Chapter Nineteen
No one had much to say during the rest of the drive to the safe house. Adrian turned on the radio, and I pointed him toward one of my favorite Orlando stations. One of DPS’s songs was on the radio, so Adrian hit the scan button. I gave him a couple of other good options, and he settled on a station that was playing classic rock. Tom Petty, Steve Miller, Steely Dan, the Eagles, and Queen kept us company for the rest of the trip, saving us from uncomfortable silence.
I was lost in thought, wondering what had happened with Julia and if Brian really was okay, when the car stopped and Quinn shut off the engine. I glanced up to watch Ashe park the rental car beside us and then turned to look at the house. My jaw dropped in utter awe.
When Quinn had said “safe house,” I’d imagined an aging frame house, surrounded by similar houses, set apart just enough to provide a safety buffer for the neighbors. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The refuge that Quinn had found for us was a massive lake house, modern and pristine. If we had neighbors, they were well hidden behind the trees that lined the distant edges of the property.
Here, where we could literally see danger coming from half a mile away in any direction, we all began to relax. Brian seemed more himself, though still shaky, and the excitement of the morning had cleared London’s head, for now at least.
After Quinn and Ashe made a quick sweep to ensure the place was secure, we all grabbed a bag or two and headed inside. The interior of the house was even more impressive than the exterior. Dylan and I dropped our stuff in the living room and wandered through the house, leaving the menfolk to deal with the rest of the luggage. With huge, open living spaces and four big bedrooms, I felt certain we could all co-exist there without too much cabin fever. All of the bedrooms were done up in neutral tones—this was a safe house after all, not a family home. Two of the bedrooms were set up with pairs of twin beds, the third had a queen bed, and the master bedroom had the biggest bed I’d ever seen—something bigger than a king bed.
“It’s London-sized,” Dylan said, drawing a hint of a smile from me. “Guess you guys get this room.”
I shook my head. “It’s marathon-sex sized. Totally meant for you and Brian.”
She laughed and went to look out the huge windows while I turned and headed into the massive master bathroom.
“Speaking of sex,” I called out, staring around the tiled room.
Dylan stepped into the doorway and breathed, “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
The over-sized shower with a rain showerhead and body jets was enough to put thoughts in a girl’s head, but the ginormous garden tub—more than big enough for two—sent my imagination into overdrive. My whole body felt tingly and my heart sped up. Then I remembered that London was off-limits and sighed.
“Yeah, master suite is all yours,” I said, and turned and walked away.
“Whoa, wait a minute.” Dylan caught me by the arm. “What’s up?”
I gave her the condensed version of Ashe’s theory about London and magic and sex, and she hugged me.
“I’m sorry, hon.”
I shrugged. “Sex isn’t everything, right?” Dylan did her best Spock imitation—which isn’t very good at all—and I said, “Just pretend, okay? I need the moral support.”
She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Whatever gets you through the night.”
Once we had gotten the luggage sorted to the appropriate rooms, Quinn gathered us all in the library—the kind of library you read about in books but never really see, with leather armchairs and shelves and shelves of books—and showed us the monitors for the house’s state-of-the-art security camera system.
“There are motion-activated lights on the property as well, a double-perimeter of them,” he explained. “No one can get close enough to disable the outer row of lights without activating the inner row. We’ll take turns keeping an eye on the monitors, at least until our backup gets here.”
Ashe agreed that it was a good idea, but added, “I think we can give Brian and London a pass on this one.”
Brian shook his head. “No. I’m all right.”
Ashe started to protest, but Quinn stepped in. “We’ll give you last shift. Give you a chance to recover. You’ll need it, especially since I’m about to push you to tell us what happened.”
With a tired sigh, Brian dropped into one of the leather armchairs and leaned forward to sit with his forearms resting on his thighs. Dylan sank down to sit at his feet, and he lifted one hand to comb his fingers through her hair.
“Julia asked me to give London a message,” he said.
London leaned back against the bookshelves, wrapping his arms around himself in a strait-jacket-like hug. “What message?”
“She said to remind you what would happen if you don’t help her.”
The color drained from London’s face and he slid down the bookcase to sit huddled on the floor, the same way I’d found him huddled against the headboard earlier that morning.
Quinn looked from Brian to London and back again. “Did she tell you what she meant? What would happen?”
Brian shook his head and looked away. “She showed me.”
“Oh, God,” London croaked, his eyes wide. He staggered to his feet and across the room, dragged another of the armchairs close to Brian’s, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It won’t happen,” he promised. “I won’t let it.”
I saw the muscles in Brian’s jaw clench, watched him stroke Dylan’s cheek, and I knew that she was the bait. I went to join them, sinking down to sit where I could hug London’s leg and still hold Dylan’s hand.
Ashe moved to stand over us. “Don’t go getting any ideas, Stretch,” he said. “We don’t need you deciding to play the martyr.”
