Bulletproof Princess (22 page)

He reached out and cupped her cheek with his bandaged hand. “I’m sorry, Cass.” Her blue eyes fell shut and she turned into his touch. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you, to know you’re okay.” The knowledge that he was keeping her from harm had been the only thing to sustain him.

“No, I’m sorry. I ran away when you needed me.” She sniffled and reached for a box of tissues from a table on his nightstand. “This is all my fault, Mackenzie. I…” she took a stuttering breath, “I’m the reason this happened to you.”

“Cass, honey, no.” It was a struggle, but he pulled Cassie into the bed with him, her head on his good shoulder. She curled up with her arm around his waist and feet tangled with his in the blankets. In quiet, broken breaths, she told him about emailing Trista and how that brought the hitman to the house. The whole time, she held him tightly like she expected to be sent away.

Petting the bandages under his hospital gown gently, she apologized again, “I didn’t mean for… I didn’t think there’d be any harm in talking to her. I knew she wouldn’t say anything… I just missed my friends.”

“I get that.” He did, and really, he couldn’t hold her any more responsible for what happened than he did himself. He’d gotten complacent, careless, going around the house without his gun because he was
home
. It was worse than a rookie mistake, and he was damn glad to have the opportunity to berate himself, given the other choices. She didn’t do more to him than he did to himself, and he knew better, but because he was emotionally invested in her, his mind wasn’t on the work, it was on the girl. And for that, she was blameless, and him, not so much.

As much as he wanted to think otherwise, he realized then it wasn’t going to work. They weren’t going to work. He didn’t blame her for his condition, but his condition was a direct result of his carelessness around her. They just led two diametrically opposed existences. She was a darling of the public, and his whole life was predicated on secrecy. He needed anonymity; she got recognized buying gas and groceries. The two of them together…it was a recipe for disaster and resentment. He’d either have to leave WITSEC, a job he loved and was good at, or ask her to leave her life in the limelight behind. It was too much to ask of anyone. “Cass, we gotta—”

A nurse came in after knocking softly. “Mr. Jefferson? Oh, jeez, I’m sorry.”

He smiled and beckoned her closer with his IV hand, other arm securely around Cassie. If these were their last moments, he wanted to imprint them on his memory. “It’s okay, what’s up?”

The bespectacled young-looking blonde with the meticulous topknot and purple scrubs slinked into the room. “I just wanted to tell Miss Witt that there’s a Trista Mayfield downstairs in the main lobby asking to see you.”

Cassie sat up, chewing on her lip and looking unsure. “Okay, I’ll be out in a minute, okay?” The blonde nodded and backed out of the room. To Mack, she whispered, “I gotta go. Real life calling, with press and things.”

“I know.” As much as it hurt to think he wasn’t part of her ‘real life,’ he knew this had to be it. “You know you can’t mention me, right?” he asked, hoping he conveyed everything else he didn’t want to say.

“I know.” She nodded, looking at her hand splayed across his chest. “This isn’t going to work, is it?”

Her watery voice brought tears to his own eyes, and he hoped he could keep it together long enough for her to go. “No, and I am so sorry.”

Carefully extricating herself from his embrace, she straightened her clothes and grabbed another tissue. “I get it, our lives are just…incompatible.”

That was the most succinct way to say ‘heartbreakingly irreconcilable’, and he could only nod. She walked to the door, and every step she took away from him hurt almost as badly as his wounds.

Hand on the handle with her eyes on the tips of her boots, she whispered, “I love you,” and then she was gone. He had nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse on both of them, regardless of how much he returned the sentiment.

Mack took the time to grab his own tissues, mourning the loss of everything that could have been, and though he knew why, the reasons rang hollow. When Ange and Conchita came in to see him, he had himself together, more or less, and he put on the best front he could for his family. It was for the best.

Cassie’s transition back to her real life was bumpier than expected. Everyone had questions, and though she and her newly installed manager Trista had worked out a convincing cover story, she felt bad having to lie to her public, especially her fans. The music went on, and her album sales only went up with her return.

There were huge interviews on primetime with every available media outlet, plus stories and articles in Vogue and People, among others. She was a wanted commodity, which was normal, yet she still felt incomplete.

Not a day went by that she didn’t think about Mackenzie and their time together, as brief as it was. She mourned it, him, all of it. Musically, that time had been a boon, and she had her second highly-anticipated album of the year about to drop with a tour to follow. As they plotted dates and locations for the tour, city names like Phoenix and Las Vegas gave her pause. She’d go, obviously, but with a heavy heart. Just one of those things, she supposed.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t had a relationship go badly before, or even that she didn’t understand why Mackenzie told her goodbye. With every request for interview, public appearance, or red carpet event, she wished he’d been with her, and knew with every camera flash why he couldn’t. It made sense to her head, even if her heart protested vigorously. Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder how he was or what he was doing. Mackenzie Jefferson was a shadow that wouldn’t leave her, and she couldn’t send away.

