Tate Page 12

  Testing?

  He didn’t know what to think. And of course, Sloan picked right then to lean in, to cup her cheek and go in for a kiss.

  She turned her head, laughing, but Tate couldn’t move, caught in the horror of watching the woman he loved—okay, maybe not loved, but—well, he didn’t know what else it might be called when it felt like his freakin’ heart was being ripped through his ribs, his breath serrated in his chest. He held in the nearly uncontrollable urge to close the gap and yank Sloan away from her—

  And right then Kelsey’s voice ripped through him. Steeling him. You may be who Glo wants, but make sure you’re who she needs too.

  He may not be who Glo wanted anymore, but yes, he was who she needed.

  Which meant he stood there, a stone falling through his chest as he watched Sloan pull away and kiss her forehead. So far, she’d dodged him, but it would only be a matter of time before Sloan actually landed one on Glo and then Tate’s head just might pop off.

  Tate swallowed, anything to loosen his dry throat, and turned away.

  Shoot, all the moisture in his throat had gone to his eyes.

  This was stupid. Maybe even fatal.

  “You okay, Rango? You were making some funny sounds through the comms.”

  “I’m fine.” Movement out of his periphery had him looking back at Glo. She’d taken Sloan’s hand again and now they were headed back up the path.

  Hopefully home.

  Please.

  He followed her out and met Swamp’s gaze when he spotted him standing next to the car. The man wore his blond hair longer than most, had a surfer vibe, despite his suit and tie. He opened the door for Sloan and Glo, tucked them inside, and Tate went around to the passenger side, front seat.

  The partition was up, and he turned the AC on full blast.

  Swamp said nothing as he slid into the driver’s seat and headed back to the Jackson estate. Except, when they pulled up, Glo slid down the partition. “Tate can get out here. Then we’d like to continue on to Sloan’s place. Baker, you can take over from there.”

  Tate closed his eyes in pain, argument broaching his lips just as Glo slid the partition closed.

  Swamp glanced at him. “I got this. Get outta here.”

  Yeah. And maybe Baker was right on the nose.

  He should leave. At the very least, Tate needed fresh air.

  He got out, and Swamp pulled away, leaving Tate standing in the driveway as the night dipped around him, his hands in fists.

  Wow.

  He pulled off his tie as he headed back to the bunkhouse. Slammed the door open. It banged on the wall, and from his twin bed, Rags looked up. He was tall, lean, and built like a wide receiver. In fact, he’d been an All-American, Division III, a star, but not NFL material. Rumor had it that he’d played Arena ball before joining the military and going to sniper school for the Army. He had blondish-brown hair, a white smile and a country-boy aura that probably worked well for him down at the Wildhorse Saloon on his days off.

  He popped out his earbuds, put down his phone, and leaned up. “’Sup?”

  “Nothing.” Tate shrugged out of his jacket and hung it in the closet near his bed. He’d taken the one by the far wall which also allowed him space to empty Knox’s briefcase of evidence, tape it to the wall, and start his own obsession. Now he sat on his bunk as he toed off his dress shoes, then unbuttoned his cuffs and shirt.

  Rags came over, the earbuds hanging around his neck. “Why don’t you quit, dude? We all know you have it bad for Glo. It’s written all over your face—you sort of turn shades of purple every time you see Glo and Sloan together, which lately has been, um, always.”

  Well, not always. Today she’d spent at least three hours reading a magazine in her bikini near the pool. Yeah, that had been fun—him, trying not to stare at her legs, those curves as he patrolled the pool area, sweating in his suit pants and white oxford.

  He missed his days guarding the Belles.

  “I can’t quit,” he said as he stripped off his shirt. Sly made him wear an undershirt, too, and now he untucked it from his pants. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “What about your ranch? Sounds like a sweet gig—Montana, right?”

  “It’s not my ranch. It belongs to my brothers Reuben and Knox. I’m not a cowboy—I hate horses. Got bucked off when I was six and never took to them after that.” He slid his belt from his loops. “No, I left the cowboying to my brothers and enlisted when I was eighteen. Went to Ranger school right after boot camp. It’s who I was.” Until he wasn’t.

