Chapter Twenty

Doc

My ribs ache, but I ignore the pain to hold Natasha close. She runs her hand down my back to my ass, then wriggles out from under me.

"Where do you think you're going?" I ask and snag her around the waist.

"Nowhere. But I have to know if it's true. And what side it's on." Natasha's laugh cuts through the darkest clouds. She's my sun, the center of my world.

She traces her finger along the outline of the green feet inked on my ass. "Fucking hell. That's all you wanted?" I grab her hand, then roll onto my back to stare up at her. "You know the story?"

"The PJs flew Jolly Green Giant helicopters in Vietnam. Some batshit crazy PJ decided he'd use the symbol from General Mills instead of an outline of a helo?"

She served. Of course she knows the story. I shouldn't be surprised. Still, I tell her the rest of it—at least as much as I know. "Those particular birds would leave an impression in the brush that looked a lot like feet. So he wasn't quite as crazy as everyone made him out to be. Though he was apparently drunk when he got to the tattoo parlor."

Natasha's other hand skims up and down my arm, constantly moving, constantly touching me. I draw the blankets over us, needing more time with her before reality intrudes and I call Hidden Agenda. We could have had this for a year. If only we'd trusted one another.

"Gladys is going to have something to say about this." I twine our fingers and hold her hand against my chest. "Like, ‘I told you so,' ‘about damn time,' or ‘what the hell took you so long?'"

In a heartbeat, Natasha shuts down. Her body stiffens, and she tries to pull away, but I won't let her.

"Doc—"

"No. Not this time. I know what you're going to say. ‘Gladys will never see us together. You can't stay. This can't last.' But you're wrong." I flatten her palm over my heart. "Feel that?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"It's yours, Natasha. My heart. It belongs to you. If you want it."

Tears shimmer in her eyes. "I…I'm falling for you. Or…I've already fallen. But?—"

"Then trust me, baby. Talk to McCabe and his team. Listen to what they have to say. If you're not convinced after that…we'll leave together."

With a gasp, she sits up, shock parting her lips and blowing her pupils wide. "You have a life here."

"No. I don't." The realization should come with an ocean of sadness. But instead, a sense of peace settles over me. "The only thing here for me is you."

"You're willing to give up all this," she gestures around the bedroom, "because we spent one night together?"

I stifle my grunt as I reach up to touch her cheek. "I've been alone for a long time, Natasha. I know what love is. I lost it once. I won't lose it again. And if you think there's a damn thing in this house that I'd miss—other than you—you're wrong."

She's not convinced. It's too soon, and she's still too raw. But it's the truth. I realized it the moment I found her unconscious on my bathroom floor. I'm in love with her. It's not logical. We've talked more in the past twenty-four hours than we have in a year. But thanks to Gladys, I know Natasha. Maybe not her favorite color or the types of movies she likes or whether she's a morning person or a night owl. But I know her heart. And she knows mine.

Her stomach growls, loudly. Shit. "Let's take a shower. After that, we'll call McCabe. If he's going to swagger in here like he owns the place—and he will—the least he can do is bring us lunch."

"If I had a shower like this," I adjust one of the four heads to rinse the shampoo from my hair, "I wouldn't want to leave it behind. And that tub…I'd give anything for a long soak in a tub that deep."

"Not until those stitches dissolve." Doc reaches for the soap, and I forget all about the tub—and the sharp edge to his voice.

"Oh my God. What happened?" A thick scar runs half the length of his spine, with a handful of smaller, round patches dotting his lower back.

I run my hands down his shoulders, needing the feel of his skin under my fingers. This close, I can tell his hips aren't completely even.

"Helicopter crash. You don't find many PJs who retire voluntarily." He doesn't elaborate, so I wrap my arms around him from behind and press my cheek to his back.

"Go on…" If he thinks he's the only one who can demand answers, he's wrong. I don't know what's going to happen this afternoon. Or tonight. Or tomorrow. Or…for the rest of our lives. But I'm going to steal as much closeness as I can for now. If he'll let me.

