Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Now what?

Moira didn’t know what to do, standing side-by-side with Welker in her weedy-assed driveway. Never one for small talk, she was always particularly tongue-tied around her glib, handsome-as-fuck squad leader. Where the hell was Mason when she needed him? She had no trouble conversing with the chief.

Welk cleared his throat, probably attempting to come up with a rebuttal to her abruptly clipped assertion that she hated shopping; something that the majority of the female population loved to do.

“Okay,” Welker backpedaled. “I’m, uh, pretty sure then, that you can get some of our teammates to help you buy new stuff.” He added a charming grin that Moira knew was meant to disarm her.

Right. Not happening.

Worse than shopping would be forced into making small talk with some random work-associates over a long period of time. Moira was a-okay when the topics at hand were SWAT related; she could review bad-guys and strategy all day. But try discussing something outside of work; something even as innocuous as the weather, and… Crickets .

Moira didn’t kid herself. She knew exactly where her dearth of conversational skills came from. It was nothing she’d ever had to puzzle over. When she was young, at home, she’d been…extra. Her patriarch’s reminder of things gone wrong. She’d learned, early on, to make herself scarce; never interfacing with her father or any of his ne’er-do-well friends who frequented the house as if it were their pad to crash.

Yeah. She’d avoided her boozing, gambling father at all cost, choosing to prowl the house late at night; eat whatever leftovers she could scavenge after he’d passed out for the evening. It had been a hell of a lot easier than sharing space with the self-centered man.

She supposed from the outside, Moira’s upbringing looked pretty cushy. They lived in a huge house, had many expensive cars, and she’d had a string of bimbo-nannies who were there to supposedly take care of her. Although what they’d really been taking care of was her old man’s skanky dick.

There’d been plenty of money, thanks to a grandfather she remembered fondly. Not that, back then, she’d ever seen more than a few dollars here or there, other than what her father eked out for her schooling. And he’d only done that to get rid of her during the academic year.

The private institution where she’d boarded, K-12, had labeled her quiet, and odd, which had been fine with Moira. By keeping her head down, nobody had bothered her throughout those quiet, educational years.

Then there’d been college. So many people. So much campus. It had been extremely easy for Moira to hide in plain sight as she earned her degree in Criminal Justice.

But the summers she’d still spent at home? Contentious. She disappointed her father with the way she looked, with everything she did, and he’d let her know it. When she needed to approach him for money to buy clothing, her choices had always been met with his disdain.

She blamed his constant censure for her lack of confidence regarding her taste. Which meant she always presented a frumpy, almost androgenous persona to the world, sticking with bland colors and baggy styles. Moira couldn’t count the number of times she’d been labeled “dyke”, but she hadn’t cared. Dressing down? Appearing plain? It suited her purposes. It kept attention off her, which was when she felt most comfortable.

Once she turned twenty-one, her first year working for the Penobscot Sheriff’s Department, she’d found out that her grandfather had left her a fairly decent sized trust. The money hadn’t particularly thrilled her, since she had few wants, but she’d sure as hell used it to get the fuck out from under daddy-dearest and buy a home of her own. A remote house where she didn’t have to bother with neighbors or friends.

Until she’d joined SWAT.

The sheriff’s department where she worked didn’t demand anything of her except to execute her job competently, which she did, so she’d expected the same from SWAT. But those teammates didn’t seem to get ruffled by her brusque ways, and attempted to include her in everything; on and off the job, taking no offense when she didn’t often hobnob with them after hours. Which was fine, but…Welker. She’d never felt easy around him. The man vexed her. He looked at her too deeply, forced her to engage in conversation too frequently, and refused to leave her in the carefully constructed box she’d built around herself years ago.

And now…

They were alone and he wanted to make small talk.

Moira scrounged for a response to his comment. She wasn’t stupid. In her head she could always come up with witty repartee, but even so, what eventually came out of her mouth was perpetually far different than what had originated in her brain. It’s why she always thought long and hard before speaking aloud in any kind of a social situation, and generally kept her sentences to three or fewer words.

“That might work,” she finally acknowledged.

Welker nodded, as if satisfied with her answer, but when he gazed around at her littered yard, he lost his good humor and addressed her more seriously. “You can’t stay here, Moira. First of all, by what I’m seeing, without even looking inside I know there won’t be a lot of stuff left intact.”

Yup. Her mattress was lying in the grass, its stuffing emerging to waft all over the moon-lit lawn like so much dandelion fluff. The frame was in matchsticks, and her one splurge, her big-screen TV which she enjoyed the hell out of for watching sports, had been smashed and impaled on a cast-iron pole where one of her bird-feeders had hung.

