21. Sebastion
SEBASTION
ONE SPY. TWO SPIES. THREE SPIES. FOUR.
Ifeel her the instant she wakes. I feel that loss the moment she crawls out of bed. Even with my eyes closed and my best attempt at fake-sleeping, I know when she’s near me, and I definitely know when she’s not.
But I use the darkness to my advantage. I lie in the shadows, moderate my breathing, and while she sneaks across my room, I watch her through barely slit eyes.
My heart aches every time she sniffles. My gut jumps every time she whimpers. Does she even know she’s crying? My palms itch every time she peeks back my way. But my instincts, my battle-worn war-sharpened instincts make my ears roar.
Because she’s sneaking… where?
To get a closer look at my mother while she sleeps? To search my home and broadcast the things she finds with the phone she made damn sure to slide into her pocket? Will she run outside in nothing but my hoodie and draw the hungry eyes of a dozen soldiers?
The instant she slips into the hall and closes the door at her back, I shove off my bed and snatch up last night’s pants.
I tear them along my legs and jam my feet into my boots, even without socks.
Charging around to my bedside table, I snatch up my Glock, fist it in my left hand, and then I pray with every fiber of my being that she has a damn good reason for creeping around my home.
If she goes anywhere near my parents’ room, I’m gonna have to put a bullet between her eyes.
Lincoln won’t like it. But then again, I don’t think I’ll enjoy it either.
Dashing to my door and running a hand through my hair, I press my ear to the hardwood and listen… To her footsteps on the tile. To her panicked breathing as it flutters in the air.
If I could stop my heart completely, I would.
If I could silence the drum of my pulse, I’d make it happen.
But I can’t, and she’s too quiet, so I fist the knob and twist it in silence.
I crack the door open, just a micro sliver of hallway light cutting across my vision, and for as long as she moves at a snail’s pace along the hall, I watch her.
So fucking slow.
So scared.
So traumatized.
She slows by the kitchen entryway and peeks back this way. Our eyes meet, though I doubt she realizes it, then she turns on her heels and disappears into the unknown.
Or, well, it’s known. That’s my kitchen. But still…
I swing my door wide and move into the hall, my gun in one hand and exhaustion pounding in the back of my skull. I plaster my back to the wall, so even if she peeked back this way, she wouldn’t see me unless she stepped out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
I enjoy the scratch of the brickwork on my back. The scrape of the hardened clay on my skin. Most of all, I thrill in the thick cold steel in my palm, the way it fits exactly against my calluses until I can barely tell where man ends and gun begins.
I hear the soft close of a drawer, and the schwoop of the latch on the coffee machine I bought for my mom two birthdays ago.
She’s making coffee. She’s not starting a mutiny.
Thank fuck.
I stop close by the kitchen door, hidden by the frame, and pressing my shoulders to the brick, I tip my head back and listen to her stilted breath. To her toes sticking and unsticking against the tiles as she moves about.
I know when she’s near. I feel her presence in my blood. Then she’s gone again, prompted by the beep of the coffee machine.
Before I have time to push off the wall, to follow her in, or to crawl my tired ass back to bed, my dad wanders along the hall and flashes a wide grin as our gazes meet.
He opens his mouth to speak, to say something dumb to make his firstborn son smile, since that’s who he is beneath the soldier, but I bring a finger up instead and place it in front of my lips.
Curious, his brows jump high and his grin falls away. But he does as he’s told, digs his hands into his pockets, and inches closer. Too fucking close. Because he leans around the doorway and peers into the kitchen like he isn’t afraid of scaring the shit out of her.
Smirking, he spins again, leans against the frame, and does exactly what I knew he would.
He scares her.
“I’m not saying you can’t use that mug, but—”
“Argh!” Scarlett’s fear is palpable and loud. Her face, the one I see in my mind, paling and horrified. Something crashes in the kitchen, her trim body slamming against the counter in terror, then her hiss of pain confirms what I already knew.
I’m tempted to grab my dad by the collar and yank him out of there. To save her from her morning fright. Maybe pull her in like I did yesterday at the gas station. But Dad’s smug grin remains, and with it, his smiling eyes dance.
My mother can be a hard woman when she must. She may possess a sharp tongue and an aversion to trusting. But where she’s hard, Paul Jameson is gentle. Where she insists life is war, he’s more of a ‘life consists of war, but it’s not all war’ kind of guy.
If he’s grinning, she’s okay.
“Sorry.” He looks her up and down with slow sweeps and an appreciative gaze.
A perusal I wouldn’t allow with the men in the yard.
But when they look, it would be because she’s beautiful.
