No Perfect Hero(9)
I smile, faint and humorless. “Come on, man. Haven’t you heard the rumors? I’m in the market for a house and a wife. Eligible ladies beware.”
Stew chuckles, then sends another worried look my way. “Well, your business ain't mine. Maybe you should just pick up Miss Mustang and head on out of town? Talk about easy.”
“Bull. Don't even think about playing matchmaker. And no trying to run me off.” I push away from the work table, straightening, and toss the greasy rag at him. “You just want me gone because you owe me...what, six beers now?”
He raises both brows with a deliberately blank look. “No earthly clue what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh. That shitty poker face of yours is why you owe me six beers.” Snorting, I elbow him. “Help me do one last check and close this thing up.”
It’s comforting, having Stew with me.
A reminder of better days, maybe. For a little bit, as we give the Mustang one last once-over and make sure everything's tight, it almost feels like old times.
Before that fateful day.
Before the news that made me beat my knuckles bloody. Before the folded flag, the sorrowful salute, the fucking obituary.
Before I knew Jenna wasn’t coming home ever again.
For a little while, it’s just me and Stewart swapping old stories, giving each other shit. And when he leaves to head home...
I feel a little more grounded. A little more centered, ready to get to work.
Sure, it might be past the town’s bedtime, but I’m just getting started.
And I only spare one glance for the darkened windows on the other side of the duplex before I shut myself in my war room and get to work on counterintelligence.
*
It’s almost dawn before I finally give up chasing ghosts for the night and fall into bed.
I barely bother to strip out of my shirt and jeans, down to boxers, before I pass out face-first across the mattress. I’m used to keeping long hours, but the past twenty-four have thrown enough curve balls my way to completely wear me out. So I’m really hoping to get some solid shut-eye.
Unfortunately, my new next door neighbor has other plans.
I think I’ve only been asleep for ten minutes before someone starts tap dancing on my skull.
Or at least, that’s what I’m dreaming. Someone standing over my bed with a little hammer like the kind doctors use to test your reflexes, tapping on my skull, and in my sleeping imagination, the sound is tinny and rhythmic and flat, more like my head is a ball of glass.
It's actually a little wildfire standing on my doorstep, tapping away at the glass of my front door.
I groan, rolling over, letting one arm fall to the floor as I peer through the bedroom door and down the hall. Fuck.
I can just glimpse the front door from here, a fuzzy mess of too-bright sun glowing through the glass and turning the small, curving shape on the other side into a blur.
I don’t need to see her clearly to know she’s pissed. It’s in her stance, hip cocked, her arms folded over her chest in between every round of impatient knocking that could give a woodpecker a good run for its money.
Grumbling, I turn my face into the pillow and muffle a curse into the cotton case.
What the fuck now?
Maybe if I stay put, she’ll go away. Just get in her nice pretty working car and go.
“I know you’re in there!” Haley calls, the glass paneling hollowing her voice. “I can see your ass.”
Then you can kiss it, darlin', I almost throw back, before forcing myself to clamp my jaw shut, shove myself up on both arms, and slog march out of bed.
She'll probably think I’m hung over – shirtless, pantless, hair sticking up everywhere, bleary-eyed – but I don’t care.
It’s Come As You Are in Chateau Ford when you drag my sorry ass out of bed. Staggering to the door, I drag it open, leaning an arm against the frame over my head and eyeing her sourly.
“What.”
It's not a question.
She doesn’t say anything. Just blinks at me, staring blankly, her gaze starting at my head and dropping to my feet before yanking back up again as if pulled on a leash, her pretty high cheekbones coloring – and I don’t think that’s blush.
“What the hell's the matter? See something you like?” As pissed as I am, I might as well have a little fun with this.
A guilty sound sticks in her throat. She looks away too quickly, clearing her throat and scowling at the distant, sunny horizon.
“Do you not understand the concept of clothing, you—you—”
“Warren,” I say with a touch of dry amusement. “Name's Warren Ford, since you didn’t bother asking last night.”
“You Warren.” She says my name like it’s the name of a particularly filthy breed of wild animal, and I almost smile. Her scowl deepens. “And you didn’t exactly give me a chance for polite introductions. Not like you asked my name, either.”
“I know who you are, Haley West.”
She blinks, snaps a look back at me, then immediately looks away again. “How do you know my name?”
“Relax. Flynn told me when I went to sort out the rooms.” I sigh, shifting to lean fully in the doorway, folding my arms over my chest and crossing my ankles. “So what do you want, Haley? I'm a busy person, and I'm guessing you are too.”