Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(68)

Kristy brushed a strand of hair from her face as she gave Griff a nervous smile. “You’re going to have your hands full. I’ve never fished or hunted or anything. I’m a total city girl.”

“I’ll ease you in, though I’m supposed to create some commercial hooks. Which, unfortunately, means putting you in some uncomfortable situations.”

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “I trust that you’ll be as gentle as possible.”

And just like that, he wanted to do his best to keep her safe and comfortable. By necessity, they would be in close proximity these next few days. He pulled the numbness that cocooned him close just in case he got any crazy ideas.

“We’re ready,” Chase called out. “My J-Men will give me a shout when they’re done and meet us there.”

“Just follow me.” Griff led Kristy to the mud-splattered truck with big tires. He stepped up on the foot rail, opened the door, and held out his hand to her.

She allowed him to help her up to the first big step and settled in, looking like a flower in a pile of rubbish. The truck was fairly new, but it already sported the wear and tear of numerous hunting and fishing parties.

He closed the door and walked to the driver’s side. As the engine started rumbling, Florida Georgia Line blared from the radio, and he quickly turned it down. “Sorry ’bout that. I keep it loud when I’m by myself.” To keep the thoughts at bay. The memories.

“It’s fine.” She was already strapped in with the seat belt, her hands searching for a place to perch.

“You like country music?” He headed down the dirt road, checking to make sure Chase was behind him.

“Not particularly, but I don’t dislike it either.”

He kept the volume low, wishing he could amp it up and fill the awkward silence. In the corner of his eye, he could see her glancing his way, then turning toward the window. He hated that the scarred side faced her. All she could see was the beast.

“It’s all right to look at me,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to…”

“I know. It’s hard not to look. Kinda like when you pass a car crash. You just can’t help yourself. Took me a while to get used to it myself.”

She narrowed her eyebrows at him. “You’re not a crash.”

Damn, was she taking him to task? He smiled, feeling the tug of the right side of his mouth. “It was just an analogy.” But it wasn’t, and by her silence, she wasn’t buying it.

Even faced forward, he could see her surreptitiously glancing his way. He remembered the gruesome sights in Afghanistan, things you didn’t want to look at, tried not to, but did anyway: severed body parts, exposed brains, the dead lying in the streets. He didn’t want the sight of him seared into her head the way those images were seared into his.

“If you want, you could sit in the back,” he offered. “If that makes you more comfortable. I know I’m not a pretty sight.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened as she obviously searched for the right—the diplomatic—thing to say. “Do you seriously think I would sit in the back just so I wouldn’t have to see you?”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“You think I’m that shallow?”

“I didn’t say that.” He glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure Chase was still behind them. His eye, surrounded by scar tissue and what was left of his eyebrow stared back. “Hell, I don’t like looking at myself, and you’ve got the ugly part of me facing you. I’m just offering you an escape, is all.”

“I’m not sitting in the back. And your face isn’t that bad.”

“I look like a monster, but thank you. It’s not just the unsightliness. I’ve been through all this with my family and the few people I’ve seen. They see me and feel bad. Sad.”

She gripped the door handle as the truck hit a rut and lurched. “We always see ourselves as worse than we are.”

“Not when you’re beautiful.” He smiled. “Why, I couldn’t find one flaw on you, even if I tried.” He let his gaze sweep over her creamy complexion, her golden hair that fell in a cascade over her shoulders. He drank her in, the perfection he could never have. He could see no sign of the knife attack she’d suffered. Thank God the psycho hadn’t cut her face.

Her hand went to her collarbone. “There’s plenty.” She believed that, too, by the shadow that crossed her eyes. “I never set out to be a model, you know. I fell into it. I wanted to be an editor. After college, I got a job at a New York City publisher. But I had college loans to pay and I wasn’t making a lot of money as an editorial assistant. You have to work your way up. My roommate’s sister was a model, and when she told me how much she made, I think I salivated. She got me an appointment with her agency, they signed me on, and pretty soon I was too busy to work at the publisher.”

He navigated around a large, mud-filled rut, so that his side took the brunt of the dip. “What made you return to Atlanta?”

“My parents. They were freaked out about my moving to New York to begin with. When I—quote—‘abandoned? my career, and my degree, they were worried for my safety and disappointed in my choices. So I compromised. I continued modeling but moved back to relatively safe Atlanta. Ironic, huh?”