In Plain Sight by Hope Anika
Chapter Eleven
“It’s beautiful.”
The words were low, hushed, almost reverent.
“I know,” Fiona said proudly.
Rye stood in front of her gleaming 1968 Airstream Ambassador, a look of worship stamped across his face. “Sixty-five?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Look at that polish. She’s gorgeous.”
“I know,” she said again. She turned to look at Lena beside her, who was weaving on her feet. The kid had worked her butt off. “You need a hot shower, some chili, and a bed.”
Rye pulled open the door of the RV. “Sold.”
“Not you.” Fiona snorted. “Her. You’re on your own.”
She climbed into the trailer, Selena behind her. She turned to say goodnight, but Rye was already inside, staring in abject horror at the sleekly renovated, modernized interior.
“Dear God,” he muttered.
“I know. Nice, right?”
He shot her a look of such narrow incredulity, a laugh caught in her throat.
“You destroyed it.” He stared at the stainless steel counter, the pale blue subway tile, the recessed lighting, and the solar control panel. “It’s…updated.”
“It’s awesome,” she retorted.
She pushed Lena gently down into the thickly cushioned wooden nook where her table sat, stepped around the giant form of Rye staring in dismay at her home, and went to the refrigerator to pull out the chili she’d made the night before. Venison chili, cornbread, and homemade brownies.
She was frigging starving. She’d given everyone one else breaks and taken none for herself.
“It’s like taking a classic car and painting it pink,” Rye said.
“I like pink,” Lena said, and Fiona grinned at her.
“Me, too.” She poured the chili into a pan and set it on the stove to heat, then put the cornbread in the oven on low.
“Why not preserve the history?” he wanted to know.
“The history stunk,” she told him.
“History can be cleaned. This…this is a travesty.”
“Cool your tits. If you don’t like it, the door is right behind you.”
Instead of leaving, he leaned down and pulled the door shut. “Where Red sleeps, I sleep.”
At first, Fiona thought he was kidding. And then his gaze crashed into hers.
“Not in your wildest dreams,” she said flatly.
He only folded his arms across his chest and smiled that wicked smile. Night eyes gleaming, double-dog daring her to take him on. And part of her was tempted.
So tempted.
But after their little chat earlier—and the run-in with Mick—she’d begun to realize who Rye was. Really was. And just want he wanted from her.
Too much.Way too much.
Partly because he was not a man with whom she would ever consciously tangle.
No matter what he stirred inside of her.
Just, no.
But mostly because that warm, enticing smile, that calm, easy manner—trust me, sweetheart, I’m a pussycat—was complete and utter hooey.
The man was dangerous.
Fi had spent her entire life on the midway; she knew dangerous when she was looking at it. And no matter his history—
I’ve been alone since I was nine.
A soldier; a survivor; a sinner; a saint.
It didn’t matter.
Because she was all about self-preservation, and if she allowed herself to believe the crazy things he said—I’m all in. The rest is up to you—and if she let herself feel the compelling and utterly seductive response to him that flooded her every time he so much as looked at her—she just might lose her mind and take a stupid chance on him, and then when he left—because he would leave—her heart would go with him, and she’d end up curled in the fetal position listening to sad songs and—
So that was just about enough of that.
She didn’t want to like him. Or want him. Or anything other stupid thing having anything to do with him.
“This is non-negotiable, my flower,” he said softly, his black eyes gleaming as if he knew the chaos churning within her. “Until this is done, where she is, I am.”
Fiona glared at him. Stupid jerk!
If he thought she was going to—
“I’m really sorry,” Lena said hurriedly. She looked miserable. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
And Fi mentally slapped herself.
“No worries,” she told the girl and forced a smile. “He can sleep in the tub.”
Rye only watched her, his gaze far too perceptive. Warm. Appreciative.
Hungry.
Damn him.
He needed to stop looking at her like that.
She grabbed a wooden spoon and turned away to stab it into the chili. Then she leaned down to check the cornbread.
