Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I was on my second pink drink, something called Chesapeake Punch. The punch part of the drink tasted more like jungle juice—in other words it was nasty. Yet I was still slurping them down in the hopes that the rum would kick in and calm my nerves.

To say my father had officially entered the ‘I'm still your father no matter your age' zone would be an understatement. My first call to him hadn't gone great because I hadn't told him about the pictures Smith had found. I took my ass-chewing like an adult, admitted I was wrong, explained why I hadn't told him, then endured another lecture about him wanting to know because he was my dad and loved me. By the time the call ended, we exchanged ‘I love yous' and everything was good.

The second call of the day was total shit. We'd argued about the state of the house and what I was going to do with it. My father wanted me to dump it immediately and walk away. I wanted to let the police do what they had to do, finish the house, and at this point break even. The conversation had deteriorated to the point Smith nabbed my phone out of my hand—while he was driving—put it on speaker, and took over. I would've been pissed at this maneuver if Smith hadn't calmed my father down. Not all the way calm but enough he lost his Captain Taylor gruff tone and slipped back into being my dad.

Not that he'd changed his mind—he still wanted me to sell immediately, but he'd softened his demands and turned them into safety precautions. It wasn't the gun that had put him over the edge, it was the break-ins. Smith had explained I would never be in that house alone and this latest incident happened when we weren't there. My father was far from dumb—he read between the lines as had I. Someone waited for their shot when the house was empty, which meant they might be desperate to gather their sick-as-shit pictures and whatever else they had hidden but they weren't desperate enough to do it while the house was occupied.

The call ended when Smith told my father I'd be working out of the Z Corps offices for the next few days, and when his team got back from talking with George Calvin, they'd be paying a visit to Billy Rice.

After that, we did what Smith had said we were going to do—we went to my house and I checked my mail, which made me think of the letters that had stopped coming. I was grateful that was one less thing to deal with, but it was strange. I wasn't one to buy trouble but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to know why. Every two weeks since I'd bought the house, then nothing. When I'd mentioned this to Smith, he told me Cooper was still looking into who had sent them and why they'd stopped.

The part that didn't happen that Smith had decreed was I didn't look around my kickass house that I'd remodeled from floor to ceiling in every room and remember why I loved my job. Being in my home reminded me why I couldn't live in it. And that reminder pissed me off. Seriously pissed me off. Smith felt it, ushered us back out, and off we went to Libbey's with Jonas following us in another company SUV.

I wanted my life back. I wanted to drive my own damn car. I wanted to make Smith dinner in my kitchen. I wanted to see him lounging on my couch while we watched TV. This wasn't me being ungrateful or being one of those women who, even though they were in danger made stupid decisions. This was me wanting to live my life and being angry I couldn't because some jackhole was fucking with my life and my livelihood.

Now I was sitting on the deck of a kickass restaurant. I loved sucking back shitty drinks, listening to Jonas and Smith talk about their team's meeting with George.

I should've paid close attention but I no longer cared.

My creative vision for George and Brittney's childhood home was a bust. With all the damage I'd have to repair, I'd have to adjust the budget again, which was going to mean the walk-in closet I'd planned would no longer be a woman's dream but rather have wire shelves.

The only good part was that Smith's hand was on my thigh where it'd been since we'd sat down and had remained there through my first two drinks. But then a waitress delivered a basket of wings, which meant I'd be losing his hand so he could eat.

Which I did, but not before he gave my thigh a squeeze.

"Aria?"

"Huh?"

"Jonas asked you a question."

My attention went across the table to Jonas.

"Sorry, I was thinking."

"This'll be over soon." Jonas repeated something Smith had told me on our drive to the restaurant. "You'll be back to business as usual in a few days."

Right .

And when that happened, where did that leave me and Smith?

The mental whiplash gave me a headache. I wanted this mess sorted. I wanted my life back. But I was afraid when that happened, Smith would be gone. No more sleeping in his bed because he was keeping me safe. No more waking up to his cheesy scrambled eggs. No more cooking with him. No more teasing.

