3. Mark
A fistof fucking titanium flies from out of nowhere and slams me square in the chest. “Ow.” My tone is pure what the hell?
It’s true, I know better than to pick a fight with Jess. And I am technically the grown-up. Well, with her being eighteen and all, I guess she’s a grown-up too. But I swear to God, that woman gets under my skin like lava-coated chiggers. Or maybe it’s the guilt.
Brian and I know the price of his extended leave. It was a deal with the devil. Saying our next mission will be dangerous is like saying the Pope sometimes prays. There’s a good chance we’ll never see our families again, and the last thing I needed was to face off with Jess and her big, blue, soul-searching eyes. Hell, I can’t even bear to look my mother in the eye.
Guns blazing, Brian lays into me. “You fire my sister five days before our next deployment?”
I didn’t fire her. She quit. But with Brian glaring me down, there’s no use arguing that technicality. Flustered, I point a finger at him. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“For giving me the fucking third degree and accusing me of making a play for Jess. Which she overheard. Thanks a fucking heap.”
“Ah.” He flicks a speck of dust from the desk. “How was I supposed to know you’d have that conversation with the door opened?”
I wave both arms in the air. “Now you know. And Jess was eavesdropping. Again. Her own bad habit brought this on.”
Brian gives me a don’t fuck with the Bishops face. “I can’t have your back if things aren’t square with Jess.”
I rub at the ice pick driving into the base of my neck. “Well, technically, she quit.”
When Brian hits me this time, he doesn’t hold back. The man packs a punch like a battering ram. “Fix it, fucker.”
I look at him as if a dick sprouted from the top of his head. “How? You know your sister. She’s earned every last flaming strand of that red hair of hers. Fuck, we haven’t spoken in years, and this is our reunion.” I huff and lift my chin to the sky. “She hates me.”
He shrugs. “Well, considering your first conversation in years is to threaten her job, her hating you seems validated.”
“Is it my fault you made me say I wouldn’t make moves on your sister with my outside voice?”
“Is it my fault you’ll hump everything from a hydrant to a lamppost, and it wasn’t exactly a stretch?”
I gesture at the door. “Clearly, you had nothing to worry about.” I adjust my pants from behind the desk. Yeah, that’s a bald-faced lie.
“Clearly.” Brian shakes his head. “You can’t talk to her like she’s twelve. She isn’t.”
Duh. One look at her ass told me that.
I remain stone-faced as Brian continues to lambast me. “You don’t understand. Jess is stressed, too. With all the shit she’s going through—” He clams up.
My ears perk up. “What’s she going through?” I ask, tiptoeing as I pry.
He shakes it off. “Nothing. Just, er, woman stuff.”
Enough said. The last thing I need to hear about is the world of Jess’s uterus, though it does explain her flying off the fucking handle. With Jess, Moody is her middle name. Plus, with how full her breasts are and?—
Where the fuck did that come from?I scramble to wipe the image from my mind. Can we change the subject already?
Brian drones on. “She’s not a child anymore. And you’re only filling in for the day, dickwad. Don’t make me call your mommy on you.”
“I know she’s not a child.”
While the very full-grown woman was busting my balls, it took every sheer ounce of willpower to avoid staring at those full, pouty lips. Fuck, she can’t come back here. At least, not while I’m here. This is my funeral in the making.
Hmm. I think it through. Because I also can’t not bring her back. Brian would murder me—Saw movie style.
I offer a solution. “She can consider herself on paid vacation until we leave. This way, the two of you can spend some time together.”
And she’ll be far the hell away from me.
Brian socks me again. Playfully, this time, but considering he gave it all he had the last round, I wince. “I guess you’d better find her and tell her that.”
My eyes shoot wide. “You’re her brother. Why don’t you find her and tell her?”
“Because it’s not my mess. It’s yours. And we have our entire next mission to clean up after each other.” He winks, the smartass, and heads for the door. “You know my baby sis would love to tend bar,” he sings at me on his way out.
I throw a stress ball at his head. And miss.
He chuckles. “And they call you a sharpshooter,” he calls out as he closes the door behind him.
Fucker.
I scroll through my phone until I find Jess’s number, filed under “CG.” I shoot her a text and wait her out.
Can we talk?
An hour later, after a thorough review of Zac’s new inventory system, I check my phone. Still no response from Jess, so I try again.
I really need to talk to you.
By the time I’ve finished reviewing next month’s menus with the staff, getting the seating arrangements for the Whitney wedding changed to accommodate nearly two hundred people instead of one hundred people, and reconciling the accounting for the month, my brain is fried.
I blow out a breath. Not a word from Choir Girl.
So, I do the unthinkable. I apologize.
Sorry I was an asshat. Please call back.
A text pings back, but the small surge of relief is instantly snuffed out. It isn’t Jess. It’s Brian. Even his text looks unhinged.
Did you talk to Jess???
Brian sends me a screenshot. Her phone finder app has her pinned on possibly the worst street in Albany. Without even speaking to him, I know Brian’s about to lose his shit. Hell, my heart’s beating out of my rib cage, and I’m half a breath away from losing my own shit.
What the fuck is she doing there?
Keep calm, I tell myself. If I’m panicked, Brian will panic tenfold.
I lock my voice into casual mode and call. “I’ve texted her several times. She hasn’t returned my texts, but that’s nothing new, considering her nickname for me is sometimes Satan. Have you tried calling her?”
“Yes, dumbass. Tried that first. I’m heading that way, but I’m home.” The Bishop home is buried in a southwest pocket of Adirondack Park—at least an hour and a half from Albany. His voice rises, unnerved. “I need you to?—”
“I’ll take care of it. I’m leaving now.”
I grab the nearest keys and rush out the front, nearly plowing down Anita. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”
“Wait.” She blocks my path. “Did Jess find you?”
“Yes,” I grumble, irritated. Now I just need to find her.
“Oh, good. I know she was worried about getting that watch for Brian.”
Impatient, I mutter, “What watch?” as I move around her and make my way to the truck.
Anita keeps pace, shoving her phone in my face. “This watch.”
I check out the price tag. All her paychecks for two months wouldn’t cover that watch. “How is she paying for a four-thousand-dollar watch?”
“She isn’t. Some guy is selling his old one.”
Of course. Because that’s what people do. Sell four-thousand-dollar watches for a fraction of the price. It happens every day.
I get in the truck, slam the gas, punch the dashboard, and shout, “Fuuuck!”
* * *