“Fi,” he murmured, a low rasp that made a tremor of awareness ripple through her.
She ignored him and poked the bread.
It wasn’t anywhere near warm.
“Sweetheart.”
She scowled at him. “What?”
“I won’t fit in the tub.”
Lena giggled unexpectedly, and Fi almost smiled.
Double damn him.
“The chili’s going to take a little while,” she told Lena. “Why don’t you grab a shower?”
The girl flushed. She was a walking advertisement for Dresden’s Delectables; there was nothing on the menu that was not on her.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m…”
“A hot mess,” Fiona said.
Her cheeks turned bright pink.
“Being a hot mess after a night in the wagon is perfectly normal,” Fiona told her. “It’ll get better. Look at me. I’m only half a hot mess. ”
The girl nodded. A small, hesitant smile curved her mouth, and Fiona realized it was the first smile Selena had given her. Pleased by that, she smiled back.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
“Yes.” Selena’s smile widened. “I’ve never…it was a very new experience. Thank you.”
So polite. But less reserved than when she’d arrived that morning, so Fiona would take what she could get.
“You can work for me any day of the week,” she said, meaning it. “Good help is hard to find.”
She was painfully aware of Rye watching the interaction, standing like a monument in her trailer, as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Dwarfing everything in her life.
Where Red sleeps, I sleep.
Shit biscuits.
“You’re looming,” she told him, annoyed. “Sit down.”
His eyes glinted. “Are you inviting me to dinner?”
She snorted. She would have loved nothing more than to kick him to the curb, if only for her own sanity, but clearly, that wasn’t an option.
“Only if you start using my name,” she retorted.
“I can make no promises,” he replied, unmoving.
Stupid jerk!
“Sit,” she said and pointed the wooden spoon at him.
He folded himself into the eating nook and smiled.
The temptation to smack him with the spoon was almost too much. So she put it down and went into her bedroom at the end of the trailer. It was simple, containing only a heavily pillowed double bed and a wall of built-in storage. She grabbed a towel from the storage and then hesitated. “Hey, Lena, come here.”
A moment later, the girl appeared. Dark circles were stamped beneath her brilliant green gaze, magnified by the round lenses of her black-framed eyeglasses. She looked exhausted.
Well. Fiona couldn’t control whether she slept, but she could help with other things. “So, I saw you had a backpack, but I figure you probably need a few things.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you have a coat?”
“Oh.” Lena looked at the neat cubicles of haphazardly folded clothing, her eyes widening. “Max got me a poncho. An emergency one in a small plastic bag. It’s orange.”
An unexpected smile curved Fi’s mouth. “Mine was yellow,” she said, remembering. “He bought me matching boots. I wore them out.”
That memory, almost forgotten, pierced her. Those boots had been one of the few gifts Max had ever given her, and they’d brought her more joy than anything she’d ever owned. So practical; so Max.
“Is he a good brother?” Lena asked.
Pain thickened her throat so suddenly, she couldn’t respond.
“I’m sorry,” Lena said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No. It’s okay. Max and I aren’t close.” Fiona shrugged, her voice tight. “Are those the only shoes you have?”
Lena looked down at her feet, covered in cheap canvas shoes. “I left my boots in the safe house when we ran away.” A flash of fear flickered across her face, and she looked away, shutting it down. “I didn’t have time to grab them.”
When we ran away.
Which had entailed what, exactly? Because Max had been shot.
“Selena,” Fi said quietly.
The girl looked up, her eyes dark. Silent.
“This is a safe place,” Fiona told her, a promise she knew she shouldn’t make, but was unable to stop. “No one will find you here.”
“That’s what Max said about the safe house. But it wasn’t true.”
Damn it.Fiona reached out and pulled the girl into a tight hug, unable to help herself. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Agent Farland’s head exploded on me,” Lena continued, her voice wavering; she stood frozen in Fi’s arms. “I don’t want your head to explode.”
