires more than just romance and lifesaving.” What are the words coming out of my mouth right now, and why am I feeding this fire?
Maybe I like the burn too much.
“Oh?” His thumb strokes my thigh, and my brain short-circuits. I know he’s only trying to shock me, so I don’t react. “What else does it demand?”
“Oh, um…” I grab my book from the tiny cubicle beside the bed, trying to appear nonchalant as I search the pages for the answers to my stupidity.
That should be my rule number one: never talk about or think about kissing while sharing a bed with a man you very much find attractive.
“Tension.” The word escapes on its own, conjured from the very air between us.
“A build-up to the moment. And, um, hand placement.” Why did I just say that?
His lips press into a firm line. “I forgot you like to touch my abs and butt.”
His comment lessens the tug between us that is very real and very palpable. I swat his arm with my book. “Just saying. Your last kiss lacked both.”
He pops up with a laugh, removing his hand and placing himself a safe distance from me. “I didn’t have any complaints.”
At that, he turns back to the movie, continuing with his ridiculous commentary even when the movie ends and The Office begins.