Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Marlowe hadn't hit that bullseye. Couldn't, not even once. Was lucky she'd hit the outermost circle on the stupid target way… down… there. At the opposite end of this lane, or whatever Alex called this narrow stretch of mission impossible.

They were at the TEAM's indoor range, one floor up from the medical floor, in this humongous TEAM complex. She was starting to think Alex was only teaching her how to shoot to make her look stupid. She was doing a bang-up job of it. The pistol he gave her was heavy, and her arm shook holding it straight out in front. The military men and women she'd seen in Afghanistan all had bigger, heavier guns and they'd been wearing plenty of other gear. Why couldn't she manage the weight of one gun? Plus, they'd probably worn some kind of protective armor. That must've been heavy. Were they all bulked up under those dusty uniforms, fatigues? She didn't even know what they called those camouflaged get-ups they all wore, and she was tired of pretending to care. But Asher wanted her to learn how to shoot, and she wanted to please him, so…

Shit. She fired again and, just as quickly, missed the bullseye.

"Don't forget to cradle your right hand with your left," Alex reminded her, for like, the hundredth time. "It'll stabilize your grip. Keep your hand from shaking."

Blinking the sweat out of her eyes, Marlowe held back another F-bomb and did as instructed. That was another thing. Having this big brute of a man's voice in her ear was waaaaay too intimate. Felt like he was breathing over her shoulder. Watching her every move. Like a vulture.

She lowered her quivering shooting arm, kept the pistol pointing down range, thumbed the button to release the magazine, but damn. It stuck. Either that, or she was a weakling. She thumbed that release button harder, needing to prove herself.

"Excuse me, Boss, but maybe this pistol will fit her hand better."

Marlowe knew that male voice from somewhere, couldn't place it as irritated as she was. This was Alex's fault. He was making her nervous on purpose.

"I think you may be right, Beau," Alex drawled. "Give it a try."

Beau?

Instantly furious, Marlowe pivoted on the balls of her feet, now in stylish low-cut boots that fit perfectly but did nothing for her temper. Alex had brought her a complete TEAM outfit to wear for this indoor range debacle. Shit! She looked just like a miniature version of Doc Fitz's husband. The man who'd wanted Asher to punch her. That voice was his and he was wearing the same outfit, only bigger. A lot bigger.

"Down range!" Alex snapped, pointing to the alley she'd just stepped away from.

"What?" she snapped back at him. What now?

"Point your piece down range," he bellowed, still pointing like she was an idiot, "and do it now! Never face away from your stand with a weapon in your hand."

Oh, yeah. Crap. Rule number one. Marlowe deflated. Chastened, she set her gun on the shooting stand, its barrel aimed down-range, like it should've been all along.

The rules weren't hard:

Always assume every gun is loaded.

Never point the muzzle at something you're not willing to kill.

Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to kill.

Be sure of your target and exactly what's behind it. Backdrop is part of your target. We don't kill innocent people, animals, or destroy property.

And lastly, this isn't Hollywood, and you are not Dirty Harry . Whoever he was. We don't show off.

But learning how to shoot, while remembering the rules took more time and practice than she had. Marlowe bowed her head and pressed her shaking palms flat on the stand and beside the gun. She was a failure and now, Beau had seen everything. Swallowing hard, she shook her head and told Alex through the fancy high-tech protective earphones clamped to her head, "I can't do this."

"Sure you can," the creep said, butting into her business.

Guess Beau was on the same channel of these earphones as Alex. Marlowe wanted to hit Beau. Why was he coming to her rescue? Tired and exhausted, she barely glanced over her shoulder when he put his arms around her. She stiffened, not sure how to react. He had a lot of nerve.

"Here, hold this one instead," he said, calmly placing a small black gun in her hand. "It's a midsize Glock23. It's lighter and, look. It fits your palm like it was made for you. It's a semi-automatic widely used by LEOs. Shoots .40 Smith &Wesson rounds, so it has sufficient knock down power. Magazine holds thirteen rounds. Best conceal carry pistol in the world."

Like she cared about conceal carry. But Beau was right, this gun did feel better. Lighter. It did fit her palm. Marlowe held her tongue. And her boot. He was too close to kick, and there was no sense kicking anyone. Yet.

"Now steady…" His muscled body was all around her, but he wasn't holding her tight. He wasn't breathing in her ear and his big hands were only guiding her aim. "You've got a white-dot front sight and a white-bracket rear sight. They make target acquisition easier for beginners like you, even in stressful situations. I think you'll find this piece easier to handle. Relax. Take a deep breath. That's my girl. You've got this."

Oddly, that last comment helped. Alex had said something about snipers and breathing and becoming one with the universe before firing. She liked that symbolism, being one with something. But hearing Beau's declaration of confidence in her? Made Marlowe believe she could do anything.

