Page 42 of Direct Action

“I want to give you want you want, but I can’t.”

Her head ticced. “You can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” I affirmed. “The thought of you going in there alone to face whatever it is you’re gonna face rips my heart out. So I’m sorry, baby, but I’m walking you in. I’ll wait in what I’m positive is a cush lobby and wait for you to do what you need to do. That way when you’re done, I can see to you.”

“See to me?”

That astonished whisper pissed me right the fuck off. I didn’t believe Chloe didn’t have people in her life who saw to her. She was close with Poppy, and that chick was rabid when it came to loyalty and friendship. So Chloe knew what it meant to have friends looking out for you. It was me in particular taking her back that surprised her.

Now was not the time to get into that, though we would later when we weren’t sitting in my truck outside of a nursing home—a place she was hell bent to get to. Which meant I had to swallow down my irritation and get her where she needed to be.

“Let’s get you inside, baby.”

It was my turn to be astonished when, without further comment, Chloe opened her door.

I met her at the tailgate, and together we walked across the parking lot. This was done in silence—mine watchful, hers pensive and a whole lot reflective.

By the time we got to the sliding double doors, pensive was a memory. Chloe was practically vibrating with nerves. The practically part of that was she wasn’t doing this literally—her steps were stilted but sure. Her body was tense, and the energy rolling off her concerned me.

I grabbed her hand as we walked through the sliding double doors. I knew she was locked in her head when, instead of pulling away, her fingers curled to hold on. And I found I was correct—the lobby was cush, but it was also warm and inviting. There was no sterile stench of disinfectant, no rows of uncomfortable chairs, no harsh fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly like lavender and something woodsy. There were artfully created seating areas arranged to foster conversation. Everything was done in muted browns and greens—walls, furniture, abstract paintings. Stylish, but the bottom line of it was tranquil.

Though Chloe wasn’t feeling the peace the room intended.

Her hand was pulsing.

Squeeze.

Release.

Squeeze.

Release.

“Chloe—” The rest of my question died on my tongue when her head tipped back and her eyes met mine.

Hollow. Yet filled with so much pain and sorrow I felt the air whistle by my teeth as I sucked in a breath.

“Baby,” I whispered.

She shook her head, squeezed my hand. Before she could answer—that was, if she was going to reply—we were interrupted.

“Chloe,” a woman called.

In unison we turned toward the voice. I vaguely recognized the older woman, but it took me a beat to remember where I’d seen her. Chloe took that beat to yank her hand free and jump away from me like she’d been caught committing a felony.

Then it clicked.

Chloe’s mom. She and her husband had come to the Plank for lunch several times. Though I hadn’t seen either of them at the bar in a long time.

“Hi, Mom.” Chloe forced so much liveliness into her tone it was a wonder she could keep her feet with the energy she’d expended pretending she wasn’t drowning in pain.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Soft and melodic but drenched in anguish. When her gaze shifted, the first thing I noticed was she’d given Chloe her eyes. Like her daughter’s, they were expressive. Also like her daughter’s, they were communicating . . . suffering, torment, grief.

It hurt just looking at the woman.

“Do you remember my boss, Ryan Strong? Ryan, my mother, Andrea.”

Something irrational surged. A wave of possessiveness that had nothing to do with fucking her, at least not entirely. I didn’t want to be her boss. I wanted to be the man standing at her side—full stop. Not just while she was dealing with whatever was happening here. Not since high school had I met a woman’s family. There’d been no meet-the-parents dinners, no lunches, no accidental run-ins. Hell, since I’d moved back to San Diego, I hadn’t been on a date. I picked up company for the night—the end. Like-minded women who wanted nothing more than to either bag a former Team Guy so they could brag, or fuck the owner of the Plank, thinking I’d cover their bar tab. They got their free drinks, I got a mediocre lay, and we happily parted when the festivities were over. It worked, and if I was being honest, as fucked as it was, those women were nothing more than diversions. I’d hid behind one-night stands and barflies to keep my distance from Chloe.