“Other than the reporters and crazy townspeople, everything else okay? You talking to someone about what happened?”
“Nah. I talked with someone at the hospital, but not since I left. I’m good, though.”
“Don’t be a hero—or an idiot. You went through hell. Find someone to talk to.”
Gage gave a grunt that his friend could interpret as agreement if he wanted. But he had no intention of spilling his guts to anyone about what had happened. The people that needed to know had the details.
Gage’s jaw tightened, his molars grinding together to combat the unwelcome images that flowed into his brain.
“Look, I didn’t want to tell you this way, but I also don’t want you to make the same mistake he did. Micah didn’t die accidentally. He killed himself.”
“What?” Gage jackknifed out of his chair. The last dregs of his drink sloshed onto the floor. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He killed himself. Took his gun and put a bullet in his own brain.”
Gage knew Eli well enough to realize he was using the bluntness to cut through the fog of shock trying to wrap around him. Even as it attempted to take hold, Gage realized the information didn’t surprise him. Not really. Hadn’t he known that something about that night didn’t fit? An accident cleaning his gun? Yeah, right.
So he’d asked for an assignment and against protocol followed a boy into a booby-trapped house, chasing after information. Intel that was just out of his reach. He’d been angry—with Micah, with the army, with the war and the world in general—and pushed harder than he should have, blinded to the signs that something wasn’t right.
“I can’t go through that again, man. So talk to someone. You were captured and tortured. No one can deal with that completely on their own. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
Gage slowly sank back onto the edge of the chair. The shock was fading. Anger quickly replaced it. How could Micah do that?
“Dammit,” he breathed. The edges of the cut crystal glass bit into his palm as his hand tightened. Without thinking his arm flashed forward. The glass crashed against the wall with a bang and a crunch. Shards rained down, hitting the carpet and disappearing. He wanted those breaking shards to sound as loud as the relentless ache in his chest. “Why would he do that? Why didn’t he say something?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been going over it in my head for weeks trying to figure out if I missed the signs. I can’t bury another friend, Gage. Not that way.”
Guilt bit into him again. That’s almost what Eli had been forced to do. Things could have turned out so much worse....
They were soldiers working in the middle of a war zone. Losing men was something they’d both dealt with and they all realized it was a part of the job. Dying in the line of duty was one thing. But suicide? It just felt pointless.
There were only so many promises he could make, but this was one he felt confident he could keep. “I promise that isn’t going to happen. I’m okay. And if I start worrying that I’m not I’ll find someone.”
“And call me.”
“And call you.”
He and Eli talked for a little while longer. Gage told him about the Cupid charity event, although he didn’t mention Hope. It was nice to hear his friend’s laughter. It eased some of the tension that had been building inside him.
But soon after they hung up the silence of the darkened house pressed in on him again. His gaze was pulled back to the bits of glass that were sparkling at him from the floor. He should clean up the mess, but something wouldn’t let him.
Those broken pieces were a reminder of his friend. A reminder of what he’d done and the role Micah’s death had played in his own reckless decisions and the price other people had paid. Such a senseless waste—on all counts.
He needed to get out of there. It was Saturday night. Surely he could find another underground match.
Leaving the glass—he’d clean it up in the morning—Gage grabbed the keys to the Harley and headed out into the night.
6
H
OPE
WAS
EXHAUSTED
. It was almost one in the morning. When had staying up past midnight become more of a chore than a treat? She was only twenty-nine. Wasn’t she supposed to have endless energy?
Tigger, the orange tabby she’d rescued from a shelter in Charleston, met her at the back door. She didn’t even have the energy to walk upstairs. Not yet. Instead, she leaned into the closed door and let her eyes slide shut as Tigger wound between her legs.
The feel of his soft fur was welcoming and reassuring. She’d moved out of her dad’s house because it had been too difficult to stay. Nothing in that place ever changed. Her mom had chosen every stick of furniture and picture on the wall and her dad refused to get rid of any of it. He’d made the place into a shrine to the woman he’d loved and the life they’d lost. Everywhere Hope had looked there’d been a reminder of the mother she’d barely had a chance to know.
Those memories had only seemed sharper after almost losing her dad, too. Staying there felt wrong. It made her edgy, as if she was constantly waiting for more bad news.
But after moving out she’d been surprised to realize she was lonely. Tigger had been a friendly face to greet her no matter what kind of day she’d had.
Crouching down, she scooped him into her arms. He rubbed his head beneath her chin as she stroked down his soft back. He wasn’t always this affectionate so she took advantage of it while he was cooperative. He must have really missed her.
Proving her right, about sixty seconds after she’d picked him up he started squirming to get down. She loosened her grip and he leaped through the air to land gracefully on the kitchen counter beside her.
With a sigh of relief Hope finally found the energy to flip her heels from her feet. As much as it grated on her ordered soul, she left them in a pile beside the door. She’d deal with them in the morning.