He sighs, and I pluck the bar of soap from his hands. His lats tense under my gentle touch, and I'm careful to avoid the wound from the chest tube as I wash him.

"I don't remember much about the crash. We were on our way to rescue a SEAL team that had been ambushed. We were trying to refuel mid-flight. Something went wrong, and I only remember snatches after that. Half my crew didn't make it. I shattered three vertebrae and bruised my spinal cord. I was in the hospital for weeks. Then rehab. I'll never be a hundred percent again, but I manage. Most of the time."

"And these?" I touch one of the round scars. They're not surgical. Burns, if I had to guess.He flinches, and I drop my hand.

"I had those before I enlisted." He backs me up against the wall, caging me with his arms. "If we weren't beaten half to shit, I'd take you right here."

He's avoiding the question. But unlike earlier, there's something darker in his tone. These are personal. And I have to wonder—will he ever tell me everything? Or for all his talk of trust, will this be a part of him I never truly know?

"I don't have any clothes." Wrapped in one of Doc's fluffy towels, I stare at my duffel bag. I got sloppy. My gun, cash, and passports were always ready to go at a moment's notice. But a change of clothes? I raided the bag for those years ago—probably on a day I was avoiding laundry—and never put them back.

Doc grunts as he pulls a dark gray Henley over his head. The color turns his eyes a brighter blue. "I washed everything last night while I was installing the camera. Once we talk to Ryker and West, it might be safe enough to go out and shop for some essentials. You probably don't want to keep using my shampoo."

There's an odd note infusing his tone. Almost…disappointment.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I like your scent on me."

He hauls me into his arms before I finish speaking. "Fuck, baby," he growls in my ear. "Do you have any idea how much I want you right now?"

Palming the bulge in his jeans, I shudder. "This much?"

"More. So much more."

His phone rings from somewhere over his shoulder.

"Goddamn fucking timing." He releases me, stalks over to the nightstand, and puts the call on speaker. "Couldn't even give me until noon?"

Raelynn's Texas drawl carries through the room. "I would've. But someone's workin' damn hard at trackin' down C. Jacks. You're outta time, Doc. Either you make the call, or I will."

Oh, God. I sink down onto the bed. If Bastian can't find who he thinks he's looking for, he'll call Clancy. Or worse. He'll hurt the old man until he talks.

Doc runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. "I'll call. They're your family, Raelynn. I won't let you do anything to break their trust."

I can't sit still. The conversation Doc had after hanging up with Raelynn lasted all of sixty seconds.

"McCabe. Since I expect you're planning on showing up at my house in the next hour, do me a favor."

The man's raspy laugh carries an ominous tone. "Another one? I already saved your life. Twice. What do you need now? The game-winning ball from the 2004 World Series?"

"Pizza. Breadsticks. Throw in a salad for good measure. Natasha needs to eat."

"Done."

He didn't say a word about me being here. Like he knew. That was almost an hour ago. I tug at my tank top. It's not mine. Neither are the jeans, the underwear, the bra, the tennis shoes… Not really. For years, I lived in whatever I could get from Goodwill . But once I found Blakely, I felt safe enough to order clothes I wanted. Courtesy of Gladys and her credit card. She was only too happy to help once I told her an ex had ruined my credit score.

She's never going to forgive me for lying to her.

"Natasha, breathe." Doc comes up behind me and wraps his arm around my waist. "McCabe is an asshole of epic proportions. But he's been through some shit. He'll understand."

"When I asked if he was a friend, you said no. Then said he'd kill you if you explained that statement. And I'm just supposed to trust him?" I turn in his embrace. "How?"

"Do you trust me?" His fingers skim along my jaw with the lightest touch.

"Yes." The answer comes so easily. It shouldn't. The last time I trusted anyone, Parker killed my brother. But whether out of desperation or some connection I'm only starting to understand, I trust Doc with my life.

