Gone Too Far (2 page)

Waiting to find out if his father was going to beat the shit out of him.

Again.

He almost didn’t care anymore.

No one was watching him, and he took the opportunity to examine the palms of his hands. He’d torn the hell out of them catching himself on that tree branch. Some parts were already blistered, and others were scraped and still oozing blood. It hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing compared to Luke’s broken leg.

The principal’s door opened, and Roger quickly hid his hands beside him as the black kid, the scrawny one everybody called Einstein, came out, followed by Mr. York. The kid was wearing one of those dorky purple-and-gold King’s Gate Middle School T-shirts—his own shirt had been trashed.

York cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to reach your mother,” he said to Roger.

“She, uh, wasn’t feeling well this morning, sir. And my father . . . he’s out of town. You know, on business?” His father sold farm equipment and spent more time on the road than he did at home. Praise be to Jesus.

York nodded. “Mr. Gaines here told me how your quick thinking and fast action saved Luke Duchamps’s life today.”

Roger didn’t dare look at Einstein. Was it possible . . . ? He was light-headed from hunger. He’d puked his brains out back on the trail, emptying what little had been in his stomach, and he still felt dizzy.

Not to mention that his mouth tasted like the contents of his gym locker.

Einstein nudged him, and Roger looked up to see that the kid had gotten him a cup of water from the bubbler in the corner of the principal’s outer office.

“Thanks,” Roger whispered. Aside from the puking and the pain from his hands, he’d been fine up to now. So why were his eyes suddenly filling with tears?

“Don’t chug it,” Einstein told him.

Roger nodded, taking little sips of water and gritting his teeth until the worst of the urge to throw himself onto the office floor and cry had passed.

“Mr. Gaines’s grandfather is coming to pick him up,” York told Roger. “He’s offered to drive you home, too. I think you boys have had enough school for one day.”

Roger looked up at that. Holy shit. Enough school . . .?

“Or you could come over to my house and have something to eat,” Einstein said quietly, as if he somehow knew the only thing in the cabinet at Roger’s house was that last box of stale cornflakes.

Roger nodded. “Thanks,” he said again.

“We’ll wait for my grandfather out front,” Einstein told Mr. York.
Told
him. Not asked.

It was amazing. They were going home early, but they weren’t in trouble.

Roger followed Einstein to the bench out in front of the school’s lobby. “Whatever you told him . . . thanks,” he said.

Einstein’s eyes were a light shade of brown behind his glasses. “I told him the truth. I’m Noah, by the way.”

“Sorry about, you know, puking like that. I hope I didn’t spray your shoes. I was just, you know . . .”

“It was really gross,” Noah told him. “Luke’s leg, I mean.”

Roger laughed. “No shit.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Noah said, “I couldn’t have done what you did.”

What could he say to that? “Sure you could’ve.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do.” When it came down to it, Noah hadn’t run away. Roger was still surprised about that. He was either stupid or brave. And with a nickname like Einstein, chances were he wasn’t stupid.

“You like Italian food?” Noah asked, kicking at a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of his sneakers.

“You mean, like spaghetti and meatballs?” Roger countered.

Noah laughed. “Sort of, but much better. My grandfather spent some time in Italy during World War Two and he learned to cook while he was there. He’ll make us something good to eat.”

Something good to eat. It sounded too miraculous to be true. “You don’t have to invite me over, you know,” Roger said. “You don’t even need to drive me home. I can walk.”

Noah nodded. “I know.” He stood up as a station wagon—a shiny new one in a really nice shade of blue—approached.

The black man behind the wheel was huge. It seemed impossible that scrawny little Noah was related to him. He had a broad, handsome face and a full head of thick black hair despite the fact that he was old. And he had the warmest, friendliest smile Roger had ever seen.

“Hail, the conquering heroes,” the man said in greeting, his voice a booming bass, his accent one that Roger couldn’t place. He wasn’t from Texas, that was for damn sure. “You must be Roger. Climb in, young man. I’m Walter Gaines and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Noah got into the front. Roger hesitated only a fraction of a second before he climbed into the backseat of that car.

After all the blood and shouting that had gone down just a short time earlier, it seemed like a very quiet choice. An unremarkable, nothing-much kind of decision.

But getting into that car was, without a doubt, the pivotal moment of Roger Starrett’s young life.

He had the air-conditioning cranked—welcome to summer in Florida—and the gas pedal floored, but the subcompact piece of shit that had been one of the last cars in the rental company’s lot was neither cool nor fast.

It was barely a car.

Feeling trapped in an uncomfortable place had been pretty much SOP for Sam ever since he rushed into marriage with Mary Lou nearly two years ago, and he waited for the familiar waves of irritation and anger to wash over him.

