“Are you telling Riley about your twisted fantasies again, Tillman?” Holbrook asked as he came into the kitchen.
“Sick, man. So sick,” I admonished with a smirk as I shook my head at the young man who had turned an interesting shade of red.
“He’s got a crush on you,” Holbrook whispered in my ear when he leaned in close, reaching around me to grab one of the empty mugs.
“Does not,” I hissed in reply even as my cheeks warmed.
Instead of answering, Holbrook flashed me a knowing look as he filled his mug. Scowling at him, I mouthed the words “Hillbilly ass” and turned back to face the pink cheeked young agent.
“Can I get you some coffee, Agent Tillman?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to go check the perimeter,” he replied, though I noticed that he wouldn’t meet my gaze and his cheeks had begun to darken again. “Sir,” he said, nodding as he rushed past Holbrook.
“You scared him off, you big oaf!” I accused as soon as Tillman was out of earshot, snatching up a nearby rag and smacking Holbrook in the shoulder with it.
“Yup, I’m just a big ’ole brute.”
Rolling my eyes, I turned my back on him, only to let out a hum of pleasure when he settled a hand on my shoulder to rub his thumb in small circles against my tight muscles. His touch was absolute bliss, and for a second I could almost forget about everything else that was going on. Almost.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, breaking my carefully constructed fa?ade of calm.
“I’m fine,” I lied, wishing that I could stay there wrapped up in my fantasies forever.
“Liar,” he whispered, the tenderness in his voice making me smile despite my misery.
How long could I continue to pretend that I was okay when people were dying because of me?
Turning to face him, I looped my arms around his shoulders to trail my fingers through the baby fine hair at the nape of his neck. Rising up on my tiptoes, I ignored the pull in my stitches and pressed my lips to his. He responded immediately, moving his hands down to grasp my hips and returned my kiss with a slow brush of his lips.
When I pulled back he didn’t pursue me, but instead rested his forehead against mine and asked, “What was that for?”
“Just saying thanks.”
“For what?”
“Just being you, I guess,” I replied with a shrug.
Our tender moment was broken by Santos’s arrival, his mere presence sending a wave of austerity through the assembled agents. The men milling around in Holbrook’s entryway fell silent and parted like the Red Sea as soon as Santos stepped into the house, pausing for a brief moment until his eyes landed on me. Striding towards us with a dour expression on his face he didn’t say a word until he crossed the threshold of the kitchen.
“Would anyone care to explain what the hell happened here?” he asked without taking his eyes off me, the deadly calm of voice making me shudder.
“Sir, we…” Holbrook began, his hands remaining on my shoulders.
“I’ll tell you what happened, I lost six good agents,” he said, cutting Holbrook off. “Six families lost their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons today.”
The unspoken accusation in his words cut into me like a knife, digging deep into my heart where it twisted and gouged at the tender parts of me. I wanted to protest that it wasn’t my fault, but Santos was right; my stubbornness had caused those men to die. I may as well have killed them myself. Still, that didn’t mean that he had to rub it in my face.
“You’re going back to the hotel, where you will remain until Reed is caught and put away.”
“But…” I said, the rest of my words withering on the tip of my tongue under Santos’s baleful glare.
“No arguments, Ms. Cray. I have been exceedingly patient with you and understanding of your situation, but today your selfishness has cost the lives of a lot of good men. Now, I want you to gather your things and get your ass in the car out front, do you understand?”
Pressing my lips together in a thin line I nodded and stalked into Holbrook’s bedroom to collect my bags, the weight of a dozen eyes tracking my movements making my shoulders vibrate with tension. Resisting the urge to slam the door shut behind me in a childish display of anger, I pushed it closed with sharp and precise click, and took several slow breaths.
It only took a few minutes to stuff my belongings into my duffel bag and backpack. Looking at them leaned up against the foot of the bed, I wondered if I’d ever get to return home, or if I’d spend the rest of my short life living out of a suitcase.
Samson’s on the run, but why does it feel like I’m the one being locked away?