With the day's events taking up all of my headspace, I hadn't been able to form a plan how I was going to break through and keep Smith.

"Good to know," I mumbled.

The rest of lunch was stilted. The guys made plans to drive down to Trappe to talk to Billy Rice. They did this with a mind I was sitting there listening, so they were vague. Ditto when they went back to discussing George and what he had to say about his friend, Billy. It was clear there'd been a falling out between the two friends. From what little they were saying in front of me, George had made it sound like Billy took a turn from teenaged antics to a teenager acting out, to teenage asshole. But he'd confirmed what his sister had said and what Kira had dug up—Billy had stayed with the Calvins all summer and had helped with the remodel of the upstairs. Adding to this, there were times when Billy worked alone because George Jr. had a summer job as a lifeguard and George Sr. was at work. During those times, Billy might've worked alone but Mrs. Calvin was there, and a lot of the time Brittney—who didn't have a job—was, too.

This gave Billy the opportunity to hide things behind the drywall if he was so inclined. Everything was pointing to Billy. The one hiccup was, he didn't own a Tesla. And if the letters had something to do with this, why would he send them to Calvin's house saying, "I know"? That didn't add up.

I'd just picked up my iced tea—I'd given up on the jungle punch that wasn't doing anything but making my stomach revolt—when my phone vibrated.

I set my drink down and grabbed my phone, expecting to see my father's name. Before the name on the screen registered, I felt Smith stiffen beside me.

Phillip.

I hit the green accept icon and as I lifted the phone to my ear, I tried to remember if I'd forgotten about a delivery.

"Hey," I greeted. "Did I forget you were delivering today?"

"What's with the police tape?" he ground out.

Good Lord. I'd never heard Phillip angry, but it rivaled Smith's angry tone.

"Well… there was another break-in."

"You're fucking shitting me!"

I didn't understand his anger. He was a nice guy, he'd delivered materials to a lot of my job sites. I'd known him awhile but I wouldn't call him a friend. And before the day he'd demanded I call him if I was working late at the house by myself, he'd never shown any signs he wanted to be my friend.

"Unfortunately, I'm not," I hesitantly told him.

My answer was met with uncomfortable silence. Both from Phillip and from the men I was sharing lunch with. Though the silence from Jonas and Smith was also accompanied with them staring at each other, having some sort of badass telepathy conservation that only brothers-in-arms could have.

"What the fuck," Phillip exploded. "Are you alright?"

I thought that was a strange question seeing as he was speaking to me, thus he'd know I was alright.

"Other than having more shit to repair, I'm fine."

"Does your man Smith know about this?"

For some reason Phillip bringing up Smith made me feel better.

"Of course he does. He was there…" I trailed off when Smith grabbed my free hand and shook his head.

"Okay, good," he said much softer.

Okay, now what was that?

"Cool of you to check in on me. But I'm fine. Smith's got everything under control."

Smith nodded like I'd said the right thing.

"You should dump this place, Aria," he suggested.

Sweet mother of all things holy, if one more person told me to dump the house my head was going to pop off and spin around in circles.

"I am," I lied.

"Good. You don't need this kind of headache and nothing's worth your safety."

Weirdly that sounded genuine. And the weird part was, as previously noted, we were not friends.

"You're correct about that."

"I had the day off. I was coming by to check in on you and see if you were making progress or if you needed any help."

That was a nice thing for him to do. Strange, but nice.

"Sorry you wasted a trip to the house. As you can see with the police tape, it'll be a few days until I can get back in."

"The cameras get anything?"

According to Kira, they hadn't. Even with her fancy facial recognition software she'd created, she couldn't get a hit because the person had been wearing a full mask, sunglasses, and gloves.

I didn't tell Phillip that.

"I'm waiting on the security company to review the recording. Might be a few days."

"Hope like fuck they find something so the police can nail this bastard."

The police might not but Smith would…in less than a few days.

"Me, too."

"Right. I'll let you go. Call me if you need anything."

"I will. Have a good day."

"You, too."

I disconnected the call and asked, "What was that about?"

Smith didn't answer my question. Instead, he asked his own. "Phillip ever call you before? Stop by one of your projects unannounced when he wasn't making a delivery?"