She kept both eyes open like Alex taught. Determined to excel this time, she suppressed her breath on her next exhale. Zeroed down range. Aimed dead center of that target and—

Hit. The. Bullseye.

"I did it!" she yelled, turning just her shoulders, not her hands, her new favorite pistol still pointed down range like it should be. "Did you see that? I hit the center of my target!"

Beau stood a step behind and to her side, smiling. Shit, this handsome guy was Doc Fitz's husband? This tanned, dark-haired behemoth, grinning at her like she'd just won a marathon? Like he was proud of her? Her heart swelled with feelings she couldn't identify.

"Good job!" He slapped her back playfully. Not even hard. Didn't sting. Beau wasn't just smiling at her, he was grinning. So was Alex. These two big tough guys looked pleased with her.

Marlowe turned back around, thumbed the magazine release, and this time, with this gun, the magazine slid easily into her palm. Whew. Feeling like she wasn't a dummy after all, and—while keeping the pistol aimed down range like she was supposed to, she set the magazine—Alex called it a mag—beside the gun on the stand. Err, pistol. The proper name was pistol. Alex told her that too, but he wouldn't explain why. Told her she'd have to ask Asher about the difference between guns and pistols.

Beau clapped his hand to her shoulder and said, again, "You go, girl!"

Marlowe swallowed hard. Taking a deep breath, she turned and faced the men. She hadn't been thinking kindly about either of these guys. Was pretty sure she'd hated Beau back in that cave, but here he was, helping her. Setting her up with a much better pistol. Going out of his way. Being kind and gracious. What was wrong with her that she always attacked first?

She meant to just say thanks, instead she blurted, "No one's ever told me that before."

Beau cocked his head. His black brows slammed together like he'd heard something he didn't like. He stepped in closer. "What'd you say?"

Marlowe wilted. "No, I…I didn't mean… My parents weren't…" She bowed her head, ashamed of her life and nothing more to say.

Two gloved fingers forced her chin up to face the man she'd wanted to kick earlier.

"What'd you say?" Beau asked again. "No one's ever told you ‘good job'? No one's ever praised you for shining? What the fuck!" He used her favorite word, only when he said it, it hissed out of his mouth like a very sharp knife.

Marlowe winced. Is that what I sounded like when that word blasts out of my mouth? Do I come across that nasty? Oh, my.

"You're just like me, aren't you?" he accused. "Just like I used to be. I was an asshole until I found my real parents."

I'm an asshole? Marlowe didn't understand. "You ran away?" she asked, her heart pounding at Beau's vicious tone. She was pretty sure he wasn't angry with her, but all that venom was certainly aimed at her. "W-were they like m-mine?"

He blinked a couple times, then swallowed and took a full step back. His palms came up and forward. "Shit, I'm sorry, Marlowe girl. I'm not mad at you. Jesus. I still have triggers." He shrugged those big shoulders. "I didn't mean to cuss at you. You didn't do anything wrong. I just can't believe no one's ever told you how great you are. Forgive me?"

Running a finger under her nose, she nodded quickly. Triggers, she understood. She just hadn't realized what she'd looked like when she went off at people like Beau just did.

"Don't know what your folks were like, sweetheart," he continued calmly, "but no, I never would've run away from my real parents. Ever. I was kidnapped. Stolen by a pimp and his whore out of my dad's truck at some rest stop, in Nevada, I think. I was just a kid."

She shook her head at the connection sizzling between Doc Fitz's husband and her, needing to run back to Asher where she knew she'd be safe. Beau was angry because he'd been kidnapped. Scary angry. So angry she was afraid to look at him.

"You need me to kill somebody for you, sweetheart?" he asked, his head cocked quizzically and his dark brown eyes glowing with tenderness she didn't deserve.

Gah! She lifted her chin to the ceiling to get away from his gentle gaze. "No. I… I shouldn't have said anything. Never mind." She sniffed, refusing to cry. She was not a weakling.

But she was a drama queen. How ironic was that? Yet there Marlowe stood, about to fall apart just because she'd hit a target—once. And because the man she'd thought she hated was kind, and he knew her. Beau not only saw her, he saw through her. He knew precisely what she'd lived through. That she'd been made to feel like nothing all her life. Like trash.

Until Asher… The TEAM… Alex… Beau…

Her world was spinning. Nothing in America was what she'd expected. People here were kind. Everyone she'd met here went out of their way to help her. They'd all been nice. They had money, sure, but only because they'd worked their butts off to earn it. They weren't all assholes. The TEAM wives cared, and they helped vulnerable women and children and—

"Deep breath," Alex murmured, his hand suddenly on her shoulder. "I located your parents. I know what they did to you. You're safe now."

She shook her head, her eyes still closed. That was not why this particular panic attack was attacking.

"I hate to break this to you," Alex continued, "but your father passed away seven years ago. I'm so sorry."

