Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano
7
After stoppingat one of the big box stores to pick up clothes and toiletries for Faith, Shane parked three blocks from his place. They cut through patches of yards and alleys, zigzagging from block to block to confirm they didn’t have a tail.
Oddly, it fired him up. Brought him back to his Ground Branch days when he thrived on the excitement and constant challenge. The adrenaline rushes that came with being of service. He’d loved that job. He’d loved having a purpose greater than himself. Now?
As fast as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it away. Getting nostalgic about life as Bobby MacGregor, his birth name, didn’t lead anywhere good.
Ever.
As he walked, he casually checked his six, scanning the decently lit street and sidewalks, thanks to lamp posts and porch lights. This time of night, bumper-to-bumper cars lined the curbs, the residents grabbing street parking for the evening.
Everyone was tucked inside, enjoying the comfort of home and family and the lives they should be so goddamn grateful to have, but probably weren’t.
What the hell was wrong with him? Judging people. Prior to becoming Shane Quinn, he’d been one of them. Living out his days not even thinking about what it would be like to not be Bobby.
Across the street, a woman came out of a house, leash in hand and a puppy scampering down steps. For effect, he grabbed Faith’s hand. Yep. That was them. A couple out for a late-night stroll.
The woman — definitely not Brutus — led the puppy to the giant tree in front of her house and let him do his business while she peered over at Faith and Shane, making sure they knew she’d seen them. The neighborhood watch in action.
Good for her. What she didn’t realize was that if he wanted her dead, she’d already be dead.
At the corner, he checked behind him. Nothing. The woman must have returned to the house. All was quiet, not even a car in motion. Good.
He pointed to his left. “We’re cutting through here. My place is on the backside of this house.”
The people living behind him either didn’t have a rear light or never used it. Something that typically irritated the shit out of him because he couldn’t see what was going on in their yard. A guy never knew when an assassin might be lurking in the neighbor’s yard.
This time, he didn’t mind so much because all that darkness allowed him and Faith to be the lurkers. If they got caught, he’d explain they were too lazy to walk around the block and shortcut it.
They reached the rear stoop of his place and climbed the two steps. As opposed to the front entrance that shared a common hallway and stairs leading to the second and third-floor units, the rear had dedicated entrances via the fire escape. It was, in fact, one of the main reasons he’d rented this place. Easy escape out the back.
Shane unlocked his door, pushed it open and the beep-beep of his security system welcomed him home.
Twenty seconds. That's how long he had to disarm the system. He waved Faith into the entryway that was lit up like O’Hare at night because he refused to walk into a dark house when any number of bad guys could be waiting for him.
Faith stood just inside the door and he reached around her, flipping the lock and catching a whiff of her scent. Something soapy and clean and altogether female.
Jeez, why did his mind go there? The last thing either of them needed were distractions. And thinking about Faith as anything more than a teammate? Total distraction.
“Give me a sec to turn the alarm off.”
He hustled through the hallway to the keypad, punched in the code that he changed every couple of days and turned back to Faith. Her presence alone was…weird. For two years, he’d avoided bringing a woman here. The few women he'd dated had wised up enough to move on when he didn’t share his address. These days, smart women figured out a guy who wouldn't show her his home was either married or up to no good.
Now, Elizabeth Aiken/Faith Burgess had just walked into his home and Trevor’s words from earlier came back to him. What the hell was he thinking?
From her spotat the back door, Faith waited for Shane to disarm the security system. To her left, the kitchen was small and neat with a round table only big enough for two, possibly three. No surprise considering the life he led. Living in hiding didn’t lend itself to large gatherings.
The incessant beeping of the alarm stopped and she peered down the narrow hallway where Shane waved her in.
“Come in.” He pointed at two adjacent doorways. “Bedroom and bathroom. Help yourself.”
“I’m good. Thanks. I’ll shower in a bit. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
She angled around a small entry table compact enough to pick up and throw at someone — or crack over their heads — and moved past the bedroom. What sort of bedroom did Shane have? Neat and tidy like the kitchen? Or clothes strewn about? And what about furniture? A mishmash of different pieces or one of those complete sets bought at furniture stores.
In front of her, Shane entered the living room and snatched a pair of socks off the floor. A tablet sat on top of a glass coffee table with a Sports Illustrated underneath it. At least it wasn’t porn.
“Have a seat,” he said.
The closest spot was an end seat of his gray upholstered couch, so she grabbed it. “Thanks. You didn't need to bring me here. I would've gone to a hotel.”
He gave her a small smile. “I know.”
“If Brutus finds me, we’ll both be dead. It's a risk for you.”
He met her gaze, holding it for a few long seconds. “Maybe. But you, of all people, know how this works. This is my space. I know every window and door. I’ve practiced escaping countless times. Everything is situated so I can use it.”
She followed his gaze to a dining chair near the mouth of the hallway. And then there was the side table she’d walked by. Both placed where they’d be of use.
The two of them were a pair. Constantly on alert.
“You’re prepared. Thank you.”
“No prob. You can have the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the pullout.”
Bad enough she'd risked his cover and now he wanted to give up his bed to her? But, God, she hadn't had a decent — never mind good — night's sleep in weeks. Maybe months. Even in her cozy apartment, her mind spun and sleep came in restless bursts.
With Shane here, knowing she wasn't alone, she might actually manage REM sleep. Safety.
Gaze still on his, she sat back, slouching into the sofa. “I want to tell you that I'll take the couch. That you don't have to give up your bed. I should insist on it, in fact.”
“But?”