“Not going to happen,” London said, but I wasn’t sure anyone believed him. In fact, I think we all knew that if it came down to a choice between him and Dylan, he’d do whatever it took to protect her, not only for Brian’s sake but because he believed it was the right thing to do.
Quinn didn’t give us time to dwell on the situation. Instead, he gave us a crash course on surveillance and broke us up into teams of two: him and Ashe, followed by Adrian and Dylan, then Brian and me. I figured he set up the teams that way to minimize the potential for distraction. Quinn and Ashe settled down in front the monitors, and the rest of us wandered into the massive living room.
London sprawled on one of the sofas, and Adrian plopped down on one end of the other couch. Brian dug out his guitar and took a seat on the edge of the coffee table. Somehow I got the feeling that this wasn’t an uncommon scene for these guys. Dylan changed things up a little though by sitting down at Brian’s feet and laying her head against his knee. Brian paused his playing to run a hand through her hair a few times then he went back to his music. I watched everyone for a long moment before curling up on the other end of Adrian’s sofa.
A few minutes later, when Brian paused again, Adrian asked what song he had been playing.
“Just something I’ve had in my head,” Brian said.
Adrian looked thoughtful for a moment, and then wandered off without another word. He came right back with his guitar. In the next instant, the world outside of the two of them and their music disappeared.
With a little shake of her head, Dylan got up, tapped me on the knee, and gestured toward the far door. I got up and followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m freakin’ starving,” she said. “No breakfast, no coffee, and that goddamn little whore fucking with Brian. Could a day get off to a better start?”
I shook my head and joined her in poking around in the fridge and cabinets to see what we could find. Thankfully, the fridge was empty except for bottled water and sodas. Nothing nasty lurking in there, half-forgotten. We found a lot of in-date nonperishables in the cabinets and pantry, including some high end, gourmet kinds of things, but no coffee. On a hunch, I checked the freezer, and sure enough—coffee. Gourmet stuff again.
I left the co
ffee-brewing to Dylan and took stock of the kitchenwares. I also found the stash of oversized coffee mugs. When the coffee was done, I poured a cup for Ashe, and as an afterthought I poured another for Quinn. If any of the other guys wanted coffee, they could get it themselves.
Dylan sipped her mug and sighed a happy sigh. She looked from her cup of gourmet coffee to the cold Pop-Tart in her other hand and then at me, and we both laughed. Shaking my head, I headed to the library with my offering, which both Ashe and Quinn accepted with many thanks.
Back in the living room, Adrian and Brian were still working on their song. I thought it was starting to sound pretty good. Dylan had reclaimed her seat at Brian’s feet, despite the overabundance of squishy chairs and sofas in the room. I didn’t blame her. In fact, I understood completely.
I bypassed all the other seating and headed for the sofa where London lay. He looked exhausted and miserable, and I considered urging him to go find a bed. I figured it would be futile though, and went back to plan A.
“Sit up a minute,” I told him.
He looked up at me, his face blank, like he could hear me but not understand what I was saying. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head like he was trying to clear it, and sat up long enough for me park my butt on the sofa. He lay back down and turned over, his head in my lap and his back to the room.
“You should try to sleep,” I said, combing my fingers through his hair. “Quinn and Ashe seem to think you’re safe for now.”
“From outside influence,” London countered, “but not from what’s in my own head.”
“Um. Think happy thoughts?”
I could see the corner of London’s mouth turn up in a smile. “Not that easy.”
“Maybe you just need a distraction. Something else to focus on.”
He turned to lay on his back, so he could look up at me. “I think we determined last night that distraction is out.”
It took me a second to realize what he was talking about, but when I did I rolled my eyes. “Sex is not the only distraction. Honest. Besides, you’d so fall asleep just when it was getting interesting, and I’d develop a complex. We’d end up hating each other and have to go on the Dr. Phil Show. Or Jerry Springer.”
London laughed, and I smiled back at him. We were quiet for a while, listening to the boys work on their music. All the while, I tried to think of something to help disengage London’s brain. If music wasn’t doing it, what would?
Sometime later it hit me. I touched London’s cheek to get his attention, and he turned away from whatever he’d been staring at to look at me.
“Meet me in the bedroom,” I said. When he opened his mouth to speak, I laid a finger across his lips. “No questions. Just go.”
London looked up at me for a minute, then dragged himself to his feet and wandered off toward the bedroom I’d chosen for us. I followed, detouring by the kitchen on my way.
When I stepped into the bedroom, London was sitting on the foot of the bed, looking a little lost. I half-hugged him as I walked past, and told him, “Lose the shirt.” I dug my iPod out of my backpack to plug it into the docking station on the bedside table. The bottle of almond oil I’d liberated from the kitchen went on the table, too. I queued up a playlist of soft, soothing music, and then turned my attention back to London. He was lying face down on the bed, having figured out my plan.
