15. Easton
Easton
IN THE AIR
The last time I was in the air with Gwen, I was behind the yoke yelling to brace for impact. To say my stomach is in knots would be putting it mildly.
Add in the fact Julian and Gideon are also on the flight with us . . .
Yeah, fuck my life.
I’m doing my best not to want to throw them both from the plane, but I haven’t fully talked myself out of the idea yet, and it’s a long plane ride to Europe. Plenty of time to test whether billionaires wear emergency chutes under their clothes.
Gwen jumped right into work the second the seat belt sign came off. She’s currently huddled up next to Julian to share his laptop, wearing her own clothes and her signature perfume thanks to Natasha having the foresight to bring Gwen’s suitcase with her.
I’m on the other side of the cabin, trying to maintain some distance, because we already got a little too damn close before this flight.
Carter’s currently talking to me about the logistics of the Australian hit against the compound, and if I’m being honest, I’m not really listening.
Too busy fixated on the woman I could’ve lost forever yet again.
There can never be another almost when it comes to losing her.
“Easton.” Carter stands, obstructing my view of Gwen. “You hear anything I said?”
I heard that, but I’m still fifty percent stuck in that room at the compound and forty percent stuck in the land of what-ifs. That only leaves ten percent of headspace for him.
“Get up.” The command is deep enough it forces me to give Carter a hundred percent. “Come on.” He doesn’t wait, taking off for the bedroom like he knows I’ll follow him. Because I will.
I stand, and it’s Gwen’s eyes I catch in the process. She abruptly sits taller, no longer leaning in to share a view of Julian’s screen.
I finally get my ass moving, because one thing Carter isn’t is patient.
Inside his bedroom, he shuts the door behind us, and I contemplate making a joke to lighten the mood, but I’m fresh out of them.
“Does your mother-in-law know what’s going on?” As secretary of state, I assume word got out to her one way or another.
“No, I asked POTUS and Secretary Chandler not to tell her yet,” he grumbles while dropping onto the bed. “You know how she is. And with this election shit, she’s already proving to be a serious pain in my ass.” He rests his forearms on his legs. “How’s your back?”
Guess he’s done talking about his mother-in-law.
Don’t blame him. But . . . “How do you know about that?” I falter.
Literally, too. A light chop—probably convection building under us—has me shifting my weight to stabilize my stance.
The shears have been a little spicy, and we’re only an hour into the flight.
“Gwen told Natasha, and she told me.”
“A few scars are the least of—” I don’t have the energy to finish that sentence. “Just get to why you really dragged me in here, will ya.”
He eyes me for a few unsettling seconds, and I set my back to the door to keep my balance, forgetting I’m in pain. Too late to move now and show my cards, so I have to suck it up and stay here.
“Zoey told me how many bodies you two racked up. And that you walked in on that piece of shit about to rape Gwen, and you slit his throat.” He drops the truth like his words aren’t covered in filth and blood and all the damn things.
I lift my palms, expecting them to be painted in red. They’re not, so that’s something. No mindfuckery happening.
“After what Oliver went through when he . . .”
My arms land like dead weights at my sides as it clicks. The why I’m in this room.
“You were already on edge because of the accident, and now this happens.”
This definitely wasn’t the conversation I thought I’d have to deal with when it came to him. Constantine, maybe. New leaf turned for him and all after he married my sister. But Carter? Nah. He’s still morally gray as fuck. He’s supposed to only do the feelings shit with his wife.
“What Oliver went through is different.” I don’t want to think about the hell he and his now-wife, Mya, endured back in Thailand during an undercover op a few years ago. “I’m not running away and going on some bender.”
“You did go to your old man’s after the crash, just like Oliver did.”
“Okay, but that’s still, umm . . .” I try to summon a word other than “different,” but that’s all that comes to mind. “Not the same,” I say under my breath. “Gwen’s not Mya. I’m not Oliver. We’re—”
“Different, got it,” he grunts and stands.
“Don’t forget, they were a thing when that happened.” Well, mostly. I think. “Gwen and I aren’t.” Just friends. “There will never be more between us, and you know that. It’s dif—”
“Say different one more time . . .”
It’s all he needs to say to get me to shut my mouth.
So, instead, I hold my hands palms out to show him they’re clean of sin. You know, the “not wanting to hook up with your buddy’s daughter” kind of sin. There are unspoken rules amongst operators. That’s at the top of the list.
