Chapter 15
Fifteen
When we leave the airport, we still don’t have a destination, but we do have a direction, so we continue south.
We’ve gone far enough that the landscape has started to shift.
Montana is aptly nicknamed for its big sky, but mountains and forests crowd out plenty of its canvas.
It’s easy to disappear in a place like that.
When we were in Wyoming, her sky didn't let any part of the land into its kingdom.
It had a hold on forever, and it was going to keep it, filled with cotton-ball clouds and a blue like ice.
But now New Mexico is even worse. No clouds and a bright-red land that might as well be Mars, kicking up dust as we cut through it, the harsh sun casting a spotlight on us.
But it ain’t the changing scenery that’s making me feel anxious.
It’s the pretty girl next to me who charges the air with electricity.
Since we don’t know exactly where we’re going, our pace has slowed.
We’ve had one or two close calls with law enforcement, but nothing as near as the motel.
But as the temperature has gone down on our journey, it’s only gone up in this truck cab.
I am constantly aware of just how close I am to Naomi.
I’ve wanted to thank her for putting her trust in me back at the airport.
But every time I form the words, I pull back.
It’s stupid. She has no choice. Spencer doesn’t truly understand the danger she’s in and the forces we’re up against.
Naomi’s been just as quiet as I have. Her hair, dark as it is, still catches the afternoon sun when it slips through the truck's window.
I shouldn't be noticing. Shouldn't care how the light plays across her profile or how she absently tucks strands behind her ear when the wind from the cracked window gets too aggressive.
She’s wearing a pink ribbed tank top and black leggings.
I bought them for her. She’s wearing the panties and bra I bought for her, too.
All simple. Functional. But they hug and cover and reveal a body that, while certainly functional and capable, is something well beyond that. Beautiful. Perfect. Delicious.
I glance over again, can't help myself. She's watching me, her expression open in a way that tightens my chest.
“We should know more about each other," I say, suddenly finding a practical reason to talk to her.
"Oh?" Naomi says, turning from the window.
"If we're going to be married. Pretend to be married," I quickly correct myself, "it shouldn't look or sound like we've only known each other for a few days."
She considers this, nodding slowly. "Cover story?"
I shake my head. "Truth is easier than remembering which lies you told. We lie where we need to, but not where we don't."
I adjust my grip on the wheel, aware of my hands. Her hands. Her body. My breathing. Hers.
I want to know more about her. Desperately. But a small piece of me hopes that I’ll find things I don’t like. That I’ll figure out we just don’t mesh, and it’ll help me fight this growing attraction to her.
"Where do we start?" she asks.
I pull my eyes from the road to sneak another look at her. Been doing that as often as I can on this trip. "I have no idea. I've lived in a cabin by myself for years. You're lucky I still know English."
Naomi smiles. "This is a first date." My mouth is suddenly dry. She saves me from having to find a response to that by heaving out a sigh. "Well, I'm going to be no help either. I haven't been on one of those in a long time. I haven't been on a good one in even longer."
"I find that hard to believe," I say before I can stop myself.
"Why?"
I’m struck mute again. Because she's so goddamn beautiful, and brave, and interesting, I don't understand why every man on the planet isn’t throwing themselves at her feet and falling all over her. Of course, I'm glad they don't.
I'd have to kill them.
The thought surprises me with its intensity, its possessiveness. I haven't felt this protective of anyone in... maybe ever. Not like this.
I heave a sigh myself. I’m being ridiculous. Remember the mission. I need to know more about her to help keep our cover. Plain and simple as the simple plain I’m driving on.
"Was your father CIA, too?"
"No, he was FBI. He gave me the itch to protect people, but he and my mom didn't want me fighting it so close to home.
He was good about not bringing it home, but he couldn't help it.
He saw what he saw, then looked at my mom and me, and, as strong and as brave as he was, a part of him worried it wouldn't be enough. There are a lot of monsters out there."
"There are," I confirm quietly. I’m one of them. Another reason I shouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling for her.
"I didn't see that as a kid. But as I got older, I saw it.
He didn't want me to be on the front lines.
And it's not like I fought him too hard on that.
I was a shy kid. I loved books. I was in the background, but I didn't mind it there.
