19. THE GUN UNDER HIS PILLOW
THE GUN UNDER HIS PILLOW
The next evening, Camila had been suspiciously quiet for almost ten minutes.Chris noticed at minute two.By minute five, he knew a question was coming.At minute nine, he considered turning up the music just to delay it.At minute ten—“Where do you live?”
Chris glanced at her.There it was.Camila sat sideways in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, one of his hands trapped beneath both of hers.“What?”
“Where do you live?”
“You know where I live.”
“The guesthouse.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t where you live.”Chris returned his attention to the road.“It has a bed, bathroom, refrigerator. Pretty convincing house characteristics.”
“You lived somewhere before Mateo made you my permanent babysitter.”
“Security.”
“Babysitter.”
“Pain in my ass.”She smiled.“Where?”Chris sighed.“Downtown.”
“Apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Nice?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I live there.”Camila laughed.Chris smiled despite himself.“Can I see it?”
His smile disappeared.“No.”Her eyebrows rose.“No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Excellent explanation.”
“Thank you.”
“Chris.”
“Camila.”
“Take me.”
“No.”
“I’ve shown you where I live.”
“You live in a mansion surrounded by armed guards. It wasn’t exactly a secret.”
“I’ve slept in your room.”
“Technically my brother’s guesthouse.”
“Exactly. I want to see your place.”Chris glanced over.Something about the way she’d emphasized your made him uncomfortable.Because his apartment was Chris Walker’s.
Mostly.The Bureau had gone through it before the operation began.
Anything identifying him as federal law enforcement had been removed or secured elsewhere.
Personal photographs that could contradict Roman’s history were gone.
His service weapon stayed secured when he wasn’t carrying it.
Documents were locked away.But the apartment itself?
That was his.His couch.His books.His terrible collection of coffee mugs.His clothes.
His bed.The dent in the kitchen table from when he’d dropped it moving in.It wasn’t a constructed mansion guesthouse.It wasn’t a safe location.It wasn’t part of Mateo’s world.
It was the closest thing Chris had to a real home.And bringing Camila there felt strangely more intimate than bringing her into his bed.“No.”Camila frowned.“Why not?”
“Because I said no.”
“That usually means you’re hiding something.”Chris’s hand tightened slightly around the steering wheel.She caught it.Of course she did.“Are you?”
“No.”
“Another woman?”Chris barked out a laugh.Camila’s eyes narrowed.“What?”
“You think I have time for another woman?”
“You have mysterious disappearing hours.”
“That’s called work.”
“You have two phones.”
“Work.”
“You have bullet wounds.”
“Work.”
“You sleep like someone is hunting you.”Chris looked at her.She paused.Then:“Also apparently work.”Chris shook his head.“You’re exhausting.”
“Take me to your apartment.”
“No.”
“Chris.”
“No.”
“Please?”He glanced over.Mistake.She smiled.Chris looked back at the road.“Absolutely fucking manipulative.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”Twenty minutes later, Chris was driving toward his apartment.Camila smiled.Chris pointed at her.“Not one word.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”Chris’s apartment was on the fourth floor of an older brick building twenty minutes from downtown.Nothing luxurious.Nothing flashy.Exactly the opposite of Mateo’s estate.Chris unlocked the door and stepped inside first.Habit.Quick scan.Nothing disturbed.Then he stepped aside.Camila entered.And stopped.Chris closed the door. “Well?”
She looked around.Dark leather couch.Wood coffee table.Books stacked beneath it.Small kitchen.Framed vintage automotive prints.A pair of running shoes abandoned beside the door.A jacket thrown over a chair.“You actually live here.”Chris stared.“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.”
“A dungeon?”
“Maybe.”
“Bodies?”
“Possibly.”
“Disappointing.”She walked farther inside.Chris watched her touching pieces of his real life without knowing that’s what they were.She stopped beside a bookshelf.“You read?”
“No. Those are decorative.”Camila pulled out a book.“You have bookmarks.”
“Very elaborate decorations.”She smiled.Then noticed a photograph on a shelf.
