“You’re suspended for a month, longer if the CIA is still investigating. When we return to New Mexico, you’ll undergo psych testing to determine when and if you’re able to return to fieldwork.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly, his demeanor changes, and he steps closer, cupping my shoulder with his palm. “Loving someone and being able to handle this job will be one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do. I have faith that you can do it, but if you can’t, there’s no harm in that either.”
He walks away, leaving me in the quiet room, questioning my entire future.
What would I have if I didn’t have Cerberus?
Would Mia even want to stick around when I could no longer protect her with the backing of the club?
I have a million thoughts racing through my head when I leave the room to continue with the cleanup. The deceased women are treated with more respect than the men who hurt them as we enclose each one into a body bag. Some we’re able to identify, like Caroline Spring, the woman we didn’t find from our last mission in Venezuela. The woman abducted from a mission trip weeks and weeks ago was crouched over, clearly protecting two younger girls. Her tiny body didn’t protect her or them from the spray of bullets.
Thankfully, the Blackbridge men stay out of the basement. They’re upstairs sifting through paperwork after we identified the body of the woman who was abducted while under the protection of Deacon Black’s men.
The CIA is working on identifying all the men we dropped during the raid and updating their databases in preparation for retaliation from those men’s family members. There’s always a little fallout when working on a mission. It’s why the women at the clubhouse are so well trained and protected.
Jinx works beside me, but he won’t even look at me. I’ve damaged that relationship with him, and probably the relationship with all the other guys since they were able to hear me taunting Jiménez.
I embarrassed all the men of Cerberus by my actions, and I did it in front of Blackbridge as well as the CIA. I can’t imagine what all of them are thinking about me.
I won’t make excuses for my behavior, but other than disappointing everyone, I don’t regret it. My only regret is I let my guard down, and Jinx had to end that fucker before I got to cut him up into tiny pieces. I’ll regret as long as I live that I wasn’t able to torture him until he begged me to let him die.
I was hoping to grow numb with each woman that I zip up in the generic black bags, but my anger only grows. I want to go back upstairs and kill all those fuckers all over again. The mass killing of these women and girls was pointless. All it did was serve as one last power play from men who knew they were going to die.
If this had happened in Miami, Max would’ve lost his twin sister, and I never would’ve met the woman who has the ability to change my entire life, and I feel like the worst person on earth for being grateful that it happened here instead of there.
Chapter 22
Mia
Electricity fills my blood while watching the guys pile out of the SUVs that rolled onto the property just a few seconds ago.
Misty, Khloe, and Emmalyn finish up the last touches to the meal we spent the morning preparing.
I haven’t heard from Ryan since the phone call a couple of days ago, but that isn’t stopping me from itching with adrenaline.
I notice Ryan right away, but the sour look on his face as I watch him grab his duffel out of the back of one SUV isn’t what I’m expecting. I’m humming with a need to see him, to touch him, and to kiss him, and he looks like he’s walking toward the gallows as he climbs the front steps to the clubhouse.
I don’t know if it’s all the men filtering through the front door that ups my anxiety, or the fact that Ryan isn’t happy to be home.
I keep to the corner of the room, wondering if his face will change when he sees me, but I don’t have to wait long. As if he can sense me in the room, his eyes dart to mine the second he’s through the front door. I freeze, my heart pounding so hard, I’m sure it’s going to bounce right out of my chest.
He doesn’t drop his bag and run to me like I pictured would happen. He doesn’t close the distance between the two of us like I see Diego do with Emmalyn and Dustin do with Khloe. He doesn’t even shake my hand like Shadow does when his son Cannon walks up to him.
He doesn’t walk toward me at all. He heads in the opposite direction, grabbing a beer from the fridge before turning to speak with one of the other guys.
It only takes a minute for me to realize I’m not wanted or not important enough. It angers me, pisses me off beyond belief, but calling him out on it isn’t something I’d ever do in public, even if I wasn’t shaking from being in a room with so many men.
While he’s got his back turned, I disappear down the hallway, stopping outside my room before deciding to go to his. I’d never be able to sleep if I don’t find out what his problem is. I need to know what’s bothering him or if there’s something I’ve done wrong.
So, I go to his room and sit in the dark. I’ll wait here all night long if I have to. Ignoring problems and hoping they disappear isn’t something I’m going to do to myself. I did that with Jason, and the stress caused ulcers. I refuse to put myself in a similar situation. If he doesn’t want me around, then he’s going to have to use those words. We’re both too damn old to let things fall apart because we can’t communicate like adults.
Minutes turn into hours as I wait. The rambunctious crowd begins to dwindle, and yet Ryan is still absent. I’m nodding off in the center of his bed, still fully dressed when he finally shows his face. I know he can see me in here when he opens the door, but he doesn’t bother with the light as he closes the door behind him.
His duffel thuds as he drops it to the floor, and a second later, he’s pulling his t-shirt over his head. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here. Is he drunk? Even the thought doesn’t bother me. Ryan wouldn’t hurt me no matter what state he’s in.
I click on the bedside lamp, but he doesn’t even flinch as the bright light fills the room.
I gasp, however, because there are three huge bruises marring his otherwise perfect skin. The injuries are darker than the ink decorating his body.
“What happened?” I ask as I fly off the bed and reach for him.
He doesn’t say a word as my fingers trace over the purple spots. He’s frozen, a statue in the middle of his own room, and suddenly I feel like an intruder, unwelcome in a space I’ve always been welcomed before.
Yet, I’m stubborn, and if he wants me gone, he’s going to have be a grown-up and use the words.
He doesn’t open his mouth.
Not when I leave him standing to go get some cream from the bathroom.
Not when I apply the cold cream to his heated flesh.
Not when I brush my lips across his back while checking for more spots to doctor.
And in turn, I don’t say anything when he unlaces his boots and shoves his jeans down.
Him standing in the middle of his room in nothing but black boxer briefs doesn’t bring the same apprehension that it did the time he came out of the bathroom wrapped only in a towel.
So much has happened since then. I’ve had time to get used to the idea of him being more than someone who comforts me. I’ve had time to get to know him better. I’ve had time to accept that he’d never hurt me, not physically anyway. The rejection in the living room did sting more than I want to admit, if only so I don’t give a voice to his ability to hurt my feelings.