Actual Stop (Agent O’Connor #1)(35)

Allison had shattered me once upon a time, and though I’d never denied that fact, it was about damn time I confronted it, got the hell over it, and moved on with my life. I couldn’t hang on to the hurt and anger forever. If I couldn’t learn to let it go, I’d never be able to build a life with anyone else. Not a whole one, at any rate, because I couldn’t give myself completely to anyone as long as any part of me still belonged to her.

How, then, could I make a break? How did I reclaim that part of myself I’d allowed her to retain even after she’d made it clear she didn’t want it? Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe I didn’t really want it back. Because if she had it, if I kept it “safe” with her, then theoretically I couldn’t be hurt again. Perhaps I simply didn’t want to risk living through that kind of agony another time by falling for someone else.

I blinked slowly and frowned as I considered. Was that what I’d been doing all these years? Making sure no one else could ever break my heart by refusing to wholly give it to another? Surely even I couldn’t be that messed up. Could I?

So, how to fix this, then? That was the question. How could I completely eradicate any and all feelings I still had for Allison Reynolds? I wasn’t sure, and my overtired brain wasn’t helping a whole hell of a lot. It just kept spinning, like tires slipping on an icy road, unable to gain traction.

Lucia was the key. She had to be. I might not be ready to say I loved her quite yet, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t someday. She was the only woman since Allison I’d even considered having any type of relationship with past three or four dates. That had to count for something, right? I hoped so. Because if it didn’t, I was screwed.

I crumpled, bent at the waist, and rested my elbows on my knees, lightly clasping the back of my neck. I studied the wiggling tips of my toes peeking out from beneath the cuffs of my slacks. It was as if the feet I was looking at were completely detached from my body. I wished I could disconnect my mind that easily. I simply didn’t have the energy to try to solve this puzzle tonight.

A quick glance at the clock told me it was rapidly approaching eleven. I doubted I’d be able to get any sleep. My thoughts were too fractured, and I was still too wound up.

I wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer. I was terrible when I was tired. My emotions were more raw and closer to the surface than they’d otherwise be, and my normally tight grip on them was noticeably looser. It was a recipe for trouble and most likely would make me make an ass of myself. Probably more than once and possibly in front of a small crowd.

I pushed myself awkwardly to a standing position and turned toward my bedroom, flipping off the table lamp as I went. I intended to cuddle up in bed with a favorite book and read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I hoped that wouldn’t take all night. The sound of a key in the lock on my front door stopped me, and I froze. Who even had a key to my place? I eased my right hand toward the butt of my pistol and prepared to unsnap the retention strap.

Lucia let herself in and quietly closed the door behind her, sagging against it after it’d shut. Her eyes were downcast, and she looked miserable. I tried to rein in my wildly galloping heart and scolded myself for having forgotten I’d given her a key a few weeks before so she could pick up some USSS swag she’d asked me to get for her.

I allowed my hand to drop to my side—telling myself not to freak out because I’d almost just drawn down on her—and gave her a careful once-over. As I took in her expression, my pulse resumed its previously racing tempo. Last I’d heard, via a recent text message, she’d planned to spend the night at her place. It’d been the only time she’d contacted me all day. What could’ve happened?

“Luce?”

Lucia dragged her eyes up to meet mine and simply stared at me as an ever-changing array of emotions paraded across her features: dejection, anguish, fury. Others I couldn’t begin to put a name to. My fear ratcheted up a few more notches, and my hands trembled.

“What happened?”

I immediately thought someone was dead. Once that idea had solidified, my brain glommed onto it and ran. A million different scenarios burned hot trails through my consciousness, each more gruesome and heartrending than the one before it. I had to force myself to stop jumping to conclusions before I drove myself mad. My father’s calm voice sounded in my head, a variation on a theme, reminding me not to invent things to worry about.

I took a tentative step forward and reached out, the gesture careful, hesitant. I didn’t want to do anything to spook her. But I wouldn’t have the first clue how to comfort her if she didn’t tell me what was wrong.

Lucia zeroed in on my hand as it approached her and allowed me to touch her lightly on the shoulder, but she stiffened, and the muscles under my fingers tensed and held as if my touch hurt her. Or was unwelcome.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I made sure to keep my voice low and calm. I’d had a lot of practice managing emotionally disturbed people in the past few years. I’d just never thought I’d need to rely on those skills when dealing with someone I cared about.

I scanned Lucia for any outward signs of injury, relieved when I found none. Whatever was bothering her, it didn’t appear to be physical. I was glad she wasn’t in pain, but afflictions of the heart or soul weren’t much better. I’d rather she wasn’t distressed at all. My father’s adage about wishing in one hand flitted absurdly through my thoughts, and I pushed it away.