  “How did you get into the security field?”

  A fight. Words with his father after he’d returned from Afghanistan. Anger. The story could undo him, so, “Sort of fell into it after I left the military. I met Glo and the band while I was working security for the San Antonio arena.”

  “You were on the bus with them?” Rags wore a smile.

  “So was their drummer, Elijah Blue. Don’t get any ideas.”

  “But that’s how she got under your skin, right?”

  And into his brain flashed the memory of Glo sitting on one of the couches, leaning over her guitar, picking out a new tune. Scribbling in her journal, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.

  Where was that girl?

  “Listen. We got this, bro. Sly filled us in—told us about the shooting and some sort of fight in Vegas Glo was involved in. We understand your commitment, but really…it’s like watching Rocky IV, and Apollo is going down against Ivan Drago. It’s not pretty.”

  That eked a smile from him. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m Rocky. I’ll win in the end.”

  “Still not sure it’s worth it.”

  Rags walked over to the wall. “This must be your art wall from the bombing?”

  “Yeah. Everything my brother collected.” Tate stood up and pointed to two hand-drawn pictures of the suspects. “The local officials identified the bomber as a rodeo clown, but my brother saw a picture of him with these two guys. One has a tattoo of bright orange flames circling his neck, the other had gauged ears and a port-wine stain. Apparently the one with the port-wine stain is the mayor’s son, so I don’t think they leaned too hard on him. His name is Alan Kobie, but he didn’t give up his friend’s name. My sister works for the CIA, and she’s trying to dig up the identity, but the Senator thinks the bombing is the work of a rogue leftist group trying to thwart her campaign.”

  “Was one of these guys responsible for the attack at your ranch?”

  Wow, Sly really had opened up his file. “We think so. Kelsey, Glo’s bandmate who was with her that night, identified a guy with gauged ears, so…maybe…” He tapped the drawings. “Could be Kobie, but he’s gone to ground.” He turned to Rags. “Did you find anything at the Anderson place?”

  “Sly turned a team loose there, but so far, they only found a couple spent shells.”

  This perked Tate up. “What kind of shells?”

  “Brass, 7.62x51mm NATO.”

  “For a M40A5 sniper rifle.”

  “That’s what I was thinking too.”

  “You ever shoot one of those?”

  “I wasn’t a Marine. Straight up Army.”

  “The Rangers used MK11s.” Tate turned back to the wall. “Which means our man could be a former Marine. That helps. Maybe RJ can cross-reference known members of the Bryant League with former Marines.” He picked up his phone, sent a speed dial, but the call went directly to voicemail.

  He bit back a word and tossed the phone on his bed. Considered it for a moment. “Maybe I need to get on a plane. She hasn’t called me back for over a week. It’s weird. And we’re supposed to be together this weekend for my brother’s wedding.”

  “Oh, leaving the ship in the hands of the crew, huh?” Rags leaned against the wall. “Good. Go to a wedding, find a cute girl, try and forget Glo.”

  “Every girl there will be either my sister or future sister-in-law, so…probably not.” But maybe he could go down to the Bulldog Sal
oon…

  No. The very thought tightened his gut. He hated the man he’d been during the two years since Vegas, trying to forget Raquel.

  In fact, he liked the person he was now, or at least the one he was turning into since he’d signed on with the Belles.

  The guy who refused to stay down. Steady. Reliable.

  It might be the first time he wasn’t ashamed of himself.

  “Naw,” he said to Rags. “I’m in it for the long game. Even if she breaks my heart, I’m sticking around. But yeah, I need to get some headspace. Glo is desperately trying to push me away—I get it. I get her. She’s got some baggage in her past that makes her terrified that I’m going to get killed. But there’s only so much pummeling a man can take.”

  “Right?” Rags said.

  Tate picked up his phone, pocketed it. “How about a game of eight ball?”

  “Instead of camping out by the pool staring up at her room?”

  He let himself smile, lifted a shoulder. “That’ll come later. After she gets home.”