When my dad looks, it’s a matter of simple curiosity.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just saying…
” He tips his chin forward. “I’m not saying you can’t use that mug. But it’s my wife’s favorite, so—”
“Jesus!”
I swallow my chuckle when I hear the splash of her coffee, then the spray of water as she flips the tap on.
Poor, scared Scarlett.
Is my mother really in need of shielding from this woman?
Doubt it.
Dad pushes off the door frame and disappears into the kitchen, stealing my window into everything she is right now. I can’t see his smile; is she okay? I can’t see his bouncing shoulders; is she crying? “You’re a bit jumpy, huh?”
Ya think? She’s terrified.
“You can use the black mug,” he rumbles. “No one uses that, and no one would care if you borrowed it.”
“I-I’m good.”
Scarlett’s voice is so weak, so soft and afraid. For the first time in my life, my fingers itch, not to touch a woman for the sake of touching, but to hold her so she doesn’t have to be scared anymore.
Which is really fucking stupid, considering I’m the reason for her fear more often than not.
“I’ll get out of your space and—”
“Please stay.” Dad’s footsteps, louder than Scarlett’s, thud across the tile. Away from me. Closer to her. He makes me want to peek around the door frame, to see how close she allows him to get, but then another shadow approaches on my left. Another set of dancing eyes.
Just like I did with Dad, I press a finger to my lips and tell Mav to shut the fuck up, while behind me, the coffee machine starts again.
“Don’t run away, Ms. Castro. I won’t hurt you. I won’t even interrogate you, though I know my wife intends to.”
Stunned, Mav presses his back to the wall and watches me through wide eyes.
“Oh, well…” Nervously clearing her throat, Scarlett exhales a shaky breath. “That’s, uh… Thanks for the warning.”
Mav’s eyes glitter with torment. With teasing. When the machine beeps, he leans forward like he thinks I’ll allow him to move past me and peek into the kitchen.
I press my hand to his shoulder and pin him to the bricks. No.
“Sit, Scarlett.”
Sit, Princess.
“No, I—”
Sit, Princess. Please.
“I insist,” Dad orders. “Drink your coffee. Spend time with me.”
Mav opens his mouth, moving his lips and speaking, but without sound. Oh, shit!
I roll my eyes. Shut up.
“I’m certain that welcoming party last night was a little…” Dad starts the coffee machine again, lifting the noisy latch, putting a new pod in the top, closing it again, then hitting the button on the front to get the hot water moving through beans. “Well…” He draws a deep breath. “Scary.”
Mav lifts both hands, uses his fingers as pistols, and shoots off a dozen silent rounds.
Idiot.
“Did you ask my son to bring you here, Scarlett?”
So much for not interrogating her.
“No, Mr. Jameson.” She pauses for a beat, then amends with, “Paul. I didn’t ask him to bring me here.”
She asked me not to bring her here.
“I asked him not to bring me here.”
Fuck me. My lips split into a grin almost broad enough to convince Mav I think he’s funny.
“I kept my eyes closed and asked him to take me away. I understand this place… the location…” She exhales. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“It is,” Dad rumbles seriously. “But now you’re here.”
In response, Mav runs a finger along his neck. She’s dead.
I shake my head and drop my gaze to my feet.
“Did you pay attention to the roads that brought you here? Could you retrace those steps in the future if you had to?”
No, Dad. She can’t. She has no fuckin’ clu—
“Yes, sir. I could.”
I shoot straight and meet Mav’s eyes.
Finally, this motherfucker turns serious.
“He made it difficult to keep track, but after the third time passing the same formation of mountains, I realized we’d been circling. By putting his hoodie over my face, stealing away my sense of vision, my brain compensated and paid closer attention to other things.”
Shut up, Scarlett! Shut the fuck up.
“I noticed how often we ascended,” she doesn’t shut up. “How often we descended. How tight the curves in the road were. And there was a particularly nasty pothole just a few hundred feet from your driveway.”
Well. That’s it then. She’s dead.
“Do you understand the reason behind the privacy of our home, Scarlett? The necessity?”
“Yes, sir.” She turns silent for a beat, before adding, “My brother had dealings with a man named Richard Aster in the past. I understand who that man is to your family.”
“And knowing that, do you think it pleases me to hear about the pothole in the road?”
I push off the wall, prepared to go in and save her, but Mav’s hand crashes against my chest and pins me in place. Now it’s his turn to shake his head. No.
“You asked a very specific question,” Scarlett rasps. “I figure lying would serve no one.”
“Does that make you brave or stupid?”
She scoffs.
Fuck me, she faces death and scoffs.