“I have a couch,” Moira rebutted dryly.

“Are you sure?” Welker raised a brow. “I have a feeling we’ll find everything inside your house has suffered the same treatment as what the assholes threw out here.”

Welk was probably right. She’d heard an awful lot of smashing and crashing while she was roof-bound.

He continued, relentlessly. “Do you have another place you can stay?”

Fuck . Over her dead body would she call dear-old-Dad and ask to crash at his manse.

“I’ll get a motel room.”

Welker scoffed. “Seriously? In a small town like this? You’ll be found immediately. Those pricks will have your location in a blink, and what kind of security do you think those establishments have? A paper-thin door; one of those foolish, sliding-chain locks. You’ll be a sitting duck, Bliss. Whereas, if you stay with a friend and are careful, they won’t be able to find you.”

Welker had a point. Again. Why did the man have to be right all the time? When she didn’t answer him right away, he prodded once more. “So, do you have a buddy who can put you up?”

Dammit. There was only once answer, and yes, it screamed “loser” to the freaking moon and back.

“I’ll find a place,” she told him resolutely, hoping her sour expression would keep him from prying further.

But this was Welker. She should have known better.

“Find what kind of place?” he continued, the relentless jerk.

“A rental,” she answered, crossing her arms over her sweatshirt clad chest. At that moment, Moira didn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed that her civies were utilitarian and baggy. She suddenly felt stifled.

What if, when Welker had come upon her, she’d been decked out in something slinky as he’d ridden to the rescue? Would he have?—?

Moira shut that train of thought, right the hell down. What was she thinking? If she’d been in sexy lingerie—which she’d laughingly never owned—she would have scuffed the shit out of herself during her climb and for the duration of her stint on the roof. Moira was, if anything, practical, and the thick sweats she always wore when off duty, had proven that tonight. Lingerie was stupid. Or so she told herself.

“Moira. Don’t be stubborn,” Welker began again, but he was drawn away from saying anything else by the sound of tires approaching fast on her dirt road.

Welker and Moira both spun in place and held their guns at the ready, but lowered their barrels the minute they recognized the multiple vehicles pulling into her driveway. Mason’s truck was first, followed by JD and the rest of J-squad.

Moira snorted. She and Welker had been so deep in argument that they hadn’t heard his remote siren being turned off.

Mason alighted almost before his truck had come to a stop.

“Christ, Moira. What a mess.” His mouth was agape as he looked around at the detritus littering her yard. The rest of the team didn’t look very pleased, either, as they got their first gander.

“Tormentor’s guys were thorough,” she agreed.

“But you’re okay?” Mason continued. “They didn’t find you?”

“Uh, uh,” she grunted. “Welk showed up and scared them off.”

“Right.” Mason’s eyes narrowed at Welker. “Against orders. Which we’ll talk about at a later time.” It was a threat he’d make good on, Moira knew. Mason didn’t like loose cannons on his team. Whether Welker got a demotion, or a simple dressing down depended on…

Ah, hell . Moira needed to put in a good word for the big dope.

“Chief, they would have found me if Welk hadn’t shown up.”

There. She’d thrown that out for consideration, which was the extent of what she’d say.

“They were that close to locating you?” Mason continued questioning.

Moira gave him a simple, but serious nod this time.

“Well, shit.” He turned to Welker. “It looks like you can keep your job this time, but no more fuck-ups. You got me?”

Welker actually turned to give her a wink.

A wink. What the hell?

He gave puppy-dog eyes to Mase.

“Yeah, Chief. I hear you,” he responded with a voice that sounded duly chastised. “And in my defense, if I hadn’t gotten a mayday call from Moira, I absolutely would have waited for you.”

Moira would have snorted if she’d wanted to engage any further, but she was done with this part of the conversation. It was time for logistics.

“Did Mike’s unit apprehend the bikers?” Moira felt comfortable asking. That was business, after all.

Mason gave a look of disgust. “There was a detour on the route he and his unit took to get to their position, and by the time they’d gone around it, the MC was long gone.”

Fuck. Moira had known about the bridge that was out, but had forgotten to mention it. “My fault, I should have told you?—”

“Moira,” Mason interrupted. “You were on the roof, avoiding capture. You had more important things on your mind.”

Moira didn’t refute Mason, but inside, she refused to cut herself any slack. Because… Wasn’t that what her life was all about? Tactical awareness? If she didn’t have that, was there any meaning to her existence? She had no friends, no social life outside what her teammates coerced her into. If she couldn’t do her job correctly, she might as well hang up her badge and become a hermit.