"No."

Smith's gaze flicked to Jonas.

"You don't think he has something to do with this?" I asked.

"What I think is, until we take down whoever is breaking into your house and following you, everyone is a suspect. And with that call, Phillip just scratched his name into the short list."

"But why would he break in?" I asked. "He'd never been to that house before."

"You know that how?"

"He told me."

"People lie, Aria. They lie and scheme and do fucked-up shit," Smith reasoned.

If Smith wanted to crawl through Phillip's life, who was I to make a stink about it? But I thought it would be a waste of time.

"We're gonna check and see if Phillip has a connection to Billy," Jonas explained. "Could be Billy has an accomplice."

Now that made sense.

I shrugged.

"If you're waiting for me to argue how you do your job, or put in my two cents, you might want to order more food because you'll be waiting awhile. Not me who's the security expert at this table."

Jonas gave Smith a pointed look that went hand-in-hand with the badass telepathy they had going on. I ignored this. Took a sip of my tea which was unfortunately alcohol-free but tasted a hell of a lot better, reached past the oysters I didn't have the stomach for, and snatched a fully loaded potato skin.

I had a mouthful of deliciousness when Jonas was clearly done with the heavy atmosphere and decided it was on him to give me shit.

"Security expert?" he huffed.

I chewed, swallowed, and shoved it back. "Easy, Trashman, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Trashman?" He chuckled.

For the first time since I'd met Jonas, I took him in, really and truly studied the man behind the quick smiles and easy ‘darlins.' There was an intensity he did a good job of hiding. Like Smith, Jonas worked hard to keep his natural aggression under wraps. There was a quote about rough and ready men who stood watch so the rest of us could sleep soundly in our beds.

Smith was the epitome of this.

Jonas, however, lived and breathed rough and ready. Civilian life went against his natural instincts. He had to work to fit into normal society.

I glanced at his wrist, noted his beat-up dive watch, remembered his Altama boots—expensive but not showy. If you didn't know the brand or who wore them, you wouldn't have the first clue why those drain ports on the side were important to men like Jonas.

"My bad," I started. "You weren't a trashman."

Jonas's playful grin waned and his gaze turned alert.

"What makes you say that?"

No longer wanting to play this game with Jonas, who didn't look all that happy to play, I shrugged.

"No reason."

"Tell me."

Shit .

I'd pissed him off.

"This isn't fun when the person I'm playing with isn't up for my silliness."

"Is that what you call being able to read people?" he shot back.

"Well yeah. It's not serious. I'm a Navy Brat, I grew up surrounded by every rank and rate. Everyone has a tell, so it became easy. I didn't mean to?—"

Jonas leaned in, rested his elbows on the table, and narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not pissed or offended. I'm curious. So humor me, Aria—why'd you say I wasn't a trashman?"

I glanced over at Smith. He didn't look curious, he looked pleased.

I blew out a harassed breath and gave Jonas what he wanted.

"From my experience there are two different kinds of Team Guys. The ones that will entertain the Frog Hogs when approached at the bar and engage in the game of color or number. With that comes feeding them the line of bullshit that they're a trashman, a bank teller, or some variation of low-key job. They then nail the Frog Hog and get off knowing they're a notch in her bedpost. Then there's the other kind of Team Guy who clocks a Frog Hog a mile away, wants nothing to do with her or the game, and doesn't engage." I glanced over at Smith then back to Jonas. "Smith's the first kind. You're the other kind."

I heard Smith chuckle, which I was hoping meant he wasn't offended that I'd basically called him a man-whore.

"Color or number?" Jonas asked.

"Number."

Jonas nodded, gave Smith another strange look, then came back to me.

"What's your gut tell you about Phillip?"

"Phillip?"

"Think about every interaction you've had with him. What's your gut say?"

I didn't hesitate to answer since I'd already thought about it.

"I think he's a nice guy, and because of that, his concern is genuine. I think him checking on me is strange but to him it's not. I might not be his friend but I'm a woman who has trouble and he's doing what he thinks is right."

