Chapter 9
Glenna shot upright in the bed, her heart hammering against her ribs, from the dark specter that had chased her down a long hallway in her dreams. It took a hot second for the terror to retreat and reality to sink in.
The room was all kinds of wrong. It was too big, too quiet, and where on earth did that massive wooden beam over her head come from?
She blinked at it for longer than she should have, trying to make it make sense.
Am I still dreaming?
She patted around her. Wherever she was, she was in the comfiest bed she could ever remember sleeping in.
Did I go to a motel?
It wasn’t like her to waste money on staying at a hotel when she had a crummy studio apartment on the wrong side of Portland.
Where the hell am I?
Every penny she earned went into her lawyer fund to get Kelsey?—
Kelsey.
The name tore through her, and her fingers clawed at the sheets as she scrambled to get out of bed. Her legs tangled in the material, driving her panic higher.
“Kelsey.”
She fought the blankets and won, her bare feet hitting cold tile as she jumped out of the bed.
Italy. I’m in Italy.
How could she have forgotten the craziness that had been yesterday? She hurried from the bedroom to the room Kelsey had claimed as hers and pushed open the door.
Empty. There was no small body curled under a blanket on the bed.
No.
She bolted for the front door, her pulse roaring in her ears.
The courtyard and the fountain were in front of her.
A hammock swayed gently between two pillars to the left, a dark shape sprawled in it.
Not a shape—a man. Broad shoulders, one arm slung over his face, the other resting on the curve of a fat, purring cat.
“Tyrone.”
His name ripped out of her before she could stop it. He jerked upright, the cat yowling in protest as it tumbled to the ground. His feet hit the stones, his posture instantly alert.
“Glenna? What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Kelsey?” Her voice cracked. “She’s not—she’s not in there, and I don’t know where?—”
“She’s with Jorja and Gunnar.” He stepped closer, his voice low and steady.
“Their place is across the courtyard.” He pointed to the right side of the square building, to a set of doors tucked beneath an arched trellis.
“That’s Gunnar and Jorja’s place. She was staying with them until we knew who she was.
She’s fine, I promise. If she wasn’t, someone would have woken you. ”
Glenna’s chest heaved. She pressed a hand to her sternum, as if that could slow the wild gallop of her heart. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” He didn’t reach for her, but his presence was solid and unshakable. “Chari tried to bring her back earlier, but you were out cold, and she and Jorja didn’t want to wake you.”
The words sank in slowly, but knowing Kelsey was safe took the wind out of her sails and her knees wobbled.
Tyrone’s hand shot out, gripping her elbow just enough to steady her. “You okay?”
No.
Yes.
I don’t know.
She exhaled sharply, the adrenaline leaching out of her system, leaving exhaustion. How could she still be so freaking tired? “What time is it?”
He glanced at his watch. “Three-thirty.”
Three-thirty. She should be asleep. She had been asleep. But now she was wide awake, her mind racing, her body humming with leftover panic. She turned toward the doors Tyrone had pointed out, but he stepped around her, blocking her way.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “If you go hammering on the door now, you’ll wake her up. And Jorja. And Gunnar.” He paused and winced. “And you don’t want to wake Gunnar. There’s a reason we call him Grizzly, and it’s because he wakes up like a bear with a sore tooth every freaking morning.”
Glenna swallowed past the lump in her throat. He was right. She knew he was right. But the need to see Kelsey, to touch her and make sure she was real, was a physical ache.
“I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Tyrone scrubbed a hand over his face, the cat winding around his ankles with an indignant meow. “Coffee. Tea. Wine. Whiskey. Pick your poison.”
She blinked. “You have wine?”
“Main kitchen’s always stocked.” He jerked his chin toward the darkened windows of her suite. “Or there’s coffee in yours. Cookies, too, if you’re lucky, and Petra was the one who stocked your kitchen.”
Her stomach growled on cue. She hadn’t eaten in hours, so even a sniff of alcohol would have her drunk in about two seconds flat.
Better not.
“Coffee. I’ll take coffee.”
“Yeah?” He bent to scoop up the cat, depositing it unceremoniously onto the hammock. “Then let’s go.”
The kitchen was exactly how she’d seen it earlier—pristine. Glenna hovered in the doorway, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know where anything is.”