  “Rango, you’re in such trouble.”

  Yeah. Well, maybe for the first time it was the kind of trouble he wanted.

  Glo stood at her window, the morning light sliding across the creamy white carpet, and noticed that his deck chair was empty.

  In fact, when she’d returned home last night, it was empty too.

  And although she’d checked, he never showed up.

  Glo had made a real mess of everything, just as Tate predicted. What had he said…a train wreck?

  Because Sloan Anderson just might be in love with her.

  And Tate wasn’t going down for the count. She’d thought two moonlit walks, maximum. Thought after the first night when she’d let Sloan kiss her—just a quick good-night peck on the cheek—that Tate would charge into her mother’s office and tender his resignation.

  Instead, after she’d gone inside, she’d seen him appear poolside in his off-duty attire of a pair of faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and flip-flops—not exactly the most utilitarian of footwear if he wanted to run down an assailant. But maybe he wasn’t sitting out there because he feared for her life.

  Maybe he simply wanted to remind her that she still had his heart.

  O Romeo, Romeo.

  She turned away. Maybe she’d finally driven him away, and that thought hollowed her out, just a little. But, good.

  Right?

  Maybe it had been impulsive—and frankly, cruel—to order him from the car last night. But when she’d looked over and seen him watching as Sloan put the moves on her, as his jaw tightened, she just knew the man wasn’t quitting.

  She had to get drastic. So she’d made him think she was going back to Sloan’s place. Alone. With Sloan. Wanted to drive home the point that she could do what she wanted, and no amount of his glares, pursed lips, and tight shoulders could stop her.

  Except, well, it had stopped her. Because she’d also managed to give Sloan the wrong idea and had to convince him to sit with her by his pool, cocooned in his embrace, watching the stars.

  He’d traced his finger up her arm and told her that maybe they had a future after the campaign. After her mother made him press secretary in the new White House administration. She’d love DC, by the way. His favorite bagel place was only two blocks from the Capitol.

  Yeah, she had a Sloan problem. Or maybe not a problem, because Sloan was everything a girl could want, really. Smart, wickedly handsome, and he nearly worshiped her.

  But every time the man took her in his arms, every time he tried to kiss her, all she could remember was the amazing kiss with Tate, the way he had set her entire body on fire.

  No one had kissed her, ever, like Tate Marshall. Like she might be a drink of water to a parched man. Needing her.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of kissing anyone else.

  Eventually, she’d left Sloan alone under the Milky Way and headed home.

  Felt the smallest—okay, a pretty large—twinge of disappointment at the empty deck chair.

  She swallowed away the memory of Tate’s lips on hers and grabbed her iPad, a towel, and her sunglasses. She had a slew of emails to answer.

  Her father was in the kitchen, sitting on a bar stool, eating a half grapefruit, drinking coffee, and reading something on his iPad, his reading glasses low on his nose. “There’s my Glo-light.”

  “Hey, Dad.” She opened the fridge and grabbed a yogurt. Then poured a cup of coffee and sat on a stool next to him.

  “Nice picture of you.” He flashed her his iPad. Kelsey stood in the middle, a cowboy hat pulled down over her eyes. Glo stood on the left, a painted rose tattoo down the arm that held her Dobro, dressed all in black.

  Dixie flanked them on the other side, wearing a short, sequined dress, her legs about a mile long, her blonde hair down, her violin propped against her shoulder.

  “It’s a few weeks old from when the nominations were announced. Carter sent it out.”

  “Are you going to the CMGs?”

  “Of course. It’s a huge honor even to be nominated.” She opened her yogurt.

  “Are you taking Sloan?”

  She set the cover on the counter, picked up her spoon. “I…I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “You get to bring someone, right?”

  She hadn’t gotten that far.

  Or, rather, yes she had. She pictured Tate beside her. As her bodyguard, maybe, but still.

  Tate was the Belles’ bodyguard. He deserved to participate in the fun.

  “You and Sloan are spending a lot of time together.”

  “Mmmhmm.” She took a bite of her yogurt.