Me neither.
“I don’t want Rye’s head to explode,” she whispered.
“That would take a cannonball,” Fiona told her. “Or an RPG. Maybe even a nuke.”
“My head’s not that hard, sweet cakes.”
She turned to see Rye leaning against the doorway of her bedroom, and her heart skipped a painful beat. His smile was wry, his eyes dark.
He looked at Lena. “What you’ve been through leaves a mark, Red. If you want to talk about it, we’re here to listen.”
The offer clearly made Lena uncomfortable. It made Fiona uncomfortable, too.
Because he meant it.
A decent man.
A soldier who would know exactly how Lena felt; who would understand first hand the post-traumatic stress she was experiencing—and its repercussions.
Did he suffer from PTSD?Did Max?
Could anyone go to war and not come back in jagged little pieces that had to be put carefully back together?
Fi didn’t think so. Even with Hatchet, it was true; she had known him since she was four years old, and not once in all of the time they’d spent together had he talked about what he’d seen in the wars he’d fought. Or what he’d done.
How could it be any different for Lena?
Losing her entire family, watching as they were gunned down one by one…
That the kid wasn’t a blubbering mess was a frigging miracle. Strong, Fiona thought. And determined.
But surviving it wasn’t the same as dealing with it, and there was a blankness—and darkness—in Lena’s eyes that made worry churn through her. Violence and blood and death.
This girl was going to need help. Something Rye clearly already knew—and was attempting to offer.
Stupid jerk.
It simply wasn’t fair. Twelve hours was not long enough to become enamored of anyone—let alone a man who would only leave, a dangerous man who made her want to break all of her own rules and do something stupid and unforgivable.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Lena said, her voice tight, her eyes on her shoes.
The temptation to hug her again was almost painful. So much fear and sorrow and grief in one slender little body. And no matter how well she hid it: pure, unadulterated terror. To be so young, to be hunted…
Fiona couldn’t imagine it. To not have anyone, to be so utterly alone that—
Realization was a sudden, brutal slap.
I’ve always been alone, she’d told Rye. But that wasn’t true.
She’d never been alone like Lena was alone.
She’d always had Hatchet. Thea and Ares. Even Mick had been constant.
They were her family. They always had been.
Regardless of Max.
It was a piercing, excruciating insight.
Shit biscuits. She’d been a dickhead, too.
She’d spent years feeling sorry for herself. Years.
“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” she told Lena, her voice thick, her throat aching. “But if you need anything, we’re here.”
Lena gave a jerky nod, and Fiona’s hands fisted, so she wouldn’t hug her again. Instead, she pulled a thin but warm blue hoodie and a light denim coat from the storage cubicles. “Here. They might be a little big, but they’ll keep you warm.” She shoved them at Lena. “And a towel.” She added the towel to the pile. “Go take a nice, hot shower. When you’re done, we’ll eat. Then sleep. Because tomorrow morning, we get to do it all over again.”
“Okay,” the girl said.
Fiona grabbed a fleece blanket from the storage and closed the doors. Her insides were churning—how could I have not realized this before now? How is that possible? So blind and selfish and stupid—and she was agonizingly aware of Rye’s relentless gaze.
Why did he look at her like he did? Why did he say the things he said?
What did he want from her?
Really want?
She didn’t know. She told herself she didn’t want to.
But when she turned, and that ebony gaze slammed into hers, something heated and raw flashed through her, and she knew she was a liar.
“Tomorrow,” Rye repeated, and his black eyes gleamed as if he knew she was a liar, too. “What time do we open?”
“Tex will be back tomorrow,” she told him. “I won’t need you.”
He straightened from the doorframe and stepped into the room, immediately shrinking the space to the size of a thimble. “I made you a lot of money tonight, honey.” One of his brows lifted. “Does Tex make you that kind of money?”
She wished. Rye had—surprisingly—worked the .22 with a skill that couldn’t be taught. And she knew because she’d spent far too much time beneath the awning of the popcorn wagon, watching him.
