And without them, evil can’t thrive.
But they outnumber the good two to one.
Blaine is a follower. A foot soldier. A smart but pliable guy who puts external approval above doing the right thing.
That makes him dangerous.
But not as dangerous as whoever pulls his puppet strings.
All this philosophizing is a convenient excuse to avoid thinking about my feelings for Lindsay. Sympathy for what she’s going through. Passion for the minutes she was in my lap. Terror for the moments when those balloons and flowers came into the picture.
Arousal for the memory of her taste in my mouth.
Anger for the fact that she still doesn’t trust me.
By my second beer, I’m loose enough to go take a shower, wash off the shit of the day, maybe start to clear my head. My apartment is basic, furnished mostly from leftover furniture from my parents’ home. We sold it, my sister and I, after they died. Well, she sold it. I couldn’t be here, too busy on combat missions, too crazed to come back home for more than the funeral.
The leather recliner dad loved is my favorite. I rented an apartment on the ocean, with a deck, and I plunk down into the chair, looking over the water through my open patio door. If I sit on the deck, the next-door neighbor will invite me over to share a pitcher of margaritas, and I don’t want that.
You need to spend a lot of time alone when you do what I do for a living.
The alone time recharges my batteries. More than that, it helps make me fit for human company again.
You can’t kill people in an effort to protect and not have it change your soul.
Sometimes, the soul needs beer and pizza to even think about recovering.
After a minute of ocean-staring time, I realize it’s not working. Solace isn’t helping. All I can think about is Lindsay. Being intimate with her. Talking and bantering with her. Protecting her.
Kissing her.
Am I crazy to think that we have a chance? I don’t think so. There’s no reason we can’t overcome the wounds. The scars will always be there, a map that reminds us of the past, but we have room in our lives to make new memories. Forge new commitments. Create a stronger bond.
A perfect love between two imperfect people.
I know she wants me as much as I want her. I know she’s scared and in reactive mode, wavering between fury and agreement.
Getting her to trust me is my actual mission, I see.
A wave crashes hard against the shore and I realize we’re like the tides. An invisible force pulls us toward and away, close then far, the back and forth inevitable.
An ache in my bones, my biceps, my heart, my cock turns emotional and physical at the same time, making me vibrate for her. I can’t do this. I can’t not be with her.
I rub my face with my palms and wonder if I can get away with going back to The Grove to see her tonight. Under what pretense?
And will she care?
Tap tap tap.
I fly up, gun in hand, pointed at my front door, finger on the trigger. No one visits me. No one. Ever. I’ve trained the next-door neighbor not to knock on my door. She knows. If I’m on the deck, I’m fair game.
Otherwise, stay the hell away.
“Foster? It’s Paulson.”
Shit.
“What the fuck, Mark? You know to call first.”
“I did. Went to voicemail.”
“Something wrong with Lindsay?” My blood sends a plume of heat through me.
“She’s fine.”
The heat doesn’t recede.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re not fine.”
I groan.
“Can we talk without the fucking door between us? Don’t you have any manners, Drew?”
I holster my weapon and sigh, looking at the half-empty pizza plate and remaining beers in the six-pack.
“Left them all in Afghanistan,” I mutter as I unlock the door and open it to find Mr. Blond DEA Dude standing there in surfing shorts and a t-shirt, holding a six-pack.
“Don’t you have a woman warming your bed right now, Paulson? Why the fuck are you bothering me?”
“Carrie’s fine. Great, in fact. But she’s having some girl’s weekend with her best friend.”
“How’s Amy doing?”
“Fine. Rehab’s helping her with the new arm. But I don’t want to talk about the past. Let’s talk about today.”
“No.”
“Try a different answer.”
“Fuck, no.”
“You were a suckass foot soldier.”
“I was never a foot soldier.”
“You take orders for shit.”
“I give orders, Paulson.”
“So now it’s Paulson? We’re off duty.”
“I’m never off duty.”
“And that’s why I’m here.” He plunks the six-pack down, takes one of mine, and opens it with his teeth. “Talk. You rolled a state representative today. I should be bailing you out of jail.”
“I know.”
“Dead zone in the video surveillance, huh?”
“Lindsay came up with the assailant story on her own. Even set it up by opening the loading dock door and making it look like the guy got away.”
“Jesus. She want a job at the CIA?”
“She could run the fucking agency.”