Scott,” she said, closing her eyes.
“’Night, Rhodes.”
At just like that, suddenly Mr. Sandman decided to stop being a prick—and she slept.
Scarlett was asleep beside him but sleep was a long ways from finding Xander. If Scarlett’s father weren’t already dead, he’d have liked to have been the one to permanently knock his lights out.
How could a father do that to his own daughter? He’d seen a lot of messed up shit in his time but he’d never get used to the knowledge that some people were just bad eggs.
His own father was a royal asshole but he’d never been buggered by him.
Beat him within an inch of his life, but the man hadn’t touched him like Scarlett’s father had touched her.
He wanted to pull Scarlett to him and hold her close, but he knew that would go over as well as giving a cat a bath so he kept his hands to himself.
But aside from Scarlett’s revelation, he had other things keeping him awake. More immediate issues than Scarlett’s messed-up childhood.
With Scarlett with him, his secret wasn’t likely to remain a secret for long. He didn’t want her to know how addicted he’d become to his pain meds. It was his private shame, his weakness, and he loathed the idea of Scarlett thinking less of him.
But there was another reason he needed to keep his pill-popping from her—it created motive.
He couldn’t account for the time when the bomb went off. He’d passed out and woken up after the fact, but he couldn’t exactly tell his TL that he’d been high as a kite during an operation so he lied.
He’d told Scarlett that he’d been on the opposite side of the plaza when the bomb had gone off.
Truthfully, he’d been damn close. It was a miracle he hadn’t been caught in the blast. It was pure luck that in the chaos no one seemed to notice the minor cuts and abrasions on his face.
But the lie weighed heavily on his conscience. He hated lying to Scarlett, but it’d been a split-second decision that he’d had to make and he couldn’t take it back.
Now his statement was on official documents. To admit that he’d lied about his whereabouts would only seal his guilt.
And Scarlett would never trust him again.
He exhaled and rolled to his side, quietly watching her as she slept. It was surreal to be in the same bed once more. He could honestly say that he figured the only way that was ever going to happen again would be in his dreams.
Xander knew he was being a friggin’ sap but he wished he could pull her into his arms and hold on for dear life. It’d been a long time since he’d wanted anyone in that role and he hadn’t expected it to be Scarlett but, damn, she was his equal in every way.
But he was going to respect Scarlett’s wishes and keep it professional. Of course, she was right. It made sense to keep things straight because neither knew how this was going to shake out in the end, but lying beside her and keeping his distance...was a special kind of hell.
Rolling away, turning on his side, he tried to focus on what he knew about the McQuarry bombing.
Thanks to his little blackout—he didn’t know much.
The operation had been simple: provide security for Senator Ken McQuarry as he did his little rally speech in downtown Tulsa. McQuarry had been a typical white male politician sort—trying to hide his soft and doughy gut in expensive suits, his mouth full of rhetoric—and he hadn’t been running any particularly controversial platforms so the job should’ve been a cakewalk.
They hadn’t expected someone to rig the amphitheater and blow up the senator.
Hindsight.
The bigger question was how did someone put Xander’s fingerprints on the plastic explosive when he sure as hell didn’t rig that bomb?
Scarlett groaned softly in her sleep. He didn’t dare try to comfort her. Force of habit, they were all light sleepers. He could only imagine the demons she entertained. Maybe his and hers could have a playdate.
A part of him wanted to know what made her twitch at night, what secrets were locked away in that complex brain, but he would never pry. That was the thing between fellow soldiers, they understood that sometimes talking about things didn’t make it better—it just created more shit to bubble to the surface and no one had time for that.
Still, he wanted to smooth the faint lines from her forehead and chase away her nightmares.
Too bad she’d never let him.
Tomorrow he had a meeting with the political journalist from the Tulsa World daily. They were supposed to meet at an abandoned schoolhouse. He figured the best way to mitigate the risk was to meet someplace with the least amount of prying eyeballs around.
In the quiet dark, it was hard to run from the fear that he might not find the evidence he needed to exonerate himself. The fear that he might actually end up behind bars for a crime he hadn’t committed didn’t help his insomnia.
He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life—done things he was ashamed of—but never had he ever considered harming a civilian.
More than just Ken McQuarry died that day.
He had their names etched on his brain.
Rosie Grogan.
Butch Halford.
Ronnie Pitt.
Layla Osmundsen.
He wasn’t the one who’d planted the bomb but he was complicit in their deaths because he hadn’t been doing his job. Remembering their names was his penance. Maybe if he’d been sober, he would’ve seen the bombs, could’ve gotten everyone to safety... Hell, he might’ve been able to defuse the bombs before they’d gone off.
Again with the hindsight.
He needed help kicking his habit, but there wasn’t time for that now. To think that a doc had prescribed the drugs for his back pain all legal-like and now he was a friggin’ junkie was a dark irony that didn’t escape him.
Most days he functioned fine. But there were other days when he was falling down stupid, out of his head, lost in the black hole of addiction.
Get your head on straight. There was no time for his issues. Not right now.
He forced his eyes closed. Morning would come soon enough and if he didn’t catch some shut-eye, he’d need toothpicks to hold up his lids.
His last thought as he drifted to sleep was the hope that for the first time in his life, luck was on his side.
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