He was relaxed, charismatic, friendly—and in complete and utter control of the guns and the game. He smiled; he joked; he mediated and mitigated, but there was no doubt he was a man with whom you did not fuck. Which both drew crowds and helped keep them in line. Even the drunks had walked away happy—without having fired a single shot.
No, Tex couldn’t do that.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured.
She turned to Lena and said, “Come on. I’ll show you how to work the shower.”
She strode past Rye and did her best to ignore him—ha! Fat chance, sister!—and focused on getting Lena into the shower. The girl chose the upper bunk that sat kitty-corner from the bathroom and pulled an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of cat-covered pajama pants from her pack. Fiona got her set up in the bathroom, taught her how to use the facilities, stole her filthy hat, and then pulled the door shut.
She turned to find Rye sprawled in her nook, looking far too comfortable, watching her with a night-dark, piercing gaze.
Where Red sleeps, I sleep.
Damn him.
Fi put Lena’s hat aside to be washed and went to stir the chili.
“This is your home,” he said.
Captain obvious.
She turned the chili down and checked on the cornbread. Better. Then she turned off the oven and gathered bowls, paper plates, and silverware. Cheese, she thought, realizing that was what she’d forgotten. And crackers. Would they want crackers?
“Fiona.”
She sighed and reluctantly turned to face the man who was disrupting the hell out of her life. “Yes. That’s why I updated it. It’s lighter, more efficient, and completely off the grid.”
“Your only home,” he clarified with a sober look that made her chest tighten.
“Yes,” she repeated, defensive.
Because her trailer was the nicest place she’d ever lived. Her homes had always had wheels. Except for the month she spent tent camping on the coast every year, this was home sweet home. And living in it enabled her to bank a lot of what she made working the various shows.
Someday she would find a place that spoke to her, and she would stop moving. But someday was not today, and she was proud of her home. She’d worked damned hard for it.
“You don’t ever settle down anywhere?” he probed. “Not even for a little while?”
“No,” she said and scowled. “Why?”
“Baby, everybody needs a home.” He paused. “A real home.”
“This is a real home,” she snapped.
He shook his head, which irritated the crap out of her, but before she could respond, he pulled a cheap black burner phone from his pocket and stared down at the screen.
Her heart lurched in her chest. She strode toward him. “What is it?”
“Settle down.”
A growl escaped her. “What’s wrong?”
He only looked at her. “Nothing. Sit with me.”
“Was that Max?”
“Yes.”
When he said nothing more, she growled again. “And?”
“Sit down, Fi.”
She glared at him, unmoving.
He only stared at her, waiting.
Damn him!
She flung herself into the bench seat across from him.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured and smiled, his dimple winking. “Max is fine.”
“You are dancing on my last frigging nerve right now,” she told him.
His smile widened, wicked, tempting, inviting her to join in. He sat back, stretched his arms along the edge of the cushion behind him, and got comfortable. Then his smile faded. “You told her that you and Max aren’t close.”
Fiona cupped her chin in her palm and just stared at him.
“I want to understand,” he said softly.
“Why?”
“Because it matters. You matter.” His black gaze stroked over her features, lingering on her mouth. “He carries your picture everywhere he goes. Did you know that?”
It was the second mention of a photo, but Fiona wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it meant.
Stupid, fruitless, infuriating hope.
“What did he tell you?” she asked reluctantly, her heartbeat a painful drum at the back of her throat.
Because she didn’t want to talk about this. The subject was too personal and too painful. Rye already crossed too many lines. If she shared this—
Well. It would only dig the hole deeper.
And sitting there, breathless, waiting for him to answer—as if all of the terror and pain and loneliness of Max’s abandonment could be erased by the knowledge that he’d carried her stupid picture—was a disaster waiting to happen.
Again.
“That he abandoned you.”
The words stabbed through her. Well. At least he was honest.