She shook her head, fought an unexpected tightening in her throat. “The idea of sleep, actually shutting my brain off enough to rest, won't let me. Does that make me horrible?”
“Not at all. You know your body. Know what you need to stay sharp. Getting rest makes you an asset instead of a weakness.”
He waved a hand toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I didn't have dinner. I brought some stew over from the bar earlier. There's plenty.”
“I’m okay.” She swung her thumb toward the bathroom. “I’ll shower while you're eating?”
After a thirty-minute piping hot shower,another luxury she hadn't afforded herself in years, she found Shane at the kitchen table scrolling his phone. An empty plate sat in front of him along with an open plastic container filled with…brownies. And they looked homemade. That she wouldn't mind snacking on.
He glanced up, took in her leggings and the long-sleeved yoga top they'd bought at Target on the way over.
She pointed at her wet hair tucked into a ponytail. “I didn't want to search through your cabinets for a hairdryer.”
“You could've. Not that you'd have found one.” He mirrored her gesture pointing to his close-cropped blond hair. “No use for one and I don't exactly have houseguests.”
He scooped a brownie out of the container and held it up. “Brownie?”
She slid into the chair across from him and took the generous — man-sized — serving along with a napkin from the stack on the table. “Thank you. Was my love of sweets in my file?”
“No. At least not that I saw.”
She took a bite, let the rich, dark chocolate melt on her tongue and closed her eyes. Holy smokes. Whoever made these had mastered the art of just the right amount of gooey. “Wow. These are really good.”
“Thanks. My mom's recipe. I'll be damned if I can get it right though.”
Hemade them? Ha. This giant, alpha male who could slay any enemy liked to bake. That alone might force her to love him. “Seriously? Because these are amazing. What can possibly be wrong?”
He laughed. “That's the problem. I don't know. I follow the recipe exactly, right down to hand mixing the batter. The only thing I can think of is the vanilla. She uses a local brand I can't get. I'm not in a position to call her.”
She took another bite, enjoying the buzz of a sugar rush while she contemplated overdosing on brownies and her mother walking out on her. She’d grown used to her mother’s absence. Long ago, she’d given up the pity parties over not being able to seek her mom’s advice. Some people just weren’t built for parenting and her mother easily qualified for president of that organization.
“It's hard,” she said, “Isn't it? The separation. My mom was never really part of my life, so I don’t feel that particular aspect. But I know when my grandmother died, it crushed me.”
He shrugged. “It takes getting used to. I'm a family guy. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday dinners. Playing with the kids. My nieces and nephews are growing up. I'm missing it.”
“You have to stay away.”
“I'll never regret that part. As long as it keeps them safe.” He sat back, set his hands on his thighs. “I saw in your file you were an only child.”
How much more did he see in her file? Did he see the mother who’d walked out and never looked back?
She set the brownie on her napkin and propped her chin in her hand. Over the years, she’d learned to deal with the emotions surrounding her upbringing. The grief counselor she’d seen on campus after Gram died told her she had abandonment issues.
No.
Kidding.
As if she hadn’t known that? As if every time she left Gram’s house, she didn’t wonder if Gram too would get sick of her. Tell her to never come back. Or when she dared to make friends, but never fully trusted them, assuming they’d bolt if Faith allowed herself to get attached.
Yeah. Abandonment issues galore.
“As far as I know, I'm an only child. My mother took off on me when I was twelve. I guess you saw that too.”
“Yeah. You were raised by your grandmother.”
“If ever someone should be a saint, it’s my gram. I was a handful.”
Shane opened his mouth, let out an exaggerated gasp. “You? I’d have never guessed.”
Faith laughed.
“I mean,” he said. “you kicked the shit out of two guys and then managed to get yourself out of Venezuela safely. The average person doesn't have the balls — or the survival skills — for that.”
She shrugged. “People are capable of more than they know. Escaping Venezuela was choosing who lived and died. I think my learning to deal with disappointment at a young age groomed me for the agency. I didn't have a family at home to worry about.”
“You're a loner.”
“Not intentionally. My grandmother died when I was a freshman at Michigan. After that, I figured it was easier, way less turmoil, to be on my own.”
“We come from totally different backgrounds and here we are in the same place. Running from the same guy. It gets old.”
She had no doubt. “Is there a choice?”
“Not when my family is at risk.”
He took a second to analyze the brownies still in the container, seeming to choose his next victim carefully before biting off half and swallowing. Lord, did he even taste it?
“You have no contact with them at all?”
He eyed her, obviously considering how much to tell her. “Once a year I get a message to them. I vary it. Sometimes it's spring, sometimes fall and it's always different. Email, snail mail. I mix it up.”
“And what about them? How do they reach you?”
“They can't. If there's an emergency, there’s someone they can call — a former teammate — who’ll reach me, but otherwise no contact. I hate it. There's not a lot I can do about it.” He pointed at the brownies. “So, I try to nail my mother's recipe. We entered them in a baking competition once and I helped her. Won a blue ribbon too.”
Faith laughed. “No way.”
“Bet your ass. We killed it. Now, I'm getting ready for the day where I can walk up to her and hand her a brownie I made.”
“I hope it happens. You deserve your life back.”
He lifted the cover to the container. “You want another?”
She shook her head. “I’m good. I may have one for breakfast though.”
“You can do that.” He sealed the lid and sat back, his big shoulders relaxing. “Whatever happens tomorrow, it won’t be easy. If Brutus is in Chicago, Dusty, Trevor and I are at risk. We've built lives here. Maybe they're not great lives, but it's something. And starting over again isn't in the plan. We’re getting rid of him before he finds us.”