Against the Ropes (19 page)

“Hey.” Greg reached out and stroked a hand down her arm. “Sorry. You okay?”

She pressed the hand gripping her cell phone to her racing heart and took a deep breath. “Let me check my blood pressure and get back to you on that one.” Then she realized . . . “Why aren't you inside with the rest of the team?”

“I told coach I wanted to stay with you. Just in case.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his team-issued jogging suit bottoms. In general, she thought windbreaker outfits were a little on the silly looking side. But he managed to make the parachute-like material sexy, anyway. She was in over her head. “He agreed. He thought it was best we kept eyes on everyone. Nobody is alone, battle buddy, that sort of thing.”

He'd told the coach, not asked. As if he wasn't asking permission, but simply making the choice. Could have gotten him in serious trouble. It warmed her down in her still-chilled belly that he'd gone against the grain to make sure she was okay. “Well, thanks, but I'm fine. Just stressed.”

“Understatement.”

“No kidding.” With one last glance at the torn-up bus, she sighed and headed back toward the BOQ main lobby. Greg fell in step with her. “I guess it could have been an opponent from last night? Someone with sour grapes over losing?” Even as she said it, her voice lacked conviction.

Greg lifted one shoulder in a “maybe” gesture, but he didn't appear convinced.

“But going inside like that . . .” She shuddered. “Just feels like more of a violation. Slashing a tire or keying your paint job sucks, but doesn't feel like this does.”

“And that's what they wanted. Whoever is pulling this junk wants to get in our heads.”

“What if he's one of you?” She said it quietly, and Greg was silent long enough that she thought he hadn't heard. She regretted asking the moment the question left her lips. There was no way he'd want to think about that. She shouldn't have asked. He had enough to worry about.

“Probably is,” he said just as quietly. “Guess we'll find out.”

19

G
reg played cards with Graham and two others while they waited for the replacement bus. The coaches had quizzed the team in groups of two or three, asking if they'd seen anything. Noticed anything. Heard anyone joking or whispering about damage to the bus. As far as he could tell, none had. Marianne had met with her interns, and Reagan was now in conference with the coaching staff herself.

The entire thing was a lame rodeo.

“So who was it?” one of the younger guys asked, playing a card. “One of the interns?”

“That chick was pissed when Hood wouldn't let her sit in his lap,” the other confirmed. “Did you see the steam coming outta her ears when she stormed off?”

“Just the kind of female to pull shit like that,” the first said, scooping up the cards to shuffle.

Graham and Greg exchanged a look, but both declined to say a word.

Yeah, maybe it was a vindictive female. Women were just as capable of tearing up a bus as a man. But it seemed
rather impersonal, to his way of thinking. Nikki would probably prefer a more direct hit to whoever had insulted her. Cutting up that specific Marine's clothes, or slapping him in front of an audience.

Unless she considered a group punishment just desserts for the one Marine that had pissed her off . . .

He'd lose his mind heading down that path. This wasn't his investigation to worry about.

Twenty minutes later, he sat with Graham at the back of the new bus, bumping out of the parking lot. Reagan had seated herself in the front, her phone permanently attached to her ear. He'd mock her for working nonstop, but thanks to this new problem, she was pulling double duty. And there was nothing he could do to help her or bear some of the burden.

“So who was it?” Graham asked, keeping his voice low. There was no way even Brad, sitting in front of them, could have heard. “Any of your guys seem likely?”

“Not really, no. But why would any of them want to punish the team? They
made
the team.”

“So maybe someone who got cut.” Graham nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay, I could see that. But it started so early, before the team was finalized . . .”

“People were cut on the first or second day. Injuries and junk. If someone is willing to roll up a paint balloon in a banner, or slash tires, then he's not thinking straight. Plus, think about it.” Warming to the idea now, Greg turned. “Whoever this is knew everyone's car who was at the barracks. They obviously know how to get into the gym, maybe because they've been in it recently. Maybe they know some door that gets left unlocked a lot. They know our schedule of travel because we were given all that info from the start. And the reason itself is clear. They didn't make the team; they're willing to punish those who did.”

“Maybe.” Unconvinced, Graham sighed and let his head fall against the window. “It's gonna be a long-ass ride home.”

“No kidding.”

“At least you have something worth coming back home to,” Graham said with a snap, then sighed again. “Sorry. Getting tired of being the fifth wheel these days.”

“So ask her out.”

“She's not ready.” Graham grumbled, “She might never be ready.”

