Spider Game (GhostWalkers, #12)(30)
“She goin’ fan you when it gets hot?” Wyatt asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
Trap struggled into a sitting position. He was weak. Wyatt was right. He needed water and food and a few hours of rest. Bed sounded good. Too good. Coming up with a vaccine to protect not only him, but all of them, just as he’d done with Pepper and the girls, was going to take time. He needed his entire brain working, and right now, he was too weak to stand long, let alone think clearly.
“I don’ think Trap’s woman is goin’ to be fannin’ him,” Wyatt said, toeing the leg of the table. “She’s goin’ to be the one callin’ the shots. He went to the bar how many days in a row lookin’ for her like some lovesick calf?”
The good-natured ribbing had turned from Mordichai right back to him. He couldn’t deny he’d gone to the Huracan Club day after day looking for her.
“I was right,” he managed to croak. “She came, didn’t she?”
“And kicked your ass,” Draden pointed out. “Big badass Trap, the iceman. She kicked your ass.”
Yeah, he wasn’t living this one down for a while. He sighed. “Help me into the house. We’ve got the blood, store it for me, Wyatt. I’m all for resting.”
“Can’t wait to hear what Nonny has to say about you getting your ass handed to you by a girl,” Mordichai said, smirking. The smirk faded. “Of course, I’m not using the word ass or she might try to wash out my mouth with soap.”
“You know Nonny would do more than try, Mordichai,” Wyatt said.
They all burst into laughter. Draden and Mordichai both swept arms around Trap and helped him to his feet. He staggered and nearly went down as his legs gave way, but they held him up. Wyatt locked the laboratory after them. Ezekiel came down from the roof and joined them as they took Trap into the house. Gino came in from the swamp, silent as always, looking as if he’d been on a Sunday stroll.
Cayenne paced up and down the floor. Her bare feet sank into a soft, thick carpet, a luxury she’d never imagined in her life. The entire basement of the enormous building she now called home had been transformed. At first, when the workers had arrived to tear apart the upstairs, she was certain they would leave the basement area intact. Weeks had gone by, enough time for her to realize most of the houses in New Orleans and the surrounding areas were built up high and few or none had basements.
The long, two-story building had been designed so that any prisoners in the cells below the main floor would die if there was flooding and the water somehow breached the thick concrete and steel walls. She was certain the new owner – before she figured out it was Trap – would just leave the lower floor alone. She’d hoped he would.
She’d had to move out when they’d come to tear out everything and redesign it. She’d spent a very uncomfortable time in the swamp, creeping back to her building only at night. At first she’d messed with the workers, making them believe some swamp creature or ghost was around, but then she realized the renovations would just take that much longer. She let them get on with them.
Cayenne watched them, observing all the security measures being put into the building. Several times she saw Trap come in, and with him were blueprints he laid out on a table and showed his workers. She’d gotten ahold of the blueprints and saw that he was changing all the entrances to the tunnels and reinforcing all doors. He replaced the long rows of concrete with banks of windows up high, giving her views that took her breath away.
She had to admit, she had never once considered that terrible place could be transformed into a beautiful home. She loved the upstairs, not to live in, but the design of it all – the spacious rooms and views. The apartment downstairs was far too big for her. She had never really lived outside her cell and freedom was overwhelming. The wide-open spaces made her feel exposed. Because she’d lived most of her life in that small cell, having so much open space terrified her. She would never admit it to anyone, but she couldn’t sleep and ended up dividing the room into sections with silken webs. That helped.
She paced more and restlessly jumped up onto the low-slung couch, standing on the cushions, biting her thumbnail. She never bit her fingernails, but she couldn’t help herself. She shouldn’t have left Trap when she had. His friends had surrounded him protectively, and she could feel waves of both humor and anger radiating out toward her. They wanted to think it was a good joke, but they wouldn’t really find it funny until he was fully recovered.
She had never seen camaraderie like that before. She’d heard of it and read about it, but she’d never actually witnessed it. Certainly not among Braden or Whitney’s supersoldiers. She’d studied all the GhostWalkers from a distance, and sometimes at night while they slept. Wyatt’s home was filled with warmth. The moment she slipped in through the tiny little chimney stack on the roof that no longer was used, she felt the warmth surrounding her.
She’d been careful, staying in the corners, up high on the ceiling, trying to feel what it was like to have a home and family. Again, she’d read of such things, but she had no idea of what one was supposed to be like. The older woman, the one all of them called Nonny, was small and frail. She slept in a bed that seemed too big for her and twice she nearly caught Cayenne, waking when curiosity had gotten the better of Cayenne and she’d slipped down the wall to the floor in order to examine the old photographs lining her walls. Nonny had them everywhere throughout the house.