Instead, he felt something strangely similar to relief.

Because Sarasota was only another few minutes down the road. And the end was finally in sight.

Sam knew the town well enough—he’d hitched down here from his parents’ house in Fort Worth, Texas, four summers in a row, starting when he turned fifteen. It had changed a lot since then, but he had to believe that the circus school was still over by Ringling Boulevard.

Which wasn’t too far from Mary Lou’s street address.

Maybe he should make a quick stop, pick up a few more Bozos, turn this thing into a bona fide clown car.

On the other hand, one was probably enough to qualify for clown car status.

His phone finally stopped shaking.

What were the chances that it had been Mary Lou, finally calling him back?

Nah, that would be too damn easy.

Although, in theory, this should have been an easy trip. Pop over to Sarasota. Pick up the divorce papers that Mary Lou was supposed to have sent back to him three weeks ago. Put an end to the giant-ass mistake that was their marriage, and maybe even try to start something new. Like a real relationship with his baby daughter, Haley, who after six months probably wouldn’t even recognize him. Then pop back home to San Diego.

Fucking easy as pie.

Except this was Mary Lou he was dealing with. Yes, she was the one who’d filed for this divorce. Yes, she’d been compliant right up to this point. But Sam wouldn’t put it past her to change her mind at the zero hour.

And it was, indeed, the zero hour.

And, true to form, Mary Lou was surely messing with him.

Had to be.

Why else would she not have sent the papers back to the attorney after receiving them four weeks ago? Why else would she not return Sam’s phone calls? Why else would she not pick up the phone even when he called at oh dark hundred, when he knew she had to be there because the baby was surely sleeping?

Sam reached for the stick to downshift as he took the exit ramp for Bee Ridge Road, and came into contact with the stupidass automatic transmission.

Six months ago, this entire suckfest scenario would have made him bullshit. Everything sucked. This car sucked, the fact that he had to come all this way for something that should have cost the price of a first-class postage stamp sucked, and knowing that Haley was going to look at him as if he were some stranger
really
sucked.

But along with his weird feeling of relief came a sense of readiness. Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy, but that was okay. He was ready for it. He was ready for anything.

Like, Haley was probably going to cry when he tried to hold her. So he wouldn’t hold her at first. He’d take it slow.

And Mary Lou, well, she was probably going to ask him to get back together. He was ready for that, too.

“Honey, you know as well as I do that it just wasn’t working.” He tried the words aloud, glancing at himself in the rearview mirror, checking to see if he looked apologetic enough.

But, shit, he looked like roadkill. His eyes were bloodshot behind his sunglasses, and the flight out of Atlanta had been weather delayed for so damn long that he desperately needed a shower.

And he definitely shouldn’t start out by calling her honey. She had a name, and it was Mary Lou. Honey—and every other term of endearment he’d ever used, like sugar, darling, sweetheart,
sweet thing
—was demeaning.

He could practically hear Alyssa Locke’s voice telling him so. And God knows Alyssa Locke was the Queen of Right.

She’d hated it something fierce when he’d called her sweet thing. So he’d called her Alyssa, drawing the S’s out as he whispered her name in her perfect ear as they’d had sex that should’ve been listed in the world record books. Best Sex of All Time—Sam Starrett and Alyssa Locke, Champions of the Simultaneous Orgasm.

Ah, God.

What was Alyssa going to think when she heard about his divorce?

Sooner or later the news was going to get out. Up to this point, his commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Tom Paoletti, and the SEAL team’s XO, Lieutenant Jazz Jacquette, were the only ones who knew that Sam and Mary Lou were finally calling it quits. He hadn’t told Nils and WildCard yet—his best friends in Team Sixteen. Shit, he hadn’t told his sister, Elaine. Or even Noah and Claire.

And he sure as hell hadn’t told Alyssa Locke.

Who was probably going to think,
Thank God I’m in a committed relationship with Max so Roger Starrett doesn’t come sniffing around my door, looking for some play.
Max. The fucker. Even after all this time, Sam was still insanely jealous of Max Bhagat. Despite his new sense of relief and hope, he was feeling neither when it came to thoughts of Alyssa and Max.

“How could you fuck your boss?” Sam asked.

Alyssa, because she wasn’t in the car, didn’t answer him, of course.

It wasn’t too tough of a question. Sam could come up with plenty of answers without Alyssa’s help. Because Max was handsome, powerful, brilliant, and, yes, probably great in bed.

Yeah, and who was he kidding with that
probably
? Max was no doubt
definitely
great in bed. Sam knew Alyssa, and she wasn’t about to spend more than a year of her life with someone who couldn’t keep up with her sexually.

