Inescapable (Men of Mercy Novel, A) (24 page)

I’m pretty sure that you did. If I know you at all then you did, often and loudly.

Flick’s voice in his head stopped him in his tracks and he turned the words over. For the first time since the sheikh’s death he took stock of what she’d said, picked apart her sentences. He
had
insisted, loudly and vociferously. He’d even put his concerns in writing, sending the sheikh at least three emails on separate occasions—the last one just after he concluded his training—telling Aban that he wasn’t satisfied, that he was taking a huge risk. The sheikh had dismissed his concerns, had said that he was overreacting. Kai had done his job and he couldn’t be held responsible for the sheikh’s death. Choices had been made and the sheikh had paid the price. Kai hadn’t made that choice, and in fact, had advised against it. He was, if he allowed himself to be, off the hook.

Kai linked his hands behind his head and stared at the whiteboard, his breathing erratic. He liked punishing himself, he realized. He also liked denying himself, and was far too comfortable with the notion of being alone, being unloved, believing that was what he deserved. And he was far too quick to take responsibility for events that were out of his control. Mike’s death, the sheikh’s death, his mother’s death.

Give yourself a fucking break, dude.
He heard Axl’s voice in his head and, probably for the first time ever, he listened to it.

Mike had died when a bullet hit his femoral artery and he’d bled out. They were in the field, and the tourniquet Kai had wrapped around his leg hadn’t helped. Surgery might have saved him but they were hours from a medic, a day’s drive from a hospital. He’d tried his best, but Mike had still bled out in less than ten minutes. The sheikh, well he’d covered that. Not his choice . . .

His mother. God, his mother. For the first time ever, he faced that memory head-on, watched the video play out on the big screen in his head. He squared his shoulders and watched the memories as they rolled on in. He could see the paint falling off the walls, the filthy mattress on the floor, feel the gnawing hunger in his belly. Jo had been huddled in a corner and he could hear her slow, labored breathing, her grunts of pain, the movements of her hands as she tried to massage the pain from her legs. She’d been in the worst stage of withdrawal symptoms and had been off her head. She hadn’t slept for days and her default method of communication had been to scream at him. She’d looked like a corpse. He recalled her bony fingers reaching down her dirty tank top and removing a couple of crumpled bills.

He’d felt a flare of excitement because the bills meant food, something he hadn’t had for two days running. She’d begged him to find some heroin for her, telling him that she’d die if she didn’t get a hit. He’d absolutely believed her.

He’d also thought that he might die if he didn’t eat something, and soon. So instead of walking ten blocks to find Jo’s normal dealer, he’d scored some cheaper heroin from a sleazebag dealer on the corner and had used the money he had leftover to buy bread, some milk, some eggs. Jo hadn’t noticed the food. She’d just reached for the drugs and pumped them into her system.

She never knew what hit her . . . and she’d never woken up again.

You didn’t kill your mother.
He heard Flick’s voice in his head again, was surprised that it was so clear, and that he finally, on a cellular level, got what she was trying to say.

It was Jo’s choice to use drugs, to send her child to buy drugs, to ask her eight-year-old son to choose between drugs and food that had killed her. He did not.

Bad choices were made, and very bad consequences followed. But Kai was only responsible for the choices
he
made, the life
he
led. Yeah, he hadn’t been a choirboy, and he probably had some bad karma to work off, but he’d done the best he could at the time, and he’d survived. And when the opportunity arose to make better choices, he’d done that too. He wasn’t noble or honorable but he tried to a good man . . . Surely that counted for something?

All his adult life he’d made good choices . . . except for the one that had him running away from Flick like the hounds of hell were nipping at his ass. Love, and loving Flick, terrified him, so he’d bailed. He’d chosen solitude and loneliness over love and companionship and, asshole that he was, amazing sex. He couldn’t be more stupid if they cut off his head. He knew he should fix this, change things, but he didn’t know how, and he wasn’t sure if he was brave enough to humble himself and risk rejection.

Bullets, knives, and bombs didn’t scare him, but saying “I love you” and not knowing if the sentiment was reciprocated had him wanting to change his underwear.