"So you think us looking into him is a waste of time."

That wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact. I didn't know where Jonas was leading this conversation but still I cautiously answered, "Yes."

"But you're deferring to us, to Smith, to do what we think is best for you and the case?"

"Jonas." Smith rasped an unmistakable warning.

"I don't understand the point you're trying to make, but I already told you I'm not going to stick my nose into how you do your job. I'm not stupid enough to think my gut overrides your expertise."

You'd have to be completely oblivious not to feel the tension as it swept over the table, and even then I was fairly certain even the most unaware person would still feel it. The vibe had gone from a simmering cauldron of lava to nuclear, and that atomic blast was coming from Smith and aimed directly at Jonas. Unfortunately, I was in the blast zone so I was being burnt to a crisp right along with Jonas. The difference was, Jonas looked pleased with himself, so the angry waves were deflecting off of him.

I, however, was completely in the dark and unprotected.

It was not a fun place to be.

Under the table, I kicked Jonas in the shin as hard as I could. The man didn't so much as flinch. But his attention did come to me.

I narrowed my eyes.

He smiled.

Whatever was going on between him and Smith, he was damn happy about it.

The bubbly server stopped by the table. "Are we having any dessert?"

A gallon of frozen yogurt to cool off the two Neanderthals , I thought but didn't verbalize.

"No thank you," I answered when it was clear neither man was speaking.

After the server left, I asked, "Either of you gonna let me in on the death rays being shot across the table?"

"Nope."

"No."

"Didn't think so," I muttered and grabbed the last potato skin.

They could have their staring contest.

I had more important things to think about than whatever was going on with them.

"Aria." I felt my body shaking and not from anything I was doing.

"Huh?"

"Baby, wake up."

I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to sleep forever in my nice warm cocoon that became not so warm when my body jostled again.

With gallant effort, I pried an eye open. The TV was now off and the blanket Smith had covered us with when we'd laid down on his couch to watch a show was no longer tucked around me, nor was his big warm body behind me.

"Ugh."

"Come on, let's go to bed."

A bed did sound nice. However, getting my legs to work was a whole 'nother story.

After some shifting, lifting, and twisting, I was on my feet, then I was up cradled in Smith's arms. My head on his shoulder, I opened my eyes, tipped them up, and had Smith in profile. In the shadowed dark I saw his strong jaw line. Without thought, my hand lifted, went to his neck, and my thumb grazed over a day's worth of stubble.

Smith came to a stop. His chin dipped down and there in the shadowed dark, his eyes locked with mine. Not just locked but fused. Something was happening. Something I didn't fully get but it was no less profound, no less beautiful, no less intimate. No words were spoken but that didn't mean Smith wasn't communicating. I watched with avid fascination as the warmth, care, affection, lust, and longing filtered through his eyes. A tremor ran through my body. I knew Smith felt it when the longing turned into regret and sorrow. And just like that, he closed down. But not before I saw it—remorse.

I stayed silent as he continued the journey to the bedroom. I didn't say a word when he set me on my feet next to the bed, gently undressed me, then himself, before he yanked back the comforter and sheet. I remained quiet when he motioned for me to climb in, did the same, and curled his body around me. This was different. Normally we slept with my head on his chest, my arm and legs draped over him, or him snug up against my back. Never had he cuddled into me with his arm around my chest, leg over my thigh pinning me to the bed.

I didn't know what this change meant. I did know as good as it felt, it frightened me. It took some maneuvering but I got my arm where I needed it so I could do to him what he did to me and run my fingers through his close-cropped hair. It wasn't the same, since he tangled his fingers in the stands and mine was more like a scalp rub. Smith burrowed deeper and I laid there in the dark holding him, praying this wasn't the beginning of the end, fearing it was, and not knowing how I was going to pull him back.

Those were my thoughts as I drifted back to sleep.

The next morning when I woke up, I knew I was right to worry.

Smith was up and showered before I opened my eyes.

The kiss he gave me before we left for his office was by rote.

No touching, no sex, no sweet looks, no hand-holding, no teasing.

He'd fully disengaged.