Using just enough of the oil to keep from chafing his skin, I started working the kinks out of London’s back. I didn’t have the first clue about massage techniques or any of that jazz, but I knew how to give a good, basic backrub. So I did.
I started by using my knuckles and a good bit of leverage to loosen up the knotted muscles, and followed up with long, slow strokes meant to soothe. I found myself moving in time to the mellow music and just went with it. Soon enough, I felt London relax under my hands. I continued the backrub for a few more minutes, just to make sure he was all the way under. When I stopped and he didn’t protest or open his eyes, I figured he was out.
I stepped into the adjoining bathroom to wash the remnants of oil from my hands, and when I went back into the bedroom, London hadn’t moved an inch. Definitely out. I hesitated, uncertain. I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, but I didn’t want to risk waking him. I made myself turn away and head back to the living room.
“Maybe something like this,” Adrian said as I stepped into the room. He played a series of notes on his guitar, and Brian nodded and played them back on his own guitar.
Dylan glanced up from where she still sat at Brian’s feet, now holding a heavy, hardbound book in her hands.
“Anything good?” I asked her as I plopped down on the sofa near her.
She held the book up so I could read the cover. “Found it in the library.”
“I can’t believe you’re reading War and Peace. Again. What is it with you and Tolstoy?”
She just shrugged and went back to her book.
With everyone else occupied, I was at a loss, so much so that I found myself looking forward to sentry duty. I decided I would switch with Dylan and take the next shift—and dare anyone to bitch about it. I knew she wouldn’t mind since it would mean she could, possibly, drag Brian off for some alone time. My grand plan was foiled, however, by the arrival of reinforcements.
Quinn left Ashe alone on duty long enough to introduce his agent friends to the rest of us.
“Agents James Carmichael, Ron Peterson, and Martine Rochon,” Quinn said, indicating each of the new arrivals in turn. He introduced us in the same brief, no-frills fashion, ending with, “And where’s London?”
“Sleeping.”
“Good. Could I get you guys to help them carry in the provisions they brought us?”
“We got it covered,” Carmichael said, surprising me with a deep-South drawl. With his spiky bleach-blond hair and designer sunglasses, I would have figured the twenty-something agent as anything but a southern boy.
The rest of us protested Carmichael’s assurance, of course, and my friends and I brought in bags and bags of groceries, leaving the agents to juggle suitcases and weapons and things I couldn’t identify. Adrian gave up his room—the second twin-bed room—to the agents, and they dumped their gear there, with the exception of their holstered sidearms. Peterson, who I couldn’t help noticing was good-looking in spite of his perpetual frown—went to take over sentry duty, and the others came into the kitchen to help us put things away.
“I hope somebody knows how to cook,” Carmichael said. “Martine can,” he said, nodding toward the woman whose perfect café au lait skin and long legs I envied, “but she won’t. And Peterson is worse than useless.”
“In more ways than one,” Martine added, her voice deep, rich, and sultry with more than a hint of what I thought might be a Haitian accent.
“Yeah, well, he’s here to work, and that he can do,” Carmichael said, handing a jar of spaghetti sauce to Adrian who found a place for it on a shelf.
“So what about you?” I asked, rearranging the food in the small freezer to make more room. “You not a cook either?”
Carmichael smiled, the expression spreading across his face in the same slow-motion way that his words tumbled out of his mouth. “Well, I can use a microwave, a coffee maker, and a toaster. That’s about the sum total of my culinary skills.”
The bizarre combination of the backwoods Georgia drawl and the phrase “culinary skills” had me and Dylan both giggling. Even Martine cracked a smile, the simple upturn of lips and crinkling of eyes transforming her model-perfect face into something truly beautiful.
“We shouldn’t have sent Kenny home,” Adrian chimed in.
“Apparently his cooking skills are legendary,” Dylan added.
“Shame he ain’t here, then,” Carmichael said.
“My skills might not be legendary,” I told him, “but I think I can manage something.”
We kept up the idle chitchat while we unpacked, stored, rearranged, and rearranged again. Dylan was unloading the
last bag when her unexpected peal of laughter brought our conversation to a screeching halt. She hefted the jar in her hand and tossed it to Brian.
“I think that’s for you,” she said with a grin. “It was probably meant as a joke, but I seem to remember you actually liking the stuff.”
Brian grinned, too. “Yeah, I do,” he said, setting the jar on top of the fridge.
I looked up at it, and laughed, too.
“Vegemite?” Carmichael asked. “I thought that stuff was just an urban legend.”
A brief conversation about vegemite and the band Men at Work ensued, followed by a vegemite tasting party. To my utter surprise, the stuff tasted really good, though not everyone agreed with me on that. Afterwards, we all went our separate ways again. Brian and Dylan shut themselves up in their bedroom, Martine joined the other agents in the library, and Adrian and Carmichael found some sports network on the living room TV. I considered my options for about two seconds before snagging a book from the library and then heading for the bedroom to curl up next to London and lose myself for a while.