or why he can’t handle his feelings for you.” His brown eyes bore into hers. “If anyone can tear down the walls he’s built, I’m thinking it’s you. If anyone can show him how to feel again after some catastrophe, sis, it’s you.”
Tears pooled. “You’re talking about my cutting.” She extended her arms, studying for the millionth time the faint scars scoring her flesh from her wrists to the bend of her elbows. Because she hadn’t been home the night the arsonist started the fire that killed their parents, she’d blamed herself. The worst part was she had lied. Told her mom and dad she was at a friend’s pajama party when, instead, she and Renee, both barely thirteen, had gone to a party with some older kids. Her sense of culpability numbed her and she began cutting herself to feel pain.
His hand trailed over her hair. “Don’t go back to your dark place, Cassie.” Her brother knew her too well, could read her body language. “A lot of kids lie about where they’re going. Doesn’t make it right, but it happens. Hell, I did it a time or two, myself. The fire was not your fault. You know that.”
She nodded. After a couple of years of counseling and an intervention by her siblings, she’d finally released the guilt. “So you think Quinn’s in the same emotional place I was? He’s always joking and acting a fool.”
“Yes, but sometimes a man wears a mask, especially when he can’t face the man in the mirror. I bet you dollars to donuts, he’s using the laughing disguise to hide his pain. He’s a good man, sis. Beneath all the smart-ass attitude, he’s a decent sort. Loyal. I’d want him guarding my six any day.”
She studied him for a few beats. “What’s changed your mind?”
He snatched two sugar cookies from the cookie jar, shoved one in his mouth and tossed one up for Einstein to catch mid-air. “Some things men just don’t discuss, you know?”
She poked a finger into his stomach. “You are so full of that macho shit.”
Her brother grinned before he enveloped her in his arms for a hug. “Yeah, but my woman digs it.”
“Well, not your sister.” She punched him lightly in the shoulder and he laughed. Still, what Wolf said made sense. If Quinn was hiding behind a false face of humor, he’d never heal. Hadn’t she’d learned that during her intense, often agonizing, counseling sessions? The man she loved would always hurt. Her heart ached for him. If anyone knew the hopelessness of that kind of emotional torment, it was her.
She had to convince Quinn to stay, to face his demons. If he moved away, he’d take a large piece of her soul with him. Her stomach swirled and twisted like a cyclone, the resulting pain making her gulp for air. She couldn’t deal with the loss of him or the dream of a shared future.
By damn, she wouldn’t allow it.
“I have to go. If that man thinks charging into a burning building takes guts, just wait until he comes up against Cassie Jacqueline Wolford when she’s in a full rant. I’m telling you he doesn’t stand a chance.”
Wolf laughed behind her. “You go, baby girl. Show numbnuts who’s gonna be boss of this outfit.”
Quinn dragged his tired, sorry ass down the steps of his apartment building, two filled boxes in his arms. He wanted his belongings packed and ready to go as soon as his final shift at the fire station was over. Acid rolled in his gut. Contrary to what Wolf and Noah insinuated, he was not running from Cassie or his feelings for her. Not in the way they suspected. Hell, it wasn’t commitment he feared.
Thanks to a recent text, it was Cassie’s safety.
He hadn’t stopped trembling since a text had dropped into his cell’s message box not more than an hour ago. Ur joggin buddy dies if U return 2 the agency.
No sooner had he read the text twice than rage and panic joined forces. He rammed his fist through the closet door in his bedroom where he’d been about ready to start packing his clothes. Unless he replaced the door with three fist-sized holes in it, he’d probably forfeit his security deposit. As if I give a good rat’s ass.
The message meant two things. One, he’d been watched for a long time, maybe his entire spell in Clearwater. And, two, one of the men he’d contacted about job openings in the State Department and the DEA was the mole who’d informed the cartel of his team’s activities years ago. Renata hadn’t been the only person to apprise the drug lords of their progress. And his team had been damn good at ferreting out intel. Working together the way they did, they’d become a very real threat to the drug trafficking in that country.
One might say he owed it to his fallen team members to find out who in the agency had ratted them out.
But he could not…would not risk Cassie’s safety to do it. She had to come first.
Returning to the grind of government work was now out of the realm of his possibilities. He’d stick to the adrenalin-pumping, rewarding fire and rescue business. He’d survived for three years without knowing the identity of the mole, but he wouldn’t survive for a minute knowing his angel had been harmed.
There’d been three responses to the dozen or so emails he’d sent before his shift at the fire station ended. A few of his previous co-workers at the State Department and in the DEA still cared enough to pass along some contact information. Two referenced security firms that did clandestine work for the government—mercenaries. Another, Lance Blakewell, shared information about an opening within the department, low-level, but it was a foot in the door. He’d considered it until he got the threatening text.
What the hell? Fuck it all, right?
After he grabbed a few hours of sleep, he’d make a list of everyone he’d contacted and contact them again. Put the word out he’d found a firefighting job somewhere.
No, that wouldn’t be good enough. Whoever the asshole was, he’d probably check behind Quinn. He’d have to apply at a few fire departments to back up his claims. Meanwhile he’d do what he could to protect Cassie. It never once occurred to him that he or anyone he held dear would be in danger because of a mission that went bad, but why would it? And what was the reason behind keeping track of his mediocre life? What did he know that made him a liability for some lowlife who lived in the shadow of the beam of right and wrong?
Just who the hell was the ass-wipe? Did he really care enough to reenter that fucked up world of deception and danger?
If it put Cassie at risk, then no. Hell no.
He elbowed the building’s door open and trudged into the sunlight, the late-morning glare intensifying his headache. The middle of January and it was a balmy sixty-eight degrees. Man, he was going to miss the hell out of Florida. Life here had practically been a ceaseless vacation, even with the forty-eight hour shifts at the station. On days off he jogged on the beach with Cassie or went to beer parties or Buckaneers football games with other firemen. Often he rode his Harley, Cassie’s arms and legs wrapped around him, across Dunedin Causeway to Honeymoon Island, a favorite snorkeling destination of theirs. Wolf and Jace included him in their jet ski races off Gulf Boulevard. Then there were picnics and beach-combing on Caladesi Island, also with Cassie.
He would miss it all—the weather, the beautiful scenery, his friends, the satisfaction of his job.
Cassie.
If sadness had a color, it would be navy blue, for damned if a severe case of blues wasn’t settling in. He’d have so many memories of Clearwater, Florida, and almost every one would revolve around Cassie Wolford.
“Well, well, well…if it isn’t Mr. Hot Lips Chicken Shit.”
Fuck.
He plopped the boxes at the rear of the U-Haul trailer he’d backed into one of his two assigned parking spaces before