Talk about a thunderclap of useless information. Marlowe had no idea what to do or say. Her dad was dead? So what? Was she supposed to cry? Be sad? Why? Because he was an addict, and addicts were just sick, and couldn't help themselves, and needed rehab, and encouragement and food and a clean place to sleep at night? What about the little kid they left behind? She didn't know how to feel. Relief? Grief? Good riddance?

Marlowe ran for the elevator. It was dinner time. Asher should be awake. Fumbling with the lighted buttons inside the car, she didn't escape in time. A big hand kept the elevator door from closing and—

"Fuck!" she yelled as Alex and Beau stepped in beside her. "Leave me alone!"

Alex was on his phone, but Beau grabbed her hand before she could slap him or Alex, or both of them. Anyone. Beau held her hand against his chest as he pressed the correct buttons with his other hand. Sure enough, the door closed like it was supposed to. He made it look easy. Why couldn't she do that?

"Hold on, Marlowe girl. Just hold on tight and trust me. I'll get you back to Ash in no time."

"I'd rather hate you," she squeaked, going for honesty and trying to pull away from him. Marlowe needed distance. Her world made sense when she hated everyone. It was black and white then, no shades of gray. But now? The elevator was too small, the short ride was too long, and by the time the elevator stopped, she was hyperventilating. On the verge of screaming. Just in time, the door slid open and Beau escorted her down the hall. He rapped on Asher's door once, then opened it and gestured her inside. At last.

"Hey," sleepy Asher muttered from where he lay, propped against his pillows. "I was just… What's wrong? What'd you do to her, Beau?"

Marlowe ran to the bed and climbed in beside Asher. Sweating and shaking, with stupid tears in her eyes. She buried her face in his neck. Darn it. She was stronger than this. What was happening to her?

"She just found out her dad died," Beau explained sadly.

"My fault," Alex announced from somewhere near the door.

"No," Marlowe rasped. "It's not that. It's because…" She didn't want to admit it but away her big mouth went. "He was an addict. Never held a decent job. Was always gone, and my mom's a drunk. There. Are you happy now? My parents hated me. We lived in a dump because low-income housing still needs to be kept clean. Dirty dishes need to be washed. Clothes, toilets… Shit! Who gets to do all of that when moms and dads don't care? Their kid. Me! And who gets to drag her mom home when she's too drunk to walk? When she forgets where she lives? When she forgets… me?" Marlowe sucked in one long, painful hiccup as that last truth squeaked out between her lips.

"Aw, honey," Asher crooned, pressing her closer, letting her hide. "Sweetheart, I had no idea."

"Why's everyone always being so nice to me?" Marlowe didn't mean to yell that question into him, but the dam she hadn't realized she'd been holding back her whole life broke. There was no stopping the flood pouring out of her. She tried, but ended up hiccupping like a hysterical nut. Her. Hysterical? Ha. Marlowe and hysteria were polar opposites—until now. Tears literally poured down her face and soaked into Asher's warm shoulder. His good shoulder.

She had no idea she could cry that hard for so long, but by the time her crying jag ended, she was sweaty and alone with Asher. The door was closed. Alex and Beau were gone. Peering out from beneath Asher's scruffy chin, with her arm still wrapped around his neck, she sucked in a quavering breath and huffed out the last of her weakness.

There. All done. All gone. I'm strong again.

She tried to roll away. Her parents didn't want her. Why would Asher? But he didn't let her go. Marlowe was caught and this time she didn't mind. He hadn't yet asked anything, just kept smoothing his good hand over her shoulders, up and down her spine. Holding her close. He was there for her. Him. The right man. Not Kelsey's husband. Not Doc Fitz's husband. Just Asher. Just him.

Trembling like a ninny, she focused on his heartbeat. For a man who'd recently died, his heart was amazingly strong. Ker-thumping like it hadn't been shocked back to life just days ago. Swallowing hard, Marlowe tapped her fingers lightly on his chest. He kissed her forehead. She loved when he did that. It wasn't passionate or lustful or pushy. Just endearing. He did that because he was there for her. Had been since he'd first seen her in that cave.

Gradually, the complete story of her miserable childhood came out. She told him everything. More than the slice of life she'd shared with Alex and Beau, or Kelsey, Libby, and Judy. Marlowe's heart finally stopped pounding. She stopped panting. Settled down. Asher was nice and warm, and she was exhausted. There was nothing more to tell. No more lies to hide. No more secrets and no more pretending she was stronger and meaner than everyone else. With Asher, she didn't have to be anything or anyone but herself.

For the first time in—Marlowe couldn't remember how long—calmness filtered into her soul and settled over the ragged scars of her childhood. The snarky insults she'd endured for so long stopped whispering their reminders of pain long gone. She couldn't keep her eyes open, so she didn't. She didn't have to sleep with one eye open anymore. In Asher's arms, she was safe. He was holding her. He was keeping her. She belonged there with him. Beside him. His steady heartbeat was the best lullaby in the world.