26. Sloane
26
SLOANE
I t’s taking too long to track where the guns came from. Every time I ask or we get close, we’re thrown a curveball. Well, the guys are. I don’t understand a lot of what they’re doing or how they’re searching.
Frankly, it’s frustrating.
Since I can’t help search, I try to find some connection to the other missing and mislabeled crates.
Honestly, it’s sending me in circles.
We aren’t having as many mistakes—virtually zero on our end now that I’m keeping watch.
Edmund is acting squirrely. Not that he’s really stopped since the guys showed up, but at least he hasn’t gotten worse since Sterling and I saw him deliver the crate due for destruction to that middle man.
A few more of them have gone missing. Ones that I’ve logged. I log practically everything. I just don’t trust him anymore, and I want to rip the bandage off and call him out on his shady behavior.
As much as I’ve been told that I have trouble letting others take the lead—ha!—I’m listening to the guys. And they'd better appreciate it.
Because it is not easy to hold my tongue.
Not that I always do. I’ve snapped at him a few times over the week for making a stupid mistake. I’m sure he’s trying to cover his ass, or whoever’s ass he’s smuggling our inventory to.
It just infuriates me so much.
How long has he been doing this?
I wipe a hand down my face as I input data from our latest inventory check. There’s no way to double-check everything in our warehouse before it gets moved again.
Three more crates designated for destruction have gone missing. Sterling promised me that they’ve put nearly invisible trackers in each of the crates to follow them to their destination. But the new tracker is in limbo, stuck at that building on the edge of the industrial district.
I hate waiting.
Jack’s hands lower over my own, halting the tapping of my fingers across the keyboard. A few jumbled letters smear across my pristine screen.
“Hey. Why are you trying to murder your computer?” His low voice steadies my internal temperature. It keeps spiking, and I’m sure I’m going to explode soon if I don’t find a way to burn some of it off.
“I’m not trying to murder anything. Yet.”
His smile pulls against my ear, and then his teeth give the lobe a small pinch. “You know, if you need to take that aggression out on something, I offer myself as tribute.”
That pulls a laugh out of me. “I’m sure.”
He trails his nose down the sensitive skin behind my ear and plants a kiss at the top of my spine. “I’m more than willing to make that great sacrifice.”
I snort. “Great sacrifice? Is it that taxing to have sex with me?”
He pulls back and gives me a shocked face. “Who said anything about sex? You naughty girl.”
The grin that curls out of that teasing has me squirming in my seat.
“There are other ways for you to take your frustration out on me. It’s been a while since you tore me a new asshole for something I said or did.”
“Give it twenty-four hours.” He doesn’t annoy me as much as he did day one, but he still pokes me every once in a while. It almost always ends in sex.
He plants a kiss at my temple and retreats. “Probably more like five.”
Meaning when we get home. I narrow my eyes at him and delete the messed up entry.
“I’m going to grab lunch and the mail from your apartment. Need anything while I’m there?” Jack backs away slowly, brow raised in question instead of sarcastically.
“No. I’ll be fine for a little longer without my mountain of things.” I haven’t missed any of it. Sterling’s house has everything I need to cook and do laundry, plus three helpful men to play Dad with Reese. It’s made my life a whole lot easier.
A whole lot hotter, too.
A big part of me doesn’t want to go back, but I have to be realistic. I can’t let daydreams change my behavior. Because when it all falls apart and drops from under my feet again, I’ll be ready. Hurt, but ready.
Jack pauses, eyes soft as he looks at me. He probably sees more than I want him to.
“Can we have Mexican today?” I ask to divert whatever he thinks I’m thinking.
“Sure.”
After Jack leaves, Rhett comes to sit across from me. They don’t like to leave me alone for very long. One of them is always in the room with me, not always hovering right on top of me, but in their line of sight.
I finish up the entry I’m working on before I meet his gaze, but he’s just leaned back with his arms folded over his stomach.
“Hey.”
I furrow my brow. “Hey. Making any progress?”
That draws a wide smile out of him. “No. Not since the last time you asked.”
I scrunch up a frown at him and go back to inputting my work. I’m growing far too used to being stared at. Glancing at him when he gets up, I nearly melt when his strong hands knead my tight shoulders.
