“You damn sure will be, if that’s what’s necessary. Your safety, your life, isn’t up for negotiation.” His jaw is so tight, it’s twitching.
“Look,” he adds, with far less harshness. “I fully respect your need to get away from me, but there’s no reason for you to avoid Trippi. He doesn’t talk much. It’ll be like you’re alone.”
He’s cajoling. But it’s true. Trippi’s not a chatterbox. “I’ll think about it,” I mutter, but we both know Trippi’s coming with me.
Neither of us say another word until the wheels hit the tarmac.
Gray’s not happy, but he doesn’t fight me when I insist on going back to my house for the night. I’m sure there will be security all over the place, but I appreciate him not making a big fuss about it.
When it’s time to say good-bye, he cups my face and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is at once a slow burn, filled with pleas and promises, and a mournful dirge.
Before I pull away, I cradle his jaw, enjoying the prick of the stubble on my palm. “Do you know what my favorite quote is?” He tilts his head to the side, waiting for me to tell him. “Some men just need killin’.”
A lazy smile spreads slowly across his face, and embers of hope catch fire in his eyes. He pulls me into his chest. “I love you, Blue Eyes. Pack that away, and keep it with you.”
45
Delilah
I haven’t been home in a while, and there are chores to tend to that can’t wait until I return from the trip. At least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, I haven’t been to Mississippi since we buried Mr. Marshall, and I’m not looking forward to revisiting ghosts from the past.
By the time I work up the courage to go, nearly a week has passed.
I’m in my driveway when Trippi pulls up in a black Mercedes sedan, wearing a somber suit. The poor guy doesn’t have a chance to get out of the car before I start flappin’ my jaw. “We are not taking that thing.”
“Good morning, ma’am. It’s a comfortable ride. What exactly is the problem?”
“We’ll take my car.”
He glances at my soft-sided Jeep. “That would be a resounding no. I’m not driving that thing for fifteen hours through the back roads and across state lines.”
“Who said anything about you driving? You can ride shotgun.”
Poor guy looks like he ate something that didn’t agree with him. He’s right. I love my little Jeep, but it’s not built for a long trip. The bouncing gets old after a while.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do,” I tell him. “You go back to Wildflower, and choose a vehicle from the fleet that doesn’t look so Driving-Miss-Daisy-ish. And while you’re at it, put on a pair of jeans or some shorts, anything that looks less like you’re a pallbearer at my funeral. Makes me nervous.”
Trippi, God love him, is watching me like I’ve lost my mind.
“You can take the first shift behind the wheel,” I offer, as an olive branch.
He turns around and gets into the car, slamming the door so hard it rattles. But he doesn’t say a word, returning an hour later in a shiny black Grand Cherokee with a sunroof, and wearing a pair of faded jeans.
“Good choice.” I toss my bag in the backseat and take the passenger seat up front. I’m sure he’d prefer me in the back with the bag.
“Where we going?” he asks, backing out of the driveway.
“Gray didn’t tell you?”
“All he said was that I’m to escort you to Mississippi, and to pack casually. You’d give me the details.”
“Ever hear of Digger’s Hollow?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s near Vicksburg, in a corner of the state nobody visits.” That doesn’t seem to ring much of a bell for him, either. “It’s fifteen hours to the Mississippi border from here, but Digger’s Hollow is clear across the state. A few hours from Baton Rouge.”
He rubs a thumb along his jaw. “Enter it into the navigation.”
I play with the nav, but I can’t enter a location. “Something’s wrong. It’s not working. I’ll plug the address into my phone.”
Trippi is quiet. I am too, but only on the outside. Inside, my mind is hard at work, combing through every word Gray said on the plane. I’ve spent hours and hours this past week examining every side, weighing the evidence for and against. Do I want to be his partner, for life? Ring or no ring, that’s really what he’s asking.
I click through the four distinct parts that I keep coming back to. The part about him knowing Kyle is where I always end up first. I’m still embarrassed, but less so now, and I do understand about protecting one’s cover. I’ve all but forgiven him on that account.
Then there’s the beach house. Sweet Jesus. What else is there to say?
The Parisian Pop-Tart? I’m keeping him forever.
The president? While it does give me pause that the president he conspired to murder was also his father, some men just need killin’. I haven’t changed my mind about that.
Trippi’s phone rings forty-five minutes into the drive. “Yeah. Fine as a fiddle,” he says sarcastically. “She’s sitting right here, waiting for an opportunity to drive.” He scoffs. “Like that’s ever happening.”
I give him the stink-eye as he hands me the phone. “Hello.”
“Hey,” Gray says. “I know I’m supposed to give you some time, but I thought you’d like to know Saher’s plane landed in London overnight. She’s under the protection of the British government.”
“She went.” She went. I can barely form the words. “She got on the plane.” Oh, God. “I can’t believe it. I wasn’t sure she’d take the risk.” If I were in my kitchen right now, I’d be dancing and cheering loudly for her and her sweet little boy.
“She’s not out of the woods.”
The thought is sobering. He’s right. The celebration should wait.
“Neither are you,” he adds, emphatically. “This might be the most dangerous time. Watch yourself.”
“Thanks for letting me know about Saher. I feel like she and Amir have a fighting chance now.” There’s nothing more I want to say, but it pains me to hang up. “I’ll call you when we get back.”
I hand Trippi the phone, and he grunts a few times before ending the call.
We stop at a small convenience store for drinks, but I stay in the Jeep. When Trippi comes back, I’m in the driver’s seat. He shakes his head, but doesn’t complain.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Try not to kill me.”
“Just think. You could be with Baz right now on vacation, lying on the beach with someone warm and pretty.”
He doesn’t reply.
Trippi is a big, scary-looking dude, who gives off a Southern California vibe unless he’s trying to intimidate you. But he’s from the center of the country, if I remember correctly.
“You’re from Missouri?” I ask. I’m not into idle chitchat, but it’s better if I talk while I’m driving. It’ll keep me from disappearing inside my head. It’s dusk, and we’ve been on the road for more than twelve hours. I need to concentrate. Besides, I’ve already spent too much time in my head this trip.