Chapter Sixteen
Hayes
“Grayson still has more to say to me,” Margo muttered as I led her into my office.
“I know,” I admitted, closing the door. Grayson wasn’t going to let her leave the building. Judging by the reaction in his office and given their relationship, it needed to happen, no matter how uncomfortable it would make her. I just hoped he wouldn’t take it too far.
My hand went to the small of her back as I guided her to the small couch in the corner, a place where I usually sat when I was digging through endless paperwork trails, bank account transfers, text messages, call logs, or photos of the targets.
Margo plopped down on the couch, a heavy sigh leaving her.
I took a few steps back, giving her space.
Even though I didn’t want to give it, I knew she needed it.
“Did he say something to you?” she asked, running a hand through her hair. She was nervous—more so than before. “What were you whispering about?”
“He wanted a rundown on how we got here.” I shook my head, staring down at her. “But I know Grayson well enough to pick up his silent signals.”
Margo chewed on the inside of her cheek and looked around my office. “Is he mad at us—I mean, you?” The question was distant, filled with worry.
My hand slid up from the small of her back to her neck, giving it a short but reassuring squeeze. “No, just upset he wasn’t in the loop is all.”
Truth be told, my friend and business partner was probably furious at me.
I knew he was pacing back and forth in the conference room, contemplating whether he should try to beat my ass or not.
It wasn’t normal—this situation. If it were anyone else, he would’ve been looped in well before I kicked down her door.
But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Margo, the woman who had been plaguing my mind for over a year.
“That’s pretty,” she whispered to the painting on my wall. She scooted to the edge of the couch, eyes on the painting, her hair shifting. After a few seconds, she rose and crossed the space to admire the art closer.
The day was going to be long, but I couldn’t help but take a second to admire her, the only work of art I cared about right now.
Despite the week and the horrors she’d endured, she still managed to express herself through her clothes.
It was something I’d admired about her from the start.
Her walls were high, but her personality was desperate to show itself to the world.
The only way she could do that was through the fabric she put on her body.
To me, she was a walking painting, an ever-changing work of art that could never be confined to a singular space.
Margo Bennett was the kind of woman a man showed off, worshipped, and savored.
She deserved so much more and nothing less.
Last night, as she sat across from me, knees to her chest, eyes on the floor, telling me about her childhood and her ex, I was angry. Furious at the world for letting something so beautiful be treated that way, for forcing her to claw her way out of a grave not intended for her.
My eyes dropped to her Doc Marten boots, her usual during the cold weather, and trailed up her sheer black polka-dot tights, her black jean skirt, and the oversized gray concert T-shirt, fishnets covering her arms. Unlike all her other band tees, this one was new—fresh.
This past summer, she, Carrie, and Sarah had attended a metal concert in Seattle.
That must have been the band she’d gone to see.
As she studied the painting on my wall, I studied the black flamingo on the back of her shirt, the pink petals all around its feet. “Who’s the artist? I love their style,” she murmured in wonder.
The painting was something I had commissioned last year, a silent tribute to everything I’d overcome.
Dominic thought it would be helpful. Most days, I couldn’t bear to look at it.
On the days when I had the balls to, all I felt was shame.
Hearing the awe in Margo’s voice jarred me.
“Abbie painted that,” I told her, looking up at the piece, taking in the elegant brush strokes, the blues and grays of the C-17 and how they contrasted against the oranges and yellows of the sunset behind it.
I waited for the shame to come, holding my breath.
It never came.
“Abbie?” she parroted, turning around to face me. “Hallow Ranch Abbie?”
I nodded, meeting her eyes again. “The one and only.”
Abbie Spears was not only one of the best investigative journalists on this side of the country, but she was a master of painting.
In Carrie and Grayson’s home, there was a stunning piece Abbie had done of a pink sunset dotted with seagull silhouettes that hung in their entryway, commissioned by Sarah and Michael when they decided to sell Blue Beauty.
“Wow,” she breathed.
My heart flinched, unable to handle her admiration of my memory. She was silent, staring at me now, waiting for me to give her more. She’d given me so much last night. I could give her this. “I had her recreate a photo a loadmaster took during a training flight over the Florida Keys.”