Rhett finds a knot that makes me moan and drop my head forward. His soft laugh accompanies another squeeze and a flare of pain that has me gasping.
His mouth lowers to my ear, and his voice is a soft grumble. “Such sweet noises you make, Sloane.”
I let out a breathy laugh and lean back into him as he gives me a short shoulder massage that leaves me a bit looser and more at ease when he’s done.
Rhett’s pleased expression pumps a little heat into my face as Jack returns to the office with two bags of takeout and a small stack of mail.
His demeanor is off as he hands the food over to Rhett and puts the mail on my desk. Something has shut down in his gaze.
“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
Those stony blue eyes soften a fraction, and he brushes my cheek. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m going to go grab Cole. Eat.”
When he steps into the warehouse, I shoot Rhett a questioning look. He just shakes his head and brings me an enchilada plate, which is exactly what I wanted. How does Jack figure these things out?
Rhett joins me at my desk to eat with me. Sterling and Jack lumber in when we’re half done. I get a kiss to my temple from Sterling before he sits himself at the empty desk behind Rhett with his food.
Jack leans against another empty desk with his plate. They eat like military men, shoveling, chewing, barely talking. And they each eat twice as much as I do.
I let myself eat the whole plate—two enchiladas, refried beans, and a mountain of Mexican rice with guac and the rest of my sauce. It is so good that I lean back in my chair and pat my stomach. I could totally take a nap right now.
I swear I only close my eyes for a few seconds, but when I open them again, it’s just Jack and me.
He leans against the side of my desk, his expression no longer sullen like it’s been since he returned with lunch. Instead, he looks angry. Worried.
I’m up straight, fear and apprehension swirling my food in my overstuffed stomach. “What happened?”
Jack peers around, and already, I’m shutting myself down, putting those walls back up to brace for whatever’s coming my way. He pulls out an opened letter with my name on it and a lawyer’s office stamped in the upper left corner.
First, my anger boils that he’s opened my mail, but it’s amplified when I think about the texts Alistair’s sent me since I left. The ones threatening to have Reese taken from me.
They seemed so empty. Like just another one of his manipulations, but this…?
I stand, snatch the envelope from his grip, and rip into it.
It’s a letter informing me that Alistair is fighting for full custody of Reese, even though she’s not his genetically. He can’t do this. There’s no way he can do this. No way a judge would sign off on this. Right?
Right?
My eyes blur with the thought that if anyone can pull it off, it’s Alistair. God, he can’t take my baby.
And if Child Protective Services do, they can’t let Alistair have her. I don’t want to think about the horror of a life she might have with him.
I blink away the haunting what-ifs. The ones that, before, would have sent me right back to him to keep them from happening.
Hands smooth down my arms, and I pull back, glaring at Jack. I barely suppress the urge to turn my back on him so that he can’t read the page, but he’s already seen it.
Anger fights back my panic enough for me to get through the entire page.
Alistair claims that he spent a significant amount of time, effort, and money on Reese. That I’m incompetent as a mother. That I can barely think for myself, and I relied on him for the brunt of the childrearing.
What a load of shit.
But he has references. Of my character.
Panic is winning again. He’s friends with all of my professors from school. His other friends all work in prestigious jobs—lawyers, police captains, senators. They all came to his damn parties.
Fuck, I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, and I can’t get enough oxygen.
I curl in on myself, hands crumpling up the paper.
Jack’s hands are on me again, and my vision wavers in and out before I push at him again, slamming into him with my fists. But it’s a repeat of the last time we did this.
“It’s not official. It hasn’t been filed,” Jack tells me quietly.
“How do you know that?” Instead of trying to hit him, I yank my wrists back, but he still doesn't let me go.
“Because I made a phone call to the courthouse. I know people.” The determination hardening his features renews my anger.
“Stay out of it. I don’t want you asking around about my daughter. About my ex.”
“Sloane.”
I’m fucking breaking inside. The threat and real possibility that Alistair will make this official if I don’t respond to him. That he’ll go through with it.
That he’ll take my baby away from me…
“It’s none of your business, Jack. Do not get involved.”
Because if he does, he’s only going to make things worse. He’ll guarantee that Alistair takes action.