He’d say it anyway. But first he needed to get back to Mercy. Excited for the first time in weeks, he grabbed his phone and pressed the speed dial number to connect to Sawyer. And where the hell was Mark with his coffee? He needed a solid hit of caffeine to re-fire all his synapses. Soul searching was hard work.

“Hey.” Sawyer was sitting behind his desk. Kai zoomed in on his face and saw that Sawyer looked tired and stressed.

“Hypothetically . . .” Kai said and stopped.

“Hypothetically what?”

“Hypothetically, if I wanted to base myself in Mercy, what could I do there?” he asked, holding his breath. He needed to work, to pull his weight. If—it was such a crazy thought and he couldn’t believe that he was giving it headspace—if he went back home to Mercy, what would he do?

Sawyer smiled. “You can always do the community self-defense classes. Mac is pissed that he has to do them now.”

Kai raised a middle finger to the screen and resisted the urge to demand that Sawyer be serious. This was his future they were discussing.

Sawyer’s expression turned speculative. “Okay, let’s think this through. You’ve always said that there are corporations, security outfits, private armies who want specialized, individual, super advanced training to give their operatives a bit more of an edge.”

“Yeah, but the bigger courses generate more income. Economies of scale.”

“That was before you had Mark to run those courses. If Mark can do the run-of-the-mill stuff, then you can provide the specialized service, at big money. Kind of what you did for the sheikh. At the sheikh’s rate.”

Kai felt a spurt of excitement. “You think it would fly?”

“Hey, if they want your focus and time then they should pay for it. And they will.” Sawyer sounded convincing. “You might not be able to do all the training here in Mercy but you could do most of it here. That’s if, you know, you could see yourself living in this hellhole of cute.”

Kai knew that he didn’t have a leg to stand on, so he kept quiet.

“You leaning toward coming back, bro?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Thank the good Lord and all his angels,” Sawyer drawled. “Can I buy this damned building now?”

Shit, he’d forgotten all about that. “Yeah, make the offer. Buy the premises.”

“I’ll courier you the documents you need to sign.”

Kai shook his head as Mark walked into the room, coffee in his hand. “No, don’t bother. I’ll be back within a day or so.”

Sawyer grinned. “Excellent news. Oh, and, Kai?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me to hit you for making Flick cry.”

Kai sighed. Nobody, in his book, was allowed to hurt Flick, and that included him. “Fair enough.” He disconnected, took his coffee from Mark, and walked toward the door. “Carry on without me, Mark. I’m heading home.”

***

Ta
lly had left a voice message on her phone, Pippa had called her at the crack of dawn, Moses had dropped the bomb two seconds after he’d stepped into the bakery, and Sawyer had sent her an email. Plus, someone tagged her on Facebook and it was being discussed on Mercy OnLine.

She got it. Kai was back. So what?

Flick slammed her fist into her bread dough on the table in front of her and imagined that it was Kai’s face. What did he think he was doing, sauntering back into town after two weeks? Did he really think he could just stroll back in and pretend nothing had happened?

Nothing
had
happened, she told herself. They’d slept together, it ended. It wasn’t his fault that she’d fallen in love with him. She scowled at the bread dough. Well, he could take a little of the blame. He was a bit too sexy, a little too smart, a lot too messed up.

Did she really want to help him carry that cargo ship of baggage that accompanied him everywhere he went? No, she did not! A man like that was delightful to play with but he was a stubborn, screwed-up wreck, and really, she was better off without him.

Flick tipped her head up and looked at the ceiling. No, she wasn’t. She was miserable without him. She missed him and longed for him and dreamed about him and . . . God, enough! Seriously, she wasn’t an Austen heroine whose world had come to a grinding halt because the hero didn’t return her affections.

What she and Kai had had was a mutually beneficial arrangement, and he couldn’t be blamed for not wanting what she did.

Stupid, asshole man.

But, God, how was she supposed to live and work in the same town, seeing him occasionally, watching him interact with her friends, drinking at the Fox, running on her trail? How would she cope with watching him flirt with other women, hearing that he’d hooked up with them? And why was he home anyway? He’d only visited Mercy a handful of times over the past few years, so why was he back so soon? That wasn’t, in any shape or form, fair. He kept coming back when it was better for everyone—okay, just for her—for him to stay away.