“A woman like Kara's gonna be ready. You might just have to nudge a little.”

“Nudge,” Graham said in a low voice. “Something tells me she's going to appreciate that.”

“All the more reason.” Greg grinned as he thought back to his own nudging with Reagan. “Sometimes the ones that need a nudge are the ones that are the most ready to jump. They just don't know it.”

“Speaking from experience, grasshopper?” Brad popped his head over the seat with a smug smile.

Apparently they'd been louder than he'd realized. Greg attempted to shove his roommate's head back down, Whac-A-Mole style. But he was stuck with the grumpy guy.

“Yeah, how are things anyway, on the Love Boat?” Graham crooned, making Brad snicker and causing Greg to punch him in the shoulder. “What? It was appropriate.”

“Hardly. And things are . . .”
Fantastic. Amazing. Better than I've ever hoped for.
“Good. Things are good.”

“Somebody's in looooove,” Graham sang again, which made Greg honor-bound to do his best to kick his ass without anyone on the coaching staff noticing. Rough work, but he gave it his best. After a few minutes of grappling and playing around, Brad reached in and thrust an arm between them.

“Knock it off, you two. People are looking back here. You want the coach to assign seats like we're in freaking kindergarten?”

“Might not be a bad idea,” said a new voice.

All three jerked their heads to the other side of the bus,
where Tressler sat, earbuds in, eyes shut, head back as if asleep or zoned out to the music. But apparently he'd been listening the whole time.

“Butt out, Tressler,” Brad said easily. The younger Marine had been in Brad's imaginary platoon during tryouts, and though those had naturally dissolved as the final team had been announced, each of them had felt a little more responsible for those who they'd been in charge of. Greg had breathed a serious sigh of relief when he'd missed the Tressler trap.

“Just saying,” the younger man said, ignoring the warning. He never opened his eyes, just swayed slightly with the bus. “The odds are, someone on here slashed the seats of the old bus. Maybe they weren't alone. Maybe it's a duo, or a trio.”

The three looked at each other. He saw surprise register in his friends' faces as well. None of them had considered that.

“Maybe breaking up cliques would be for the best.” Opened his eyes now, he turned and shot them a shit-eating smile. “Starting with you three.”

Graham vibrated beside him, but Greg knew guys like Tressler. They lived to stir the shit pot, and were usually well out of range when the entire thing exploded. Annoying little gnats who were irritating to listen to, but harmless in the grand scheme of things. And definitely not worth blowing up over.

Greg smiled back. “You know, quality attracts quality. Might be why you're sitting alone.”

Tressler flushed. Brad thumped back down into his seat, but Greg could hear the man swallowing a laugh. Graham coughed and turned to the window, his shoulders shaking.

And Greg settled back in his own seat, satisfied when Tressler turned his back to them to look out his own window in a childish pout.

Greg leaned into the aisle to watch Reagan again as she walked down the rows doing another headcount like an RA on a dorm floor. When her eyes met his, he winked. She didn't
acknowledge his wink, except to flush and turn her head back around. She wobbled a little on those damn impractical heels of hers when the bus listed to the left. Someone—he couldn't see his face—reached up to steady her by gripping her elbow. And when she bestowed a grateful smile on them, Greg's hands fisted so hard the knuckles cracked.

“The Love Boat,” Graham sang under his breath. “Soon will be making another run . . .”

“Eat me.”

*   *   *

“OKAY.”
Reagan took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car and met Greg on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. Her palms were sweating. “So, don't judge the outside. It's not as bad as it looks.”

Greg glanced down at what appeared to be an ashtray full of blunts dumped on the small, patchy lawn leading up to the main door, and raised his brow.

“Fine, it sucks. Just don't judge it until you get inside.” She opened the door, walked up to the second story, and unlocked her three locks.

“Three?”

“There were only two, but I added one after getting approval.” The door stuck, swollen by the heat, and she muscled her way in.

“You know how to add a deadbolt to a door?”

“I've got brothers. They like tools. I paid attention.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Home sweet home.”

He did a quick circle—that's all it took, really, to see her entire apartment—and stayed quiet. She swallowed back the “what do you think?” question because it was just too damn needy for her to even admit thinking, let alone actually ask. It sucked, but it was hers. And embarrassing as it was for her to bring a man back to her place, she knew going forward they needed privacy to keep connecting. They wouldn't get it at the BOQ. So, here they were.

“Well, you're clean,” he said finally.

How did one admit that she was scared if she didn't bleach everything twice a day, there would be roaches? Not that she'd seen one . . . yet. Or at least, not the crawling kind.