“When you took off after the accident, you hurt her.” He points over my shoulder in the direction of the cabin. “She’s tough. She’ll get over what happened to her at that compound by getting revenge. But what she won’t get over is you abandoning her again.”
Abandon. That word is going to rattle around in my head like a loose screw now. Great.
He folds his arms, standing his ground as if we’re at sea level and not thousands of feet above it. Not that Carter would let a little thing like turbulence knock him down.
“And here I thought you were worried about me after killing so many people tonight. As if I didn’t hunt assholes with you on the regular back in the day,” I half joke. “But if you’re okay with it,” I quickly pivot, “I’m moving into the hotel. I already told Gwen that. No running, you have my word.”
His brows tighten as he scrutinizes me. He’s acting like he hasn’t known me for half my life. As if I didn’t have his six when he was seeking retribution for his first wife’s murder.
“I can’t say she’s like a daughter. That’d be awkward since we—”
“Had to make out during that undercover dating game op, and she had a crush on you back then?” So I heard. Now excuse me while I upchuck in my mouth for having said those words.
That kiss was a couple years ago, and of course, before Diana. (Before I was in Gwen’s life, too.) I also know that even if Diana didn’t exist, Carter would never have let anything happen with Wyatt’s daughter. Just like I can’t ever be with her.
Carter scowls, and it’s not the most pleasant sight, but it’s deserved. “I care about you both, that’s all I’m trying to say.”
Instead of getting all weirdly emotional about this—which isn’t what either of us want—I, of course, make a sarcastic remark. “Look at you getting all red in the face throwing a big word like ‘care’ around.”
“Wiseass.” He shoots me a lopsided grin that’s partially terrifying.
“I already have a brother now, by the way. Constantine. Remember him? Yeah, he married into that spot.” I wink.
“Jealous?” I can’t believe I’m managing to land on yet another joke.
“I mean, I could date Camila, and then we’d be pretty much family.
I know she’s not blood, but close enough.
” Batting a motherfucking thousand now. Maybe I’m healing.
“At least your sense of humor is coming back, but not your will to live.”
Good luck to the man who ever dates Camila. Carter’s not the big brother you want breathing down your neck. Almost as bad as having, well . . . Wyatt as a father-in-law.
“But seriously, I’m good. Better than ever really.” The lies are thankfully rolling off my tongue with more ease. “And no taking off. I won’t do anything to hurt Gwen again,” I relent, saying what I should have five minutes ago. Then we could’ve skipped all this feelings talk.
“But are you sure you’re okay?”
This has to be coming from his wife. I can’t wrap my head around this entire conversation.
What the hell is happening to the man? Don’t tell me he’s going soft on me like Constantine’s starting to do.
You know, only bringing people just to the brink of death—well, for the most part. Depends on the occasion.
“If I’d seen someone almost do that to Diana . . .” Rage narrows his eyes into two dark bullets aimed at the ceiling. Better his death stare focused there than on me.
“I know,” is all I can manage, because Gwen doesn’t have to be my wife for me to feel the same. “Anyway. I’m good.” I wave him off. “So, enough of this.” I turn and go for the door before he can get in another word.
The second I fling it open, my shoulders collapse, because I’m about to get lectured by “brother” number two.
“Juliette wants a word.” Constantine looks around me at Carter. “You give him a phone?”
“I did.” Carter bumps into me as he maneuvers into the hall. Wedged between these two is not the ideal place to be. “Call Juliette, then join us in the cabin so we can talk about the case.”
The case. Right. How was Gwen taken in the first place? And how do we find the monsters who did it without having a damn clue of Jezebel’s real identity?
“And I expect you to listen this time,” he mutters before walking off.
I face my new problem, shaking my head. “I can’t talk to my sister.”
“I’m sorry”—Constantine juts his chin forward and tilts his head in mock confusion—“did that sound like a request?” His forehead creases. “My wife wants to talk to her brother, and—”
“And what your wife wants, she gets, huh?”
“Of course.” The side of his lip lifts, and the tension breaks. “Now, uh, about you, you good?”
At the moment? No. Physically? My back hurts. Mentally? Everything up there is in crisis mode.
“I’m fine.” That lie tastes like someone dumped an ashtray in my mouth. And I’d know. That’s one thing Jezebel did to me during her first “interrogation” two weeks ago. “I’ll text, not call. Trust me when I say she’ll worry more if she hears me talking.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re fine, then.”
I fake a laugh, because— “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”