  “Reminds me a little of your mother and me, back in the day. She had political aspirations…I just went along for the wild ride.”

  “I don’t think Sloan has political aspirations.”

  Her dad took off his glasses. “You can’t be serious.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “Okay. Yes. He wants to be a speechwriter, but run for office?”

  “He’s an idealist, like your mother. They see a world that is fairer, kinder, and safer.”

  “So do I.”

  “They want to do something about it.”

  She made a face. “So do I…”

  “Of course you do. But this…political life is challenging. And consuming. Some of us have to stay behind and support those who are changing the world. Your mother is a fireball. I’m not. But I do know how to keep the fire going.” He winked.

  She didn’t want to know what he meant. Except, “Then why did you leave her? You two have lived apart for…well, nearly ten years.”

  He frowned, something quick. “It was because of you, Glo. You needed to get away. After Joy died, you were so withdrawn and scared and—”

  “I was withdrawn and scared because Mother blamed me for her death.” Oh, and she didn’t mean for that to come out, but…well, “When I woke up after the surgery, Mother wasn’t there. She was with Joy, waiting for her to wake up. And I got it…she was always with Joy. Joy was her favorite. Joy needed her, and Mother likes to be needed. But…I needed her, too, and…”

  “And she didn’t show up, even after Joy passed.” Her father touched her arm. “And then we brought you home to the room you shared with your sister.”

  “I couldn’t sleep there, Dad. I just kept staring at her empty bed.”

  “I know. That’s when you started sleeping in the guest room. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that job in Minnesota, but we thought it was best to get you into a new environment. And your mother was busy with her life in DC. Still is. She’s always had a free spirit—and I didn’t want to get in the way.”

  “Me either. I guess that’s why I feel like a guest in my mother’s life.” She stirred her yogurt. “And frankly, that’s okay. I don’t like the things she likes. I’m…”

  “A poet like your old man.” He laughed and gave her arm a squeeze. “You are so much like me, Glo. Thoughtful. You see the needs of others an
d jump in. But you’re like your mother too…a fireball in your own right. Creative, bold, smart. And you need a man who will tend your fires. Is Sloan that guy? Can he put his dreams aside to keep yours alive?”

  She considered him. “What are you saying?”

  He ran his thumb down the side of his coffee cup. “I keep seeing a man sitting out by the pool every night. Sleeping on a deck chair.”

  She shook her head, turned away. “I’m not…I don’t deserve him, Dad.”

  “What?”

  “No, really. I’ve been a total jerk to him this week. I’ve deliberately thrown myself at Sloan just to make him jealous.”

  “Why?” Her father’s tone betrayed the shame she felt.

  “Because…well, why should someone put their life on the line for me? I…I’m not…I’m just a regular person. I’m not the president, or even anyone important. I’m just…I’m just…well, you know.”

  “No. I don’t know. My beautiful daughter?”

  “Not the beautiful daughter, Dad. I’m the other one. The one who lived.”

  He just blinked at her, and she looked away, her throat tight.

  “Glo—”

  “Joy should have lived, and we all know it. And it was my fault she didn’t.”

  “Hardly!” He turned and took her face in his hands. “She was sick. Too sick. And that wasn’t on you.”

  “It was my kidney, my body.”

  “You were fraternal twins, not identical. And we knew it was a long shot. For the record, I was against the transplant from the first.”

  Glo shook her head, moving away from his grip. “I would have done it, even if you had said no. I loved her…” Her eyes filled. “I just don’t understand God. Joy was perfect. Smart. Beautiful. And yet I was born with the healthy body. It’s a terrible joke on everyone, and Mother knows it best of all.”

  “Your mother has her faults—she is very focused on her goals. But she loves you, Glo.”

  Glo drew in a breath. “I know. And I love her. I have no reason to complain, I know that.”

  He took her hand. “You’ve had a few rough starts, Glo-light, so I think you have reason to complain. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be safe. Or happy. Or to have someone protect you. You have your own light, Glo, separate from Joy’s. It’s time to let it shine.”