The background was cozy and safe. So being an analyst in a warm, comfy office while still being able to fight the bad guys really appealed to me. I wasn't built for fieldwork."
"Oh, I don't agree with that at all. Not many people would have survived what you've survived. Escape. Capture me."
"I guess my father taught me well. He was a hunter like you. Never thought I was any good at it. But, well, I was desperate. And it was necessary." She shrugs it off like it's nothing.
"It always is, Naomi. That's how it always feels."
Naomi nods, thoughtfully. I let the silence stretch between us. It’s more comfortable now, in spite of the subject matter.
"What did your mother do?" I ask.
"She was a librarian." A smile touches her lips, and fond feelings clearly light her eyes. "That was the other half of me. She loved books. And research. But don’t stereotype her because it wouldn’t fit.
She is loud and forward, and she lets you know exactly how she feels.
My father was the quiet one. So I guess I am the exact mix of those two things. "
What an amazing cocktail, I think. I've felt drunk on it since I took my first sip. Beauty with brains and a backbone.
"What about your parents?" Naomi asks, turning those blue eyes back to me.
"Didn't know them."
"Oh," Naomi says. And she somehow makes those two letters full of empathy and apology. No pity, though. I appreciate that.
"You only live one life. This one's mine. So I don't know what I missed."
The words come out easily, practiced. I've told myself this so many times it feels like the truth. But looking at Naomi now, this beautiful person she is inside and out, clearly talking about two people who loved her, I realize it's a lie.
Maybe if I had a small piece of that, I wouldn't be what I was. I wouldn't have been shaped solely by the program or by people who thought I’d make a better weapon than a person. Perhaps I'd have had some foundation of humanity to build on, instead of having to exile myself.
"What made you join the Army?" Naomi asks, her voice gentle against the hum of the tires on asphalt.
I consider my answer carefully.
"Needed direction and discipline. Seemed like a good place to get it."
What I don't tell her is why I chose to listen to a man who came to me when I was in the Army. Said he represented a special program. Said I had qualities they were looking for. I don't tell her about the deal I made with that devil to become what I am now.
Naomi nods, accepting my answer without pushing further. My body relaxes back into the seat.
"Mountains or ocean?" she asks brightly.
"Mountains. You?"
"Mountains." She beams. "That cabin that you so rudely burned down is exactly my dream. Do you know how much reading I could get done in a place like that?"
I smile at that. A real smile. Naomi doesn't look scared by it, so I must be doing it right.
"You'd have to chop a lot of wood," I say. "Winters are brutal."
"I could handle it," she says confidently.
“I don’t doubt it.”
She'd be good in the mountains. Better than me, probably. I went there to hide— she'd go there to live.
“Is that where we call home?” Naomi asks.
I look at her, probably longer than is safe while driving. And a whole life flashes like lightning in my mind. A life in a cozy cabin in the woods that’s not purgatory, but heaven when occupied with her.
“Yeah,” I grunt out.
We fall into lighter conversation after that, topics flowing between us for hours as the sun sets.
Favorite colors (hers is cobalt blue, mine is forest green).
When we stop at a diner for dinner, we discuss the foods we love (Thai for her, and I confess a cliched weakness for Texas barbecue) as well as those we hate.
She’s one of those people who thinks cilantro tastes like soap. I tell her no olives.
We both dislike tomatoes. And for the same reason. The taste is fine; it’s the texture.
The sky dark now, she says, "I've never been to Europe.”
"I've been, but not in ways that count."
She doesn't press, and I'm grateful. Some of the things I did on the continent don't make good road trip conversation.
"What's your favorite movie?" she asks, shifting in her seat to face me more fully.
"Don't really watch movies."
"TV?"
I shake my head. "The cabin didn't have electricity."
Her eyes widen. "Nothing? For years?" She laughs, the sound filling the truck cab. "Oh my God. You're like an unfrozen caveman."
I grip the wheel tighter, embarrassed. "Sorry."
Naomi's laughter fades, and she reaches across the seat to touch my arm. "No, don't apologize. It's nice, actually."
Her touch burns through my sleeve, gentle as it is. I drive with the other hand, not moving that arm as long as she’s touching it.
"Nice?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Yeah. Everything's so... noisy now. Everyone's always plugged in. You've opted out. It's refreshing." She pulls her hand back, and I immediately miss the contact.