"Raelynn got hurt a few months ago," he says. "It was…bad. She lost enough blood, I wasn't sure I could save her. McCabe and I got into it that night, and I told him if he didn't back the fuck off, I was done."

He's still touching me, but now he's tracing circles over the back of my neck.

"I hadn't heard from him since that night. The money kept coming, but the calls stopped. I lived for those calls." He drops his hand, limps over to what once was obviously a bar just off the kitchen, and flattens his palms against the marble. "He pulled me out of the bottle when he gave me this job. Last week, I was dangerously close to falling back in."

"Doc—"

"I fucking loved being a PJ. When I had to retire, I didn't know what to do with myself. Working in the ER was enough for a while. But after I lost Tessa, I…gave up. Somehow, McCabe knew. I never asked how he found me. Or why he thought hiring a drunk to patch up his team was a good idea. But he saved my life. You can trust him to save yours, too."

There's so much I want to say. To know. But before I can go to him, someone pounds on the front door.

"Trust them, Natasha. Not just for you. But for me."

Doc rests his hand on the butt of his gun. He clipped the holster to his belt minutes after getting dressed, and I regret putting my weapon back in his safe.

The man standing on the porch must be close to seven feet tall. Dressed head-to-toe in black, bald, and covered in scars, he's lethal in every way. Except for the five pizza boxes he holds in his massive hands.

"Doc." He nods, then beelines for the kitchen like he knows right where to go. West strides in after him with two large takeout bags.

Raelynn is next, followed by a man with a German Shepherd pressed to his side, and a gorgeous woman with a dark, angled bob.

Once he's locked the door again, Doc holds out his hand to me. I let him draw me against him. "Natasha, that's Ripper and his service dog, Charlie. This is Inara. She's?—"

"The Ranger."

"The other Ranger, you mean." Inara stares me down for a long moment, and her words sink in. She knows who I am. Fuck. This was a bad idea. If she told anyone, we could all be in danger. "Relax, Natasha. We ID'd you from the security camera outside the hospital. But no one outside of Hidden Agenda has access to that information. Ripper and Wren made sure of it."

"How long have you known?" Doc asks.

From the kitchen, Ryker snorts. "We knew who she was before you checked yourself out against medical advice, Doc. And I had a pretty good idea where she was after Raelynn borrowed one of the SUVs last night."

"Well, shee-it." Raelynn rummages around in Doc's cabinets while West sets out containers of salads, breadsticks, marinara sauce, and ranch dressing. "I knew I shoulda' taken my own car."

"Your car doesn't have tinted windows. Someone would have noticed you staking out Doc's house in a red Mustang," West says and snags a slice of pepperoni pizza.

Doc gapes at the SEAL, then turns to Raelynn. "You were outside all night?"

"Wasn't about to let some idjit get to you and Natasha just because you decided to dig in like some Alabama tic. You've got a hole in your side and at least one busted rib. What did you expect?"

Doc's fingers tighten on mine. No one speaks for several minutes as everyone fills their plates and Raelynn passes around bottles of water. Fear keeps me rooted in place, despite the scent of the food twisting my stomach into a knot.

Ryker leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his massive chest. His face is a mask. No emotion. But his eyes regard me with what I think might be curiosity.

Screw this. I'm tired of being scared. Dropping Doc's hand, I walk right up to the man. Well, as close as I can get without having to crane my neck to meet his gaze. "How long until someone finds us here?"

One light-brown brow arches slightly. The other is split by a thick scar. "Four days if we're lucky. Two if we're not."

"My luck ran out eight years ago. My former squad leader, Montgomery Bastian, wants me dead, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way." I have to force the words out over the lump in my throat. "Doc can't be in his way."

"Natasha, fucking hell. I will absolutely be in that asshole's way. I told you I'd keep you safe."

"Enough!" Ryker doesn't have to yell. He commands attention simply by being in the room. Everyone turns to him. Even West. "We're all in the way. And we'll stay there until that fucking piece of shit is nothing but dust I can wipe off my boot. That's how this works."

"This?" I ask.

West clears his throat. "Family."