Chris’s stomach dropped.He’d forgotten that one.Camila picked it up.Chris moved closer.
It was harmless.An old photograph of Chris beside a beat-up Honda when he was nineteen.No badge.No FBI.Nothing operational.Just him.Camila stared.“Oh my God.”
Chris closed his eyes.“What?”
“Your hair.”He looked.“It was a phase.”
“It was terrible.”
“It was nineteen.”
“It was very blond.”
“I’m still blond.”
“No, this was offensively blond.”Chris took the photograph.“Give me that.”She laughed and tried taking it back.“No!”
“You’ve lost photograph privileges.”
“Was this the piece-of-shit Honda?”Chris stopped.He’d told her that.In the gardens.One tiny piece of truth.“Yeah.”Camila smiled.“I knew that story was real.”Chris looked at her.
That sentence did something uncomfortable to his chest.She was learning which pieces were real.He put the photograph down.“Hungry?”
“Changing the subject?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re admitting it.”They ordered food.Camila sat cross-legged on his couch eating noodles directly from the container while Chris leaned against the opposite end.
She stole his food.Again.Changed his television.Again.Found his sunglasses on the counter.Stole those too.Again.By midnight, she’d kicked off her shoes.By twelve thirty, she was wearing one of his sweatshirts.By one, Chris realized she had absolutely no intention of going home.
“You’re staying.”Camila looked up from the television. “Apparently.”
“Did you plan this?”
“No.”Chris stared.“Yes.”
“Thought so.”She smiled.“Problem?”Chris looked at her wearing his sweatshirt in his apartment.His real apartment.There should’ve been a thousand problems.Instead he said:
“No.”Hours later, the bedroom was dark.Camila slept beside him.Chris’s arm rested around her waist.For once, he’d actually fallen asleep.Deeply.Until Camila moved.Her hand slid beneath the pillow.Her fingertips touched something cold.Hard.Metal.She frowned.
Reached farther.Chris woke instantly.His hand shot out.Caught her wrist.Hard.Camila gasped.Chris’s eyes opened.His other hand was already moving.Then he saw her.Camila.Not a threat.Not an attacker.Her.Chris released her immediately.“Jesus.”
He sat up.“Sorry.”Camila didn’t speak.Chris ran a hand over his face.
“Fuck. Camila, I’m sorry.”She slowly pulled her hand from beneath the pillow.The handgun came partially into view.Camila looked at it.Then at Chris.He took it from beneath the pillow and placed it on the nightstand.
“Should’ve told you it was there.”Nothing.
“Camila?”She wasn’t looking at the gun anymore.She was looking at him.Chris knew that look.Questions.Too many of them. “You weren’t asleep.”He frowned.“What?”
“You were.”
“Yes.”
“No.”Camila shook her head.
“You were asleep, but the second I touched that gun…”She looked at the nightstand.Then back at him.“You woke up.”Chris said nothing.“Not slowly.”Still nothing.“You grabbed me before I even knew what I’d touched.”
“Reflex.”
“That’s not a normal reflex.”
“For me it is.”
“Why?”Chris looked away.Camila sat up.The sheet gathered around her.“Chris.”
“Don’t.”Her expression softened.That was worse.She moved closer.“Who did this to you?”
Chris looked back.“What?”
“Whatever made you sleep like this.”His jaw tightened.“Nobody did anything.”
“You sleep with a gun underneath your pillow.”
“So?”
“You wake up like someone’s breaking down the door.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That answer.”Chris sighed.“Camila.”
“You watch exits.”She started counting them now.“Not tonight.”
“You memorize cars.”
“Camila.”
“You know when we’re being followed.”
“Stop.”
“You’ve been shot.”His expression hardened.“Stop.”
“More than once.”
“Camila.”
“You know how to fight.”Silence.“You know how to shoot.”Silence.“You drive like—”
“Enough.”His voice came out harder than intended.Camila stopped.Chris immediately regretted it.He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.“Fuck.”He rubbed both hands over his face.“I didn’t mean to snap at you.”Camila stared at his back.“Then tell me.”He closed his eyes.“Tell you what?”
