“Well,” he said, his voice raspier than she’d ever heard it. “That’s…inconvenient.”
She nodded slowly, touching her fingers to her swollen lips. “It probably shouldn’t happen again. Conflict of interest and all that.”
He shook his head just as slowly as though also convincing himself. “Right. Shouldn’t happen again. Our lives are incompatible. I want to be left alone to do my job; you want to push me into the limelight.”
Right. That whole thing.
She didn’t blame him for wanting to keep his distance, and he didn’t know the extent of research she was doing on him behind the scenes.
“So this is good night, then,” she said. “For real this time.”
“Night. And Sims?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He winked and was gone, and it wasn’t until after she’d closed the door and opted to take a hot shower after all that she realized this was the most she’d looked forward to tomorrow in a long, long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The nightmares didn’t come often, but when they did, they were real pissers.
It took Luc several minutes after wrenching his eyes open to orient himself—to let the panicked part of his brain recognize the agony for what it was: A memory.
Luc sat upright in bed, leaning forward and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to push out the memory of Jensen’s shocked eyes as the bullet ripped through his chest. The mental image of Shayna Johnson’s tiny, unmoving body on the bedroom floor.
Fuck.
He knew from experience that going back to sleep now would risk him falling back into the dream, so he rolled out of bed and headed into the kitchen for water and something—anything—to distract him.
He was halfway through his second glass of water when Anthony’s bedroom door opened. Luc caught a glimpse of long blond hair spread out on his brother’s pillow and the rustle of sheets before his brother stepped out into the darkened kitchen.
Luc jerked his chin toward the bedroom door that his brother had just closed. “Is that the same woman from last week? Kelsey?”
“Kelly. And no,” Anthony said, loosely tying the string on his pajama pants before opening the fridge. He pulled out a Tupperware of pasta leftovers and held it up to Luc with raised eyebrows, but Luc shook his head.
The shitty nightmare had killed any semblance of an appetite.
Anthony shrugged and popped the leftovers into the microwave before pouring himself a glass of water. Luc waited and watched.
Anthony drank the entire glass in three gulps, refilled it, and then turned to stare at Luc.
There it was.
The big-brother-inquisition. It was a silent inquisition. Most things were silent with Anthony. But the question was there.
Scratch that.
The demand was there. The one that said talk.
As always, the desire to talk about what happened warred with the desire to bury it deep inside him in hopes that the memories would die a quiet death.
But Luc had heard about too many cops going off the deep end because they didn’t deal with the shit they’d seen head on.
“Another dream,” he said finally, setting his glass on the counter and folding his arms over his chest.
Anthony said nothing as he retrieved his pasta, stirred it up a bit, and placed it back in the microwave. “Same shit?”
“Same shit.”
“Tell me.”
Luc gritted his teeth. “I just told you it was the same shit. The definition of same meaning that it’s identical to every other Goddamn time that I’ve told you about it.”
Anthony pulled his pasta out of the microwave again, popped a piece of penne in his mouth to test the temperature, and deeming it hot enough, dug in with his fork.
All the while, he stared at Luc.
That damned silent inquisition.