Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(69)

Bentley stops. “What about him?”

“Is he going to cause any more issues?”

Bentley turns slowly, his face expressionless, impossible to read. “What issues?”

“He made contact yesterday in a restroom.” I hold up his wallet as evidence. “Made some comments about her being a loose end that he needed to tie up.” I watch Bentley closely, looking for a sign that tells me he already knew about this.

He holds my gaze. “He had strict instructions not to go near you or the girl.”

“And yet he broke them.”

“I’ll deal with him.”

“Like you dealt with him before?” If Royce’s confessions to what he saw are true and Bentley knew about it, that means he brought me in here to help bury evidence that would put him and his company in the wrong, and rightfully so. Nothing about what I heard last night is what we stand for, why I do what I do. None of it is for the greater good of our country.

It’s for the greater good of Bentley’s pockets.

I’m struggling to believe that this could be true. That’s not the man I went to war with. That’s not the man whose life I fought to save.

That’s not the man I’ve trusted all these years, when I’ve trusted no one else.

“If he comes near Ivy again, I’ll assume it’s to hurt her.” I give him a knowing look. I shouldn’t have to spell out what’ll happen. I’ve never killed an American soldier before, but the more I learn about Mario Scalero and his partner in crime, the more I believe they need to be put down. And, for once, I don’t feel the need to be ordered to make that happen.

Bentley raises an eyebrow. “Ivy?”

“She’s not a threat.”

“She’s a witness.”

“Who didn’t witness enough to be a threat to them.”

He presses his lips together and offers me a curt nod. “As long as it stays that way . . .” He holds out his hand. “Peace offering?”

I toss the wallet into it. I don’t need it anymore. I’ve already memorized Scalero’s driver’s license info. I know exactly where he lives.

“How soon will you be on a plane?”

“Not sure yet.” I pause, wondering if he’s going to keep tabs on me. Wondering why he cares. “I may stay for a while. Visit my parents.” The thought flickered briefly through my mind, but I haven’t committed to the idea.

Sympathy passes over Bentley’s face, but I see the distrust lurking there. He doesn’t believe me. “Good, Sebastian. I think that’s a great idea. You need to hold on to the people who are important, who keep you grounded. Let me know what you decide. And don’t worry about Scalero. I’m sending them overseas again soon, on another contract that’s about to come in, so they won’t even be around to cause any issues for you, or for her. Now get some sleep; you look like shit. You know what to do.”

Drop my piece into the bay and leave the car in a long-term parking lot for pickup. Yeah. I know the drill.

Just like that, my official purpose for being in San Francisco is over. I’m free to slip back into anonymity, to find a little slice of peaceful paradise and detach myself from human connection. To live simply and without feeling.

Normally, I rush to get the earliest flight out.

But for the first time, I don’t feel the same urge to run.





TWENTY-FIVE


IVY


“How does it feel this morning?”

Dakota struts into the greenhouse in a gauzy tank top and turns her shoulder toward me, the fresh ink boldly displayed on her arm. “Perfect, as expected from my talented friend.”

“Everyone’s my friend when they want some ink,” I mutter. I have tattooed almost every last one of my closest friends, and if I haven’t inked them, then I’ve designed their work. Jesse Welles was the first person to ever take my design and actually put it on his body, back in my sophomore year of high school. I inked Dakota’s design on Alex’s shoulder. I’ve done six of Dakota’s seven tattoos, which she designed herself, and I embellished because it’s a compulsion. I even did Amber’s Irish fling’s tattoo—for free—just to keep him occupied one night last year, while I was in Dublin. The only good friend who won’t let me near her skin is Amber.

“So you said it was four hundred an hour?”

I shoot her a flat look from my curled-up perch in the wicker chair, my oversize coffee mug in hand. “For the freeloading leech, yes. But you are not paying me a dime. If anyone owes anyone anything, I owe you.”

She waves it off with a laugh. “People like that make life interesting, don’t they? And you know me, the more the merrier. That room is yours for as long as you want it.”

I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I could get used to rooming with Dakota, despite her questionable choice in dinner guests. And I know the offer will still stand even if she figures out that, while she was smoking a joint with her homeless friend, my bare ass was on her bathroom sink, next to her toothbrush, last night, when I was getting nailed by Sebastian. God, he was something else. Spending hours working on—and admiring—his body the day before did not prepare me for the nerves I would feel when he pulled those doors shut.

And then he took off, like a convict on the run.