That had been a good day. One of the best days of my Air Force career.
“It’s beautiful. Was that the kind of plane you flew?”
My jaw tightened as I looked back to the painting, letting myself feel the emotions it brought about inside me. Still, the ugly face of shame had yet to show itself. “One of them, yes.”
She gave me a smirk that nearly brought me to my knees. “That’s really cool, Top Gun.”
My lips twitched. “So it’s Top Gun today?”
“For now. Your nickname changes from moment to moment some days.”
Out of three she’d decided to bless me with, I only had one favorite. “Grayson should be in here in a few minutes,” I said, changing the subject.
She was taking in my dark office furniture, the cold clean lines, studying all of it with a curiosity that made my heart skip a beat.
I watched her run her hands through her thick locks, fluffing it before tossing it back over her shoulder.
It fell down her back like a waterfall of ink, and a second later, the smell of Jasmine invaded my senses.
Fucking hell.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Want me to order some lunch?”
“You don’t have to. I’m sure I can find something in the break room. Ash said there’s some good snacks in there.”
So damn stubborn. So damn independent.
My feet moved, taking me to her. Her chin was between my fingers in the next moment, and I tipped her head back. “Temper,” I murmured.
She blinked. “Am I not allowed to have snacks from the break room?” she shot back.
My tongue pressed into my cheek. “Ash eats all the snacks in the break room. Knowing that it’s Monday, you might have a chance at a granola bar.”
“Are Mondays granola bar days?” she quipped.
I fought a smile. “No. Ash is just a bottomless pit, and we don’t restock until Wednesday.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to order us some lunch.” My declaration was soft. “You gonna let me do that?”
Let me take care of you.
Let me look out for you.
Baby, fuck, just let me.
A slow nod. When it was accompanied by a small smile, I dropped my hand from her.
“When is Jake going to have information on Gordon?”
“Soon,” I answered, putting my hands in my pockets. I bit down, grinding my teeth as I walked to my desk, taking my seat.
“Really? Gordon…is…” She trailed off, uncertainty laced in her voice.
I was going to kill that motherfucker too.
“On a good day, Jake can hack into the Pentagon,” I told her, logging into my computer. “On a bad day, like today, Jake could probably find nuclear codes if he really wanted to.”
Those beautiful eyes nearly popped out of her head.
If she hadn’t been in danger with a bruise on her face, I probably would’ve laughed.
Seeing Margo in the conference room had rocked Jake.
That was another load of guilt on my shoulders, given his past. But right now, I was just trying to make it to the next moment without losing my shit.
I pulled up the online ordering for an Italian joint down the street, adding two orders of Wedding soup to the cart, one of her favorites. “Make yourself at home. It’s going to be a bit before we can leave.”
Grayson was going to come through my door at any moment and demand privacy, which was something I had no intention of giving him unless Margo requested it. It was quiet for a few minutes as I completed the order and moved on to creating a file for Margo.
“Hayes?”
Not taking my eyes off the screen—off the contract Margo needed to sign—I said, “Yes?”
“Are you going to tell Grayson about us?”
The second my eyes met hers, there was a sharp knock at my office door. I stiffened. She looked to the door and then back to me, panic twisting her beauty.
“I promise it’s going to be okay,” I urged, rising from my chair.
My body burned as her eyes tracked my every step toward the door, each one heavier than the last. Gray and I had been through hell and back together.
There was nothing we didn’t share. Secrets, in this business, got you killed.
Neither of us was interested in dying. At least not now.
Margo—what she gave me, how she made me feel—was the first secret between him and me.
And I hadn’t realized how much it was eating at me until I saw the look on his face this morning.
Hand on the doorknob, I glanced at her over my shoulder. She was sitting back farther into the couch now, her legs tucked under her, with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white as snow. A trembling plea left her lips then, searing through me. “Please don’t leave.”
“Never,” I vowed, opening the door and facing Grayson. “Gray.”
“You going to let me in so I can see to my friend? Or do you plan on blocking the door all afternoon?” he asked after I didn’t move.
I stepped to the side, and as he walked past, he muttered, “You and I also need to have a conversation.”
“Right.”