She didn’t even bother to turn on the light, just headed across the open area that flowed from kitchen into living room. The floor plan of the house was perfect, and several times over the past four years she’d contemplated making an offer to buy the property. But she couldn’t make herself do it. The couple she rented from were older and had moved into an assisted-living community. They’d probably have sold it to her if she asked, but she hadn’t been willing to make that commitment. Buying property in Sweetheart...exactly the opposite of what she’d always wanted to do.
But she had to admit the space and quiet were nice. And why was she thinking about this now? Tonight? At one in the morning?
Frowning at her own wayward thoughts, she headed for the stairs. Three bedrooms stretched invitingly into the darkness. One was a guest room that had rarely been used, the other was an office that saw more action than it probably should have. The third was her own oasis and held the promise of a bed she could fall into.
Before she’d even set foot on the first stair she reached behind and grasped the zipper of her dress. Efficient as always, she could multitask exhausted and in the dark. The tab was halfway down her back when a loud bang reverberated through the front of the house.
Tigger let out a protesting yowl and shot from the kitchen in an orange streak.
Hope pivoted on her heel and looked at the front door, wondering who could be knocking on it at this hour. No one used her front door, not even the pizza delivery guy, which made her pause. She couldn’t actually remember the last time it had been opened....
A shadowy figure paced past the two narrow windows that ran on either side of the wooden panel. Male. Tall. Impatient.
Hope scowled and moved closer to see if she could identify the person audacious and rude enough to knock on her door at one in the morning.
“I know you’re up, Hope. I just saw you drive in.”
Gage. Hope slapped a hand across her stomach to try to stop the uncomfortable flip-flop thing it decided to do. The sensation was relief. Really. That was all. Relief at realizing the hulking figure wasn’t a burglar trying to break into her house. Yeah, because burglars usually knock.
“Hope,” he called again.
The man really was rude. She should ignore him. Let him pace out there as long as he liked. He’d disappeared from the party hours ago and then had the audacity to show up on her doorstep in the middle of the night?
But there was something in the agitated way he paced across her front porch. Or maybe it was the tone in his voice. Hopeful and desperate. Not once had she ever heard Gage Harper desperate. Not even that night when she told him they could never be together.
He’d always had a self-confidence that was intimidating and appealing all at the same time. Gage had always known what he wanted and didn’t have a problem going after it; sometimes despite knowing he shouldn’t. That kind of bravery...well, she reluctantly had to admit, probably made him an excellent soldier.
She had two choices. She could stand here and ignore him until he left. Or she could open the door and find out what he wanted. Everything inside her jangled a warning and told her to leave him out in the cold.
But her brain said letting him in was the logical choice. After all, if she had luck on her side—and maybe he’d had a few drinks since she last saw him—he might just spill his guts and save her an entire week of uncomfortable encounters. After all, she was supposed to be cracking him open like the spiny chestnuts that littered her dad’s backyard.
With a sigh, she crossed to the door and jerked it open.
“What are you doing here?”
Gage stopped midpace and turned to look at her. His gaze started at the tip of her head and worked downward, although it got snagged right around the neckline of her dress.
Something dangerous flared deep in his eyes. Instinct kicked in and Hope stumbled backward, away from him and the unwanted wave of awareness that swamped her. Her hand found her throat again, wrapping around it protectively. With a gasp she realized thanks to her opened zipper the neckline was gaping and showing a heck of a lot more skin than she’d intended.
Spinning away, Hope reached for the zipper to jerk it back up, but her fingers were suddenly clumsy and the tab kept slipping through her grasp. Her shoulders strained as she contorted herself, trying to get the damn thing to cooperate.
Rough fingers brushed her hands away. A sure grip seized the tab. She could feel his hesitation, the pause as he decided whether to pull the zipper up or down.
Her breath caught in her lungs and held as she waited, too. Hope had no idea which she really wanted him to do. She knew what she
should
want, but apparently that didn’t necessarily translate.
The sound of the teeth grinding together was louder than it ought to be. When the zipper reached the top of the dress Hope finally let the air leak from her lungs. Prematurely.
Gage ran a single finger across the top of her dress, letting it dip down beneath the line of fabric as he caressed her from one shoulder blade to the other. Hope jerked away, stumbling forward.
He stood there, his arms hanging innocently at his sides and his feet planted wide. He’d shut the door behind him, closing them both into the darkness of her home.
Having him there made her restless.
Hope’s mouth twisted. “What are you doing here?” she asked him again, hoping this time he might actually answer her.
“I have no idea.”
That was not what she’d expected.
Hope shook her head. What was she supposed to do with that statement? Gesturing toward the living room, she told him to sit while she changed. If they were going to talk she definitely needed to get out of this dress. Not only was it starting to strangle her, but every time the zipper shifted against her spine her skin also tingled.
She debated about what to put on. What she really wanted was the soft pants and worn T-shirt she liked to sleep in. But somehow that felt too intimate, although Jenna would have argued that point with her. Hope could hear her voice right now, “Intimate is lace nighties and thin little straps that just beg a man to tear them off of you. Intimate is not paint-splattered and so big that you can walk on the hem of your pants.”