In Denver, she’d met up with Eli, Bex, and their star-struck nieces, for a personal appearance and a tour backstage. It was the least she could do to thank them both for saving her, and Mackenzie, eventually. She met up with them again in Vegas, for a more grown up adventure with drinks and dinner in her suite with Trista, as they regaled them with tales of the Marshal Service and celebrated their commendations for parts in her situation. It felt good to be among friends who truly understood her.

Going to Phoenix had been a bit traumatic, and she’d given what was billed as ‘her most emotional performance to date’. She’d called Ange with the intention to meet up, only to be told she’d been promoted and transferred to the Atlanta office as the Deputy Chief. She didn’t ask about Mack. Finding out he didn’t want to see her would have been too much to bear. It had been lonely, miserable, and even having her best friend with her didn’t mitigate the pain.

They made plans to meet up when her tour swung through Atlanta for a three night stand. She was actually looking forward to it, because it was her last connection to a love deferred. As pathetic as it sounded, right about now, she’d take what she could get.

* * *

Mack hobbled into work on Monday morning. It had been difficult to get used to the cane, but, as his physical therapist reminded him, at least he got to keep the leg. Small comfort, really, in the face of the constant pain in his heart that accompanied the pain in his leg.

The bullet wound healed without too much incident, a minor infection at the site of the entry, some nerve damage, some musculature. That and the series of scars on his chest meant, as much as he wanted it, field work was no longer an option. It was a hard confrontation for a man who prided himself on his physicality.

Grambling’s downfall had been swift and sweeping, leaving the Arizona office under a cloud of suspicion. Bringing in Hinojosa came with all kinds of perks beyond closing upwards of fifteen longstanding federal cases ranging from his personal indictments for murders and murders for hire, to dismantling Guillermo Salazar’s organization and the raft of still incoming indictments on that. It was a career making case, and with the power vacuum in the office, Mack had been a perfect fit to slip right into Grambling’s obscenely overpriced loafers. At least he had been, until his full prognosis came down.

Ange had been the next option. She was competent, capable, and newly promoted. However, she didn’t see staying under the pall of the Arizona office and put in for a transfer. His shiny new promotion, combined with his shiny new diagnosis, meant he’d be going inside for good. Fortunately, a vacancy at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in the form of Head of Firearms Training and Marksmanship came open, and he easily topped the list of candidates.

Moving to Savannah had been hard, and not just for the physical reasons. Giving up poker buddies hadn’t been a hardship. Packing his house, while painful, had been a matter of course. It was Conchita; the idea of being a thousand miles away from her gave him pause. She had encouraged him to go, was proud of his promotion and his work, but his mind always came back to: What if she needed him? What if she got sick again, and he wasn’t there? Who would look after her like she had him all those years? He’d begged her to come with him, but she refused, because a grown man didn’t need a
mamita
, or something like that. She loved him and would be there for him, but it was time for him to live his life for him. He wasn’t sure he agreed with her sentiment, but left anyway.

His sister, Leandra, picked him up at the airport. Her tall, willowy frame and flame-red hair that was more pronounced than his own were easy to spot. She came with a collection of ginger children who were all eager to welcome their Uncle Mack to Georgia. It wasn’t exactly home, but he figured it would be eventually.

The first step to making it home was to find a radio station that didn’t make him want to throw things while driving. As a country fan in a southern state, he figured this would be an easier task than most. Alas, all over the radio was his heartbreak, for all the world to see and consume. Every song held more personal meaning than it should, and Cassie’s voice in the speakers, in the close confines of his truck, his personal space, was more than he could deal with, driving or not. Until that particular wound healed a little better, he figured he was safer sticking to classic rock. He figured Mr. Cash, of all people, could appreciate that.

The new job was perfect, like it had been tailor-made for him, and he found he enjoyed teaching the finer points of his ballistic art almost as much as he loved being out in the field. It became a great compromise, and had the benefit of being near Ange, who was out in Atlanta.

She normally came down on the weekends to appreciate the beach weather or the seafood, staying with him in his sister’s ‘guest quarters,’ or a three-bedroom, three bath bungalow attached to the back of her house on Pulaski Square. It was just enough privacy to be all right, with a separate entrance and space away when the family vibes became overwhelming, and close enough that he could hang out with his nieces with regularity. Ange was an extended member of the family that he liked more than most, and his sister appreciated that her brother wasn’t the misanthropic loner that she feared him to be.

The hints began in December when the summer tour schedule was announced. Ange left a copy of the news story on the windshield of his car, open to the page touting the arrival of the illustrious Cassie Witt in June, the following year. A three-night stand to support her album ‘Postcards from the Painted Desert,’ the latest one, the one that had driven him from the country station. All of them.