“I told him it was the biggest mistake he would ever make,” Rye continued softly. “That you don’t abandon those who belong to you; that family is the most precious gift you can be given, and that it needs to be protected. No matter the cost.”
An unwilling tremor moved through her. “Did he tell you to suck it?”
“Many times, in many ways.”
She nodded, her throat tight. “Family is different things to different people. To Max, it was only ever a burden.”
“And what about you, honey?” he asked gently. “What’s it to you?”
Lies.“A fantasy.” She shrugged again and tried to ignore the aching mass in her chest. “And you?”
She wasn’t certain why she asked. She shouldn’t want to know—
“A dream,” he murmured. “Just a beautiful dream. That’s why you can’t stop trying, no matter what.”
Fiona stared at him, wanting desperately to argue.
Because sometimes giving up was the best thing—the only thing—you could do.
But her earlier epiphany had burned away the rage and bitter resentment she’d always fallen back on. So she didn’t respond; she only watched him like he watched her, and tried to ignore everything he made her feel.
Heard.Seen.
Wanted.
Which was just stupid. An illusion. Fantasy. It didn’t mean anything—
“Max loves you, Fi. He always has.”
She stiffened. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“No,” she snarled, relieved to vent some angst.
“I think even you know it’s true.”
The challenge in him lashed at her nerve endings; heat bloomed in her blood and surged through her veins. “This is so not your business.”
“Sure it is. I told you: I’m all in. Which makes it every bit my business.”
“Just because you say it, doesn’t make it true!” she protested. “It doesn’t make…this—”
“Us,” he put in.
“Real!”
“You know we are,” he chided quietly. “You feel it, too. And this is too important to waste time doing a dance neither of us cares about.”
Fi could only stare at him. “Is this how you do everything? You just…will it into being?”
“Sweetheart, I’m just surrendering to destiny.”
“Destiny?” she repeated, horrified.
He was insane.
“We’re meant to be,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I know you’re struggling with it, but you’ll come around.” He shrugged. “It’s fate.”
Fate.Did he really believe that?
How could he really believe that?
“I claim you, Fiona. Just like I claim Max.” That black gaze burned into hers. “And I take care of those who belong to me.”
For one insane moment, she wondered what it would be like to let him. And then she mentally slapped herself for the second time that night.
“Talk to me. Tell me what it was like when he left.”
Fiona wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry, or punch him in the mouth, so she only looked away. If he’d used a battering ram, she could have smacked him down with it. But the insistent, persuasive argument that he gave a damn made the volatile, confused chaos inside of her ache fiercely to be free.
And that couldn’t happen.
Not with him.
He already had no respect for boundaries.
He already thought they were destined.
He was a crazy man.
It was all… getting out of hand.
Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
She’d seen Max!
Something she hadn’t let herself focus on, but the memory didn’t ebb, the pain and grief, and joy; the shock of him standing in front of her.
She’d thought she would never see him again.
And today, he’d appeared. And he’d treated her…different than before. Like the adult she was. Like she was…equal. And he’d hugged her. And it had been…unexpected.
So she hadn’t let herself think about it. About any of it. But now—
“Fiona,” Rye said, a sharp whip of sound. “Talk to me.”
An order, not a request.
And just like that, she snapped.
“Talk to you about what—exactly?” Fury surged through her, and she leaned toward him, her hands gripping the table, blood roaring in her ears. “About our parents, who were absent and addicts? About Max deserting me at the foot of their graves when I was fifteen, and never looking back? Or maybe about how today was the first time I’d seen him since that day?” She laughed, a jagged, painful sound. “Do you want me to tell you that it doesn’t matter if he loves me, because I’ll never, ever trust him again? That I’ll never trust anyone? Is that what you want to talk about? Because that’s the whole ugly story: beginning, middle, and end. Happy now? Do you understand now? Can we stop talking about this now?”
She got up, stomped over to the chili, and stirred. It did nothing to calm the furious beat of her heart. So much mad.