“Hey.” Welker stepped closer and rocked a hip into hers. “Stop thinking so hard.”

Why was he?—?

The arrival of Mike and his squad saved Moira from having to respond.

The big man got out of his truck with a look of disgust on his face.

“Shit. I wish we could have nailed them, Moira.” He sent a hand sweeping across her yard. “This is unacceptable.”

“No worries. I’ll clean it up, tomorrow,” Moira told him, not wanting him to feel bad. She still believed the fuck-up was hers.

“ We’ll clean it up, tomorrow,” Mason interjected. “It’s Saturday, so a lot of our team will have the day off. With twenty, maybe even thirty willing bodies, we should have things taken care of here within a few hours.”

“I’ll have a dumpster on site first thing in the morning,” Mike added. His extended family owned a trash disposal service, for which Moira, right now, was grateful. But she frowned anyway. Could she ask so much of?—?

“Don’t even go there.” Mason glowered, seeing her expression, and intuiting her refusal. “We’re helping, and that’s that. I can see your gears grinding, Moira, and you can argue all you want, but you’re not getting your way. Not this time.”

Known for her stubbornness, Moira often dug her heels in when orders she didn’t like were given, but she could tell Mason wasn’t going to cut her any slack, this time.

“Fine,” she relented. “But we need to see the damage inside.” Maybe the scope of the job would discourage Mason.

Yeah. Right.

Moira turned reluctant feet toward her front door and started walking, shocked when she found Welker right with her, elbow to elbow.

“It’s probably going to be bad, Moira,” he warned. “Are you going to be okay?”

Okay?

Her brain nearly short-circuited. When was the last time anyone —with the exception of when she’d been in life-or-death situations—had inquired as to her well-being? Had cared about her feelings .

Uh… Never?

“Fine, Vestore,” she clipped. And… shit. Why had she gone back to using his last name? She really didn’t know how to act in the face of sincere concern.

He chuckled, finding it funny. “That’s my girl.”

His girl…

A little thrill traveled up Moira’s spine at those words. Not that they meant anything. Welk had to have said it in a way that meant “his teammate” or “his constituent”. There was nothing proprietary about it at all.

Moira shook off her inappropriate thoughts, steeled herself, and with a shrug, gave a final push through her front door.

Well, fuck.

The place was good and truly wrecked.

“Geezus.” Her squad-mate, Sin—short for Sinclair—whistled long and low after following them inside.

“That about says it,” Welker concurred, hissing angrily as his foot came in contact with the remains of an easy chair. “The assholes.” He turned to Moira. “This cements it. You’re not staying here tonight, and you’re not going to a motel,” he growled. “You’re coming to my home and staying with me.”

Moira’s stomach did more of a flip-flop than it had executed when she’d first become aware of her intruders.

Bad idea. Bad.

“Not happening, Vestore,” she returned sharply. “I’ll find a place.”

“You can stay with me,” Sin offered.

Of all the people on SWAT, Moira was closest to calling the tall, upbeat blonde, friend. If having lunch, reluctantly, once or twice made them buddies. But she couldn’t bring danger to Sin’s door. The woman was a single mom of two beautiful girls, the three living with Sin’s mother. Moira would never forgive herself if she led the MC to the neat household of sweet females.

“Appreciate it,” she told Sin, “but it’s not happening. You have family.” That’s all she needed to say.

Sin didn’t look happy, but clearly, she understood.

“Then you can stay with me and Ever,” Mason offered.

Right. Like that was going to happen. There was no way Moira was going to add to the tension in that household, with Everlee less than three months away from delivery.

“With Everlee preggers? A hard, no, boss,” Moira told him, swallowing around a suddenly thickening in her throat as she spotted and picked up the remains of a blown-glass bird she’d splurged on at a local craft fair.

Goddammit . The pretty thing was toast. That would teach her. It had been an impulse buy; one she hadn’t been able to resist while she’d been working a detail.

Birds were one of her few passions, other than watching Boston’s sports teams, and cooking. She fed her feathered friends from multiple feeders, catalogued them year-round, and had even pondered a time or two about getting a cockatiel or a parrot.

It was a good thing she hadn’t. Look what had happened to the glass version.

She dropped the brightly colored trinket back to the floor, trying to tamp down the sudden surge of despondency that threatened to choke her.

She was alone, and in trouble, but what good was it thinking like that?

What she needed, rather than to feel sorry for herself, was a place to stay that wouldn’t endanger anything or anyone.

Welker laid a hand on her arm, shaking her from her thoughts.

“It’s settled then,” he spoke determinedly. “You’re coming home with me.”