Tyrone brushed past her, rolling up the sleeves of his Henley as he moved. “It’s laid out like my Operator suite.” He opened a cabinet above the sink and pulled out a bag of coffee. “Black Rifle Coffee Company, Just Black, okay?”
“Yes, as long as it’s not strong enough to be bitter, I’m good.” She watched as he moved around the kitchen, and filled the coffee maker with water. “You live here?”
“Over the war room.” He brought her to the window. “See the two shutters up there? That’s my place. You can find the stairs to them if you take that door there on the right of the archway. Just don’t open the second door next to it, that’s Gunnar’s office.”
“That’s it?” She followed his gaze. “Take the first door, don’t open the second?”
“That’s it. I’m the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.” He hit the brew button, the machine gurgling to life. “It’s a one-bed, while this place has two, but it’s more or less the same setup.”
Glenna hugged herself, the tile cold under her feet. “You’ve been here a while.”
“My last mission was the one where we lost Dwight.” He opened another cabinet, pulling out two mugs. “Gunnar pretty much recruited me before the ink was dry on my discharge orders.”
“So you’ve been here since?”
“Pretty much.” he turned and leaned against the counter. “How’d you meet Dwight?”
The question caught her off guard. She wasn’t expecting small talk. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but small talk wasn’t where it was at. The coffee maker hissed, the rich scent filling the air, and something in her loosened.
“A bar,” she said finally. “Some dive outside Portland. I was waiting tables, he was…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “Not drinking. Just sitting there, nursing a Coke. It looked like he was waiting for someone.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“No.” She almost smiled. “He was killing time. His buddy had bailed on him last minute, and he didn’t want to go back to base yet.” She remembered the way Dwight had looked that night—tall, quiet, his eyes sharp but tired. “He ordered a burger, and left a fifty-dollar tip.”
“Sounds like him.”
“Yeah.” She sank into a chair at the table. “He came back the next week, and the next. He made a point of always sitting in my section.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Took him a month to ask me out.”
“That’s our Raven,” Tyrone chuckled. “He was always slow like that.” The coffee maker beeped. He poured two mugs and gave one to her. “You need milk or sugar?”
“Please.” She wrapped her hands around it, the heat seeping into her palms. “He said it was because he wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That I wasn’t just being nice for the tips.” She doctored her coffee and took a sip. “He hated the idea of someone feeling like they had to be nice to him.”
Tyrone’s expression darkened for a second, as if he’d been on the receiving end of the same thing. “Yeah. He would.”
She studied him over the rim of her cup. “You knew him well?”
“Better than most.” He turned, opening another cabinet. “Found ‘em.” He placed a package of chocolate cookies on the table, turned a chair backward and straddled it. “Am I going to have to fight you for more than one of those like I would have with Dwight?”
“Nope, I know how to share cookies.” Glenna took one, broke off a piece, and handed him the other. “He did the same to Kelsey. She’d save the last bite of her dessert, and he’d always ‘accidentally’ eat it.”
Tyrone’s laugh was sudden and genuine. “God, that’s him.
” He shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“First time I met him, we were in some shithole in Afghanistan. He’d just transferred into our unit, and none of us trusted him yet.
” He took a sip of coffee, his gaze distant.
“He had this habit of humming when he was nervous. Drove everyone insane.”
Glenna smirked. “He did that around me, too. Especially when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t worried.”
“Exactly.” Tyrone grinned, the expression transforming his face, making him look younger than she knew he had to be.
“So we’re on patrol, and we hit an IED. Not a big one, but enough to rattle us.
Dwight’s the new guy, so he’s on point. We’re all pissed, checking for injuries, and he’s just…
humming.” He mimicked a low, off-key tune. “Like nothing happened.”
Glenna laughed. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” Tyrone shook his head. “Our sergeant loses it. Starts yelling at him, telling him to shut the hell up. And Dwight, completely deadpan, goes, ‘Sir, I’m just trying to keep morale up.’”
She snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. “He did not.”
“He did.” Tyrone’s grin widened. “Sergeant tells him if he doesn’t stop, he’s gonna shove a sock in his mouth. Dwight stops humming…but he starts fucking whistling instead.”
Glenna dissolved into laughter, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet kitchen. “That’s my Dwight.”
Tyrone’s chuckle faded, his expression softening. “Yeah. That was him.”
She sobered, tracing the rim of her mug with her thumb. “He used to do that with Kelsey, too. When she was little and would get scared of storms, he’d whistle until she fell asleep.”