“I can see you in here.” He sat on the small, secondhand couch she'd searched for for a week before picking out. She could have settled for something ugly and blah-brown immediately and been fine, but she was holding out for pretty. She'd found it. The charcoal gray didn't look like much at first, but the piping of bright, cheerful yellow around the edges had sold her. And the gray-and-yellow throw pillows were fantastic. She'd found a coordinating throw blanket to drape along the back, and two end tables she'd stenciled the tops of to coordinate.

“It's not much,” she started, hating her defensive tone.

“It's great.” He held out a hand, and she sank down beside him. “I know what you're trying to accomplish here, and I respect that. Stop worrying that I'm judging you.”

Resting her head against his shoulder, she did her best to mentally shake off the day. “Today sucked.”

“Yes, it did.” He sifted his hands through her hair, disrupting her French twist and making a mess of the strands at the edge of her neck. But who cared? She wasn't leaving again tonight. “Any news?”

“None. No leads from the MPs down there. I guess there's no security cameras in that parking lot. And people were in and out all night. Combine that with the fact that nobody saw the inside of the bus after about four that afternoon until the early morning next morning, and there was a disgusting amount of time available for whoever to make their move.”

He was quiet awhile. “Could have been one of their boxers.”

She snorted.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “Figured out how to spin it yet?”

“Since it happened so far out from here, I'm hoping we can all just play the It Didn't Happen game and move on.” She snuggled tighter into his embrace. “Tell me something.”

“Like what?” His voice was thick, as if fighting off sleep.

“About you. Your family. You know about mine, so tell me about yours.”

He didn't respond, and for the longest while she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then he murmured. “I didn't have any brothers to show me how to put in a deadbolt.” Then he sighed, and she knew he was gone for the night.

*   *   *

“SON
of a bitch!”

Greg came awake with a start, and promptly rolled off the bed and landed with a thud on the floor. His legs flailed and he found himself completely trapped in a pile of bedding. “What the . . . Reagan? Did you set a trap or something? What the hell is going on here?”

She stormed in, sexy with a short robe on, her hair in a messy bun and no makeup. Her legs were tanned and long under the robe and she was barefoot. She tapped one foot next to his head. “No, I did not set a trap, Gregory. Get up.”

He struggled, fought and finally waited for her to help him untangle his legs from the girly bedding. Seriously, who needed this much lace on anything? Once he was free from captivity, he sat on the floor, arms locked around his knees and his back to the bed. “What's wrong?”

“This.” She handed him the morning paper she'd tossed on the bed before assisting him, then slid down to sit beside him. “How do they already know?”

“This,” Greg quickly found out, was an article—more like opinion piece—about the ruined bus from the day before. The newspaper had taken the vandalized bus story and run with it, adding in some color commentary about the previous “tragedies” that had befallen the Marine Corps boxing team thus
far. Was this an indication of what was expected when someone put that many trained killers—WTF?—together and encouraged them to beat each other bloody? Was this inevitable? Or maybe the violence and horrifying nature of the sport had spawned a vigilante of sorts out to right the wrongs created by this bloodthirsty pairing of military and “sport.”

It was signed by their all-time favorite asshole journalist, David Cruise.

“This guy,” Greg said with a sneer, “needs a new hobby.”

“This guy,” Reagan said, taking the paper back as he started to wad it up, “is making my job impossible.” She smoothed the paper down. “We have a leak.”

“I know.” That hit him right in the gut. He'd wanted, so very badly wanted, for this to be unconnected. For the acts in the gym to be the work of a crazy pack of unruly teens. For the whole thing to blow over so they could focus on the team, on the sport, on the challenge ahead. And he wanted to delude himself into believing the bus was vengeance from the team from Paris Island, completely unrelated.

But this sealed the deal. The asshole was one of them.

“Maybe,” he said, grasping at straws, “someone from the MPs here leaked. When you called them, maybe someone talked and—”

“They don't know yet.” She sighed and pushed some hair behind her ear, staring at her primer-painted wall blankly. “I never called them. I had planned to stop in today and give them the rundown in person but . . .” She let her hands lift and fall again in a helpless gesture that looked so very wrong on his strong, independent Reagan.

“We'll figure it out.” He pulled her close, let her rest her head on his shoulder for a moment. “We'll get there.”

She sighed and burrowed in a little tighter. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He kissed her temple. “Always.”

“I'm afraid of getting fired,” she whispered.