Hearing her voice was like a lash across his skin, slicing, painful, and leaving a dull ache behind. He missed her with his every thought, his every breath, and though his reasons for leaving her were no longer viable, it didn’t change the fact that he was still gone and she didn’t need a guy like him in her life. No, if anything, she taught him he was better off alone.

“Bullshit!” Ange had snarled over beer and pool on a Tuesday night at The Bar Bar. “You have no idea what you’re saying.” It was their regular hangout when she was in town.

He took his shot and contemplated ditching his Landshark for something substantially stronger. “I couldn’t keep her safe. I had one job and I failed it completely. I failed her. You can’t seriously believe I’m going to go back to her, heart in hand, and say, hey, I’m the fuck-up who almost got you killed, do you still have room for me in your life?” He handed her the pool cue they were sharing because it was the least warped in the joint.

She took her shot and then stood up straight, giving him a haughty sniff. “Pity Party, table for one, now seating in the bar.” Handing him back his cue, she laid her hand over his. “You’re going to have to let that go at some point, Mackenzie. You paid whatever dues you thought you owed, more than enough, really,” she commented with a meaningful look at his t-shirt covered scars.

The waitress came and refreshed their beers. He kept a running tab when he and Ange went out to drink and commiserate. She had a sexy little walk and a perky ass in her painted on jeans and steel grey halter, and when she handed him his bottle with tiny shards of ice still clinging to it, she reached over and brazenly stuffed something into the front pocket of his jeans.

Ange chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder. “What’d she give you?”

Mack was still staring after her in stunned shock as he reached into his pocket with numb fingertips. It was a white bar napkin with her name, number, and a bright red imprint of her lips on it. He quickly crumpled it and dropped it on the lip of the pool table as he turned around to take his shot. “Nothing.”

His partner snorted and leaned her back against the table next to him, facing the rest of the bar. “Uh huh, what’s her name?”

Mack shook his head and made an absolutely horrible shot, knocking in one of her balls and following it up with the cue. “I don’t know.”

Ange smacked him on the arm, a little harder than he was used to from her, and divested him of the pool cue. “That,” she hissed at him as she strutted to the head of the table, “is exactly my point.” She made a beautiful shot and lined up perfectly to make the kill on the eight ball.

“Oh, Lord,” he groused as he rolled his eyes to the nicotine-stained ceiling, “I’m afraid to ask.”

She poked him in the same arm as she walked by him again. “You have given up!” Leaning over to take her shot, she observed, “You have completely forsaken the fairer sex. And, while yes, that does leave more for me,” she winked at him as she took her shot, “you, sir, have a problem.”

He caught her cue ball before it could impact and held it up in front of him as she railed against his ‘black, cheating soul.’ “I don’t have a problem. I have an intractable set of circumstances.”

“You have something, I’ll give you that.” She snatched her ball from his grip and stalked back to the head of the table. “And you need to take care of it. Call her, you know you want to.” She made her shot and ended the game, doing her victory dance with her ass shaking and cue stick over her head. When she handed the stick off to him before she went to the bar, she took both his hands in hers and looked at him seriously. “You need to forgive yourself, and you need to talk to her. I don’t care which order those happen in, but you gotta let up on yourself at some point reasonably soon.”

If only it were that easy.

As the date for the concerts neared, he’d find articles tacked to his fridge via magnets he didn’t remember buying, and magazines on his coffee table open to her picture. It was maddening, but his former partner was relentless. The week before the first show, she informed him she’d spoken to Cassie, and was planning to have dinner and hang out with her for that weekend. Mack understandably declined. There was self-flagellation, and then there was throwing himself in a wood-chipper and hoping for the best, and he didn’t have to tell her into which category that endeavor fell.

The first night of the show, a balmy Friday, he holed himself up in his house with some take-out seafood alfredo and the largest jug of decent whiskey he could find. He kept the house dark to ward off any unwitting—and unwanted—visitors, content to stew, or marinade as the case may be, in peace by candlelight. His cell phone rang at 2:00 a.m., but he didn’t answer, letting Ange’s call go to voicemail.

The second night, he’d almost convinced himself to go, just to show he could, that he’d moved on and hoped it would silence his former partner’s constant haranguing. At least, he would have gone, if not for the fact that he was too drunk to find his shoes, much less his keys.

Sunday he decided he was ready. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it involved a shower and a shave. He was on the road in his truck when Ange called to inform him she was on her way from her condo in Atlanta to his house to kick in his door and drag him out to do what she felt needed to be done. She was simultaneously amused and pissed that he would most likely pass her in transit.

At least her assessment of his plan was favorable: “It’s about damn time.”