The Forever Girl (Wildstone, #6)(2)

Caitlin, their self-appointed den mother, handed her a piece of cake. Maze had just taken her first bite when she felt it, a shift in her force field, along with an awareness tingling at the back of her neck. Her body knew what that meant even if her brain pretended not to, and the frosting went down the wrong pipe. While she went about choking up a lung, Heather pounded her on the back until she could suck in air again.

Walker Scott hadn’t made a sound in his approach. No footsteps, no rustling, nothing. The man was silent as the night.

Walker the boy hadn’t been silent. He’d been feral, and there’d been nothing calm or quiet about him.

Maze should know. They’d all spent a year together in Caitlin’s parents’ Wildstone home, and if she was being honest with herself, that year had been the best of her life.

And the very worst.

She watched as Walker set out his chair. It didn’t dare misbehave, opening for him with a flick of a forearm. He then set a Batman action figure next to the others on the gravestone and, with a hand braced on the granite, stood still for a moment, staring down at Michael’s name.

When he finally turned to them, both Caitlin and Heather lifted their arms in greeting, and he obligingly bent to hug them one at a time, murmuring something too low for Maze to hear. Whatever it was seemed to comfort them both, and it did something deep inside Maze to see their honest emotion, something she herself had a hard time revealing on the best of days—which this wasn’t. Didn’t stop her from soaking up the sight of Walker. He wore dark jeans, work boots, an untucked blue button-down stretched taut over broad shoulders . . . and a sling holding his left arm tight to his body. Dark aviator sunglasses covered his eyes, but she didn’t need to see them. That sky-blue gaze of his was burned onto her soul.

There’d been a time when he’d smiled at her with warmth, affection, and hunger. There’d been even more times when he’d made her laugh—back in the days when she still could. All of it long gone now, as around them the air went thick with memories.

Maze did not lift her arms in invitation.

And he did not reach for her.

“Maze,” he said simply, and gave her a single curt nod. She got it, but even after all that had happened between them, a small part of her yearned to see that old spark of pure trouble in his eyes, accompanied by that bad-boy smile, the one that promised a thrill and had never failed to deliver. It never got easier to see him, but Cat gestured them in like they were her ducklings for birthdays and holidays and anything else she could think of. Maze pretended to hate being dragged back into their tight circle, but the honest-to-God truth was that she didn’t know what she’d do without them.

Caitlin pulled something from her bag.

A bran muffin.

Walker didn’t do cake—or any junk food, for that matter— never had. He ate to fuel his body, which of course showed, since he looked like a lean, hard-muscled fighting machine. Food wasn’t a pleasure button for him like it was for her. Nope, Walker had other pleasure buttons, ones she sometimes relived in the deep dark of the night.

Taking the muffin, he let out an almost inaudible sound of amusement before turning to stare at the gravestone while slowly, and clearly painfully, lowering himself to the chair.

“What happened to you?” Maze asked him softly.

He shrugged with his good shoulder and took a bite of the muffin.

She turned to look at Heather and Caitlin.

Caitlin looked pained but said nothing.

Heather was biting her lower lip like she was trying to hold back, but finally burst out with “He got shot.” Then she slapped her hand over her mouth.

Maze sucked in air. “Shot? When?”

“Two weeks ago, on the job,” Heather said from between her fingers. “He’s on leave.”

Walker sent Heather a long look, and she tossed up her hands.

“Whatever, Walk. You all know I don’t keep secrets anymore, not for anyone.” She began to chew on her fingernails, painted black and already down to the nubs. She switched to waving a hand in front of her face. “And now I’m sweating.”

Heather, Maze, and Walker had all come from vastly different, but equally troubled, backgrounds by the time they’d landed in the same foster home at ages nine, fifteen, and six teen, respectively. Caitlin’s parents had welcomed them with open arms for one perfect year, until the Event, which had scattered them all far and wide. Still minors, Heather and Maze had been fostered by new, fairly decent families within a few months of each other. Walker had ended up in a group home, aging out of the system when he turned eighteen. From there, he’d gone into the military and then the FBI. The rigorous discipline had molded him, given him a sense of purpose and a way to channel his demons. It’d toughened and hardened the already toughened, hardened kid.

But Maze knew him better than most, or at least she had. Very few understood that beneath the edgy shell he wore like armor beat a heart that would lay itself down for the people it beat for. Once upon a time, she’d been one of those people.

“The leave is temporary,” Walker said. “I’m going back next week.”

Heather’s eyes filled. “You almost died.”

“But I didn’t.”

Maze’s gut clenched. As kids, they’d all had hopes and visions of what they wanted to be when they grew up. Walker had wanted to run a bar or restaurant. He’d wanted to be surrounded by friends and be able to take care of them by feeding them. Simple dream, really, but it spoke of his deep-seated need to have those few trusted people in his life close to him. That was all that mattered.