“You’ve overworked that dough,” Moses said from across the table, his blue eyes glinting. “You’re going to have to bin it.”

Flick looked down at the mess on the table in front of her and cursed under her breath. What a waste! Now the jerkface was affecting her bottom line. She should send him a bill, for the wasted dough and for the amount of time she spent thinking about him when she should have been working.

Flick scooped up the dough, walked over to the trash, and dropped it inside, placing her hands on her hips. This was utterly ridiculous. She had to get a grip and stop this nonsense.

Enough, now.

The door from the bakery banged open and she turned to see her brother—why was he up and around at eight thirty? Since he closed the bar in the wee hours of the morning, he rarely woke before ten unless there was an emergency.

“Is Dad okay?” she demanded, suddenly scared.

“He’s fine.”

Flick let out a long breath. “So what’s the bad news?”

Jack frowned. “What bad news?”

Flick felt like she was about to burst out of her skin, she was that irritated. “If you don’t have news then why are you here?”

“I came to tell you that Kai—”

Flick felt a hot, intense wave of anger engulf her and instead of pushing it away she embraced it, sank into it. Oh, this anger felt so much better than tears. “I don’t freaking care!” Flick shouted.

Jack just smiled. “But—”

She was done. She was over this. Over being talked about, gossiped about, feeling like her love life was a slide for the residents of Mercy to dissect under their collective microscope. She’d had more than enough.

Flick stomped over to a knife block and yanked out a thin, wicked-looking boning knife and gripped it in a tight fist. “I’m done.”

“Where the hell are you going with that knife?” Jack demanded. “Stop waving it around; you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m a chef, idiot! I know more about knives than you do, so unless you want to get hurt, get the hell out of my way.” Sure, she was being dramatic, but if her customers wanted drama, they were going to get it. She’d give them something to talk about in their old age. . . .

Remember the time that Aunt Flick—you know, she’s the batty spinster with all the animals—went nuts in the bakery? Oh, it must’ve been forty, fifty years ago . . .

Flick pushed her hair off her face with her free hand and walked to the swing door, banging it open with the palm of her hand. The tables were all full and, thanks to the red mist in front of her eyes, her vision was blurry.

“Listen up!” she shouted and the noise dropped. The rumble of voices faded away until the silence was absolute.

Apparently she stood just there, hair a mess, no makeup, waving this wicked knife around . . .

“What’s going on?” Pippa asked as she walked down the stairs from her office.

“My sister is losing her shit,” Jack said from somewhere behind her. No doubt Moses was there too and the rest of her staff. Well, in for a pound and all that.

Flick spun around and pointed the knife at her brother. He was still a few yards from her so she waved it around to make her point. “Shut up! And listen up!”

Jack just smirked at her and folded his arms across his chest. The bastard was enjoying this. Maybe she should stab him, just a little prick . . .

Rumor has it that she tried to stab her brother. I think his name was Jack. He married that showgirl. Or was she a stripper?

Whoa, stabbing him was a step too far, even for someone as incandescently furious as she was. Besides, with Jack’s training he’d have the knife off her before it came anywhere near his skin and that would be embarrassing. Best not to try.

“You got something to say, princess? Because you have our attention.” Jack’s amusement was thick and she felt her temper bubble up again.

“Right! Yeah, I have something to say.”

“Can’t wait,” Jack said.

It was difficult but she ignored him. She turned back to her audience and looked past their heads. She couldn’t make eye contact—if she saw pity in their eyes she’d dissolve.

“I know that Manning is back and I swear, the next person who tells me that he is, I swear I will fillet them with this knife. Slowly. And painfully.”

“That sounds like a threat, Felicity. Can’t have that.”

Flick recognized that voice and looked toward a table at the window, and the rugged face of Mercy’s chief of police came into focus. “Shut up, Kelly, I’m not scared of you! I used to beat you up when we were kids.”

Snickers of laughter drifted toward her and she scowled. Nobody should be laughing. This was serious, dammit!