“Who you are.”Chris went completely still.Three words.That was all it took.Who you are.
Not what happened.Not where did you learn that.Not what kind of security work.Who are you?Chris turned slowly.Camila was watching him.“Tell me, Chris.”
“You know who I am.”
“No.”Her voice was quiet.“I know what you tell me.”His heart began beating harder.“Camila—”
“You’re hiding something.”Chris stood.“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“What exactly do you think I’m hiding?”
“I don’t know!”She climbed out of bed.“That’s the problem.”Chris stared.Camila came toward him.“You give me pieces.”He said nothing.“A story here. A story there. Private security. Street racing. Bad jobs.”Her eyes went toward the gun.“Now this.”
“I sleep with a gun.”
“Why?”
“I always have.”
“Why?”
“That is all, Camila.”She stared at him.Chris forced himself to hold her gaze.No hesitation.No retreat.Roman.He needed Roman.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life around dangerous people.
”True.“I’ve worked dangerous jobs.”True.
“I’ve been shot.”Painfully true.“I’ve had people come looking for me.
”Also true.Just not for the reasons she believed.
Chris gestured toward the nightstand.“So I sleep with a gun.”Camila said nothing.
“I always have.”Her eyes searched his face.“That’s all?”Chris swallowed.“Yes.”
One word.One enormous fucking lie.Camila watched him.Chris prepared himself.
For another question.For anger.For suspicion.Instead she crossed the space between them.And wrapped her arms around him.Chris froze.Completely.Camila pressed her cheek against his chest.His arms remained at his sides.“What are you doing?”
“Holding you.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently nobody else does.”That hit somewhere Chris hadn’t armored.His eyes closed.Slowly, his arms went around her.Camila held him tighter.“You don’t have to tell me.”Chris looked down.“What?”
“Not tonight.”She pulled back enough to see him.“If something happened to you, and you’re not ready to talk about it…”Her hand touched his chest.“I’m not going to force you.”
Chris couldn’t speak.Because she believed him.Not because his cover story was perfect.
Not because he’d manipulated her.Because she trusted him enough to accept the answer he gave her.That somehow felt worse.Camila touched his cheek.“I just want to know you.”
Chris covered her hand.“You do.”She smiled faintly.
“Some of you.”More than anyone had in a very long time.Chris kissed her forehead.
“Come back to bed.”They climbed beneath the covers.Chris reached toward the nightstand.Camila watched.He hesitated.Then opened the drawer and put the gun inside.Closed it.Camila smiled. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I nearly broke your wrist.”
“You didn’t.”
“I grabbed you.”
“You were scared.”Chris looked at her.“I wasn’t scared.”Camila’s expression softened.
“You were.”He almost argued.Then realized she wasn’t talking about her.
She was talking about whatever his sleeping mind had believed was reaching beneath that pillow.Chris looked away.Camila moved closer.This time she put her arms around him.
Chris lay stiffly for several seconds.Then relaxed.Her head rested against his chest.
His hand moved into her hair.The room became quiet.“Chris?”He stared at the ceiling.
“Yeah?”
“I believe you.”His hand stopped.Three words.They should have brought relief.Instead they made his chest ache.Camila kissed his chest.Then closed her eyes.Within minutes, her breathing slowed.Chris remained awake.Of course he did.He looked toward the nightstand.
Gun inside the drawer.Then down at Camila.She had asked him the question he’d known was coming.Who are you?And he’d lied.Again.Not completely.That was what made everything worse.The scars were Chris Walker’s.The instincts were Chris Walker’s.
The nightmares were Chris Walker’s.The beat-up Honda in the photograph had belonged to Chris Walker.The man who held her when she slept was Chris Walker.Roman was becoming nothing more than the name between them.Chris looked down at her.
She trusted him.She believed him.She loved pieces of him she didn’t even know were real.And tonight she’d held him instead of walking away.Chris’s arm tightened around her.
He stared into the darkness.Someday she was going to ask again.Who are you?And someday—Chris Walker wasn’t going to be able to hide behind Roman anymore.