So much pain.
Nothing she did assuaged it.
The chili was hot; she turned it off and removed it from the heat and then pulled the cornbread out of the oven. When she turned to grab the brownies, she found Rye standing in her way.
Gaze too intense, presence too overwhelming.
Anticipation burst inside of her, and she flushed hotly.
Damn him. No respect for boundaries or personal space.
Stupid, tempting, dangerous man.
She glared at him. “I need the brownies.”
But he didn’t move. Of course, he didn’t.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he murmured, watching her intently. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Fiona didn’t care. “The brownies.”
“You need another hug,” he said and swallowed the small space between them.
Her heart fluttered. “No!”
“Hell, yes. You definitely need another hug.”
Jesus, what was his problem? “I don’t want another frigging hug—”
“Well, I do.”
He hauled her into his arms again, and before she could step away, she was smashed against him.
Such warm, hard, inexorable strength; a tensile wall of flesh and bone and searing heat that burned into her. The smell of cedar; hands that held her possessively and cradled her gently to him. The raw strength of him wrapping around her; a shiver of something dark and hungry and needy moving through her. Something that was growing bolder, more insistent, less afraid.
Him. Yes, him.
Her hands balled into fists against his chest; she didn’t hug him back.
That it hurt to deny herself only made her understand how vital it was that she did so.
Maybe he did believe they were fated. But it didn’t matter.
Because she knew better.
Fate. Forever. Happily ever after.Those were lies.
Human constructs to which she didn’t subscribe. No matter how they tempted her to believe.
“I don’t want another hug,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”
But he didn’t. Instead, one of his hands wrapped her nape and squeezed, his thumb brushing the soft skin at her hairline. The other began to rub her back, long, soothing strokes of his palm down her spine, and it felt…wonderful.
She pressed her forehead hard against his chest and fought the urge to simply surrender. This was not her.
She was strong. Independent. A survivor. She didn’t need him. Or want his stupid hug—
How long had it been?
Her mother had been unaware she even had a child most of the time. Max had usually spurned her attempts at touch, and Hatchet was not a man given to physical affection.
So, it had been...decades.
No wonder it had power. So much power.
“Please,” she said again, her voice ragged.
But Rye only bent his head and pressed his mouth against her ear. “I’m sorry Max hurt you, my sweet girl.” His breath was hot, his voice gravel-rough, and goosebumps washed across her skin in a prickling, electric wave. “But I’m not him.”
Low in her belly, that hungry flutter pulsed to life. Heat flooded her joints. And she wanted to arch into the hand that swept her back like a demanding, greedy cat.
“I’ve waited my whole life for you, Fi” he continued, such unwavering certainty that a wild tremor moved through her. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
She wanted to laugh in his face. She couldn’t.
“You will,” she whispered, so sure it hurt. “When this is finished, you will.”
“No,” he said flatly.
He released her abruptly, and she was suddenly free.
She jerked away and smacked into the edge of the counter. Ow.
He caught and steadied her, his hands hard around her waist. “At some point, you’ll learn I mean what I say. Until then, you’ll just have to trust me.”
Before she could respond, the bathroom door flew open, and Selena emerged, freshly scrubbed.
They stared at her in silence.
“Is everything okay?” Her flushed cheeks turned pale. She looked at Rye. “Do we have to go? Should I get my pack?”
“Easy, Red.” Rye shook his head, his tone calm. “Everything’s just fine. Dinner’s done. You hungry?”
For a moment, the girl said nothing. She looked around the trailer several times, wide-eyed, clearly on the verge of panic.
Fiona didn’t know what she was looking for, but her sudden, unmistakable terror was heart-wrenching. And infuriating.
Because no kid should ever look like that.
Finally, she turned and looked at Rye. “I’m hungry.”
The breath Fiona hadn’t realized she’d been holding rushed from her lungs.
“Great,” she said. “Let’s eat.”