Her friend might have had a point...if Hope had any intention of seducing Gage. Which she didn’t.
Finally, she settled on a pair of stretchy leggings and a soft, roomy sweater that skimmed her thighs and was so threadbare she’d never wear it out in public. But it was so comfy. The kind of thing just made for a Saturday at home.
Technically it could still be considered Saturday since she hadn’t been to bed yet.
Funny, the exhaustion she’d been fighting when she walked in the back door was nowhere to be found as she padded back down the staircase in bare feet.
She slid to a stop halfway down, shocked by the vision that waited for her.
Gage was sprawled in the corner of her favorite sofa. The spot had the best light—soft in the morning, sunny in the afternoon. And when the moon was big and full, beautiful silver light illuminated it so brightly that she could read without needing a lamp.
Tonight the moon was dark, leaving him almost totally in shadow and making him look like a wounded angel. The bruises on his jaw only emphasized the impression. His head was dropped back against the overstuffed pillow. His eyes were closed, the inky circle of his lashes casting a shadow that made him appear even more vulnerable.
Vulnerable and Gage Harper—two things that did not go together. Ever. Even when he was putting himself out there, he had the ability to make you think that he was masterminding everything to work out exactly the way he wanted. She, better than most probably, knew that wasn’t necessarily the case since he hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted from her. But still, he’d always been so strong.
Tonight he looked broken, not that he didn’t have every right to be. He’d been through a lot in the past several weeks. Hope’s chest tightened uncomfortably as she watched him. Dread reared up unexpectedly and twisted through her. She should go upstairs and forget he’d even come by.
But she couldn’t do that. Not tonight. Not when he looked like he really needed someone.
If his hand hadn’t been moving rhythmically over Tigger’s back she might have thought him asleep. Aside from that small, steady motion he was utterly still.
She could hear the motor of Tigger’s purr all the way to the stairs. A spurt of jealousy surprised her.
Clenching her jaw against the illogical reaction, Hope continued the rest of the way down. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her hand wrapped around the newel post, ready to bolt back up at the first sign that she needed an escape.
“He doesn’t usually like people. Men especially.”
Gage cracked his eyes open, looking at her from beneath weighted lids. “What makes you think he likes me?”
“He’s sitting still. And purring.”
His gaze dropped down to the cat. As if to prove her point, Tigger stretched his body up, following the path of Gage’s hand to make sure he kept stroking.
“You missed him trying to take a chunk out of my hand. But we appear to have settled on an accord.”
“So it would seem.”
He lifted Tigger off of his lap and set him onto the floor. Her cat huffed, frowned up at the man who’d been petting him and stalked away with an indignant twitch of his tail.
Gage held his hand out, beckoning her to come sit beside him. With a shake of her head she rebuffed him. Instead, she curled her hands over the edge of her wingback chair.
The sooner she figured out what he wanted the sooner she could get him out of her home. Having him here made her...edgy.
Lines crinkled his forehead and his lips pulled down at the corners, as he unconsciously mimicked the glare he’d just received from Tigger. She wanted to reach out and smooth away the tension, to fix whatever had upset him. But that wasn’t her job and Gage Harper wasn’t her responsibility.
Thank God. She pitied the woman who fell in love with the man sitting on her sofa, his thumbs bandaged from war, his jaw bruised from a fight he’d gone looking for and bone-deep sadness clouding his golden-brown eyes. He was the kind of frustrating, egotistical, mind-numbingly reckless man who sought out trouble just for fun.
Life was hard and painful enough without asking for torment.
In a few weeks Gage would leave again, returning to the kind of life where bullets and bombs were part of breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. The kind of existence where being captured, tortured and killed were constant possibilities. Her gaze fell to the hand he’d let drop back into his lap. The white bandage wrapped around his thumb made her heart ache.
Spinning away, Hope headed for the window. Maybe looking outside would be safe. Her eyes fell on the monstrously intimidating machine parked at the curb at the end of her front walk. Of course the damn man couldn’t drive a nice, sensible sedan with side-curtain air bags and crumple zones. Nope, he had to lodge the equivalent of a rocket engine between his thighs and laugh at the wind and a need for speed.
Not that it was any of her business what he drove. The only thing she wanted from him was the story.
This was the perfect opportunity to press for her story. He’d come to
her
in the middle of the night. But she couldn’t do it. The questions wouldn’t come.
Maybe it was the way he’d looked when she’d come down, tired and...alone.
Hope heard the creak of her sofa, but didn’t move. She felt the heat of him as he walked up behind her. His palms flattened against the glass on either side of her head. Her focus shifted from the Harley out her door to the reflection of the man who’d driven it.
She expected to find him watching her, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was staring up into the endless night, a terrible expression on his face—grief and fury and guilt all raging inside him.
God, it hurt just looking at it. She couldn’t imagine living with whatever was inside him.
Hope waited, her entire body tight with the desire to help him. But she had no idea how. What could she say when she didn’t understand what was wrong?