And as far as the fact that the man was her boss . . .

She and Max were incredibly discreet. In fact, they were so discreet, there were some people in the Spec Ops community who refused to believe that they actually had an intimate relationship.

But Sam knew better. He’d gone knocking on Alyssa’s hotel room door about six months ago. And, yeah, it was a stupidass thing to do. He and Mary Lou hadn’t even separated back then. He had no business knocking on anyone’s door.

But an FBI agent matching Alyssa’s description—a woman of color, in her late twenties—had been killed that day, and until the news came down that Alyssa wasn’t on the casualty list, Sam kind of lost it.

Except who had opened that hotel room door that he’d knocked on? Well, gee, hiya, Max. Sorry I woke you, man.

And that was it. Game over. It was looking into Max’s eyes that did it. The fucker cared deeply about Alyssa—that was more than clear.

And every day since then, Sam tried—he really honestly tried—to be happy for her.

And as for his own elusive happiness . . .

Well, he was done feeling sorry for himself. And he was done letting this divorce take place on Mary Lou’s timetable, with Mary Lou running this freak show.

Sam and his expensive new lawyer had worked out a schedule of visits—dates and times that he could see Haley. He wasn’t looking for joint custody—that would be crazy. As a SEAL he went out of the country at the drop of a hat, sometimes for weeks or even months at a time.

He just wanted to be able to see his kid a couple of times a week whenever he was Stateside. Surely Mary Lou would agree to that.

To make it a no-brainer for her, Sam was prepared to give her the deed to their house back in San Diego, free and clear. He’d take care of the mortgage and continue to pay the taxes. Now that Mary Lou’s sister, Janine, had split up with her husband, Sam’s plan was to talk all three of them—Mary Lou, Janine, and Haley—into moving back to California.

Where he
would
be able to see Haley every other weekend and once a week on Wednesday nights—instead of some pathetic twice a year bullshit.

Surely the idea of a free place to live would appeal to Mary Lou, who, in one of the bigger surprises of a marriage filled with complete surprises, was a total miser when it came to saving money.

So, yeah, Sam was hopeful that he and Mary Lou were going to be able to work this out.

And who knows? Once he did that, the rest of his life could start to turn around, too. Maybe perfect Max had a perfect sister who was beautiful, brilliant and great in bed, too. And maybe Sam and the sister and Max and Alyssa could all double-date.

Yeah, right. Just as Max wasn’t his favorite person, Sam wasn’t Max’s. The chances of them ever socializing—by choice—were in negative numbers.

Traffic in the city was light at this time of the morning. He was literally four minutes from Mary Lou’s door.

Please be home.

Sam had tried calling his soon-to-be ex-wife from a pay phone at the airport, right after his flight had gotten in. It had occurred to him that she was screening her calls and that maybe she’d pick up if her caller ID gave her a number other than that of his cell phone.

Not a chance.

He didn’t leave a message on her machine. He was just going to head over to the house and wait. Sooner or later Mary Lou or Janine would scoop up Haley from day care and come home.

And then he’d do whatever he had to do to get Mary Lou to sign those papers and move back to San Diego.

Hell, if she didn’t want to live in that same house they’d once shared, they could sell it and she could buy another. It didn’t matter to him as long as she lived in the San Diego area. He was going to move into the BOQ on base either way.

Sure, the bachelor officers quarters were tiny, and there was no privacy to speak of. But since it was highly unlikely that he was ever going to have sex again, privacy wasn’t something that he needed.

Sam laughed at himself. That sounded really pathetic—never having sex again—like he was such a loser that no woman would want him.

Truth was, women went for him in a major way. In fact, the girl at the car rental counter couldn’t have been more obvious about her interest if she’d used semaphore flags.

“Where are you staying?”

“Are you in town alone?”

“If you’re looking for a good hangout, you might want to try Barnaby’s, down by the dock. I go there all the time after work.”

Hint, hint.

She was hot, too. A strawberry blonde with a lithe, athletic body and a cute little ass. But hot wasn’t enough for him anymore. No, thank you.

Sam was finished with casual sex. He was keeping his pants zipped, which actually wasn’t as hard as it seemed, even after he’d gone for well over nine months without getting laid.

It sounded like a really pansy thing to say, but he wanted more from life than a fast fuck with an empty-headed stranger.

Because, shit, he’d been there and done that—and ended up married to an empty-headed stranger who was pregnant with his child. And hadn’t
that
been a fun two and a half years of his life?

He wanted sex to mean something. He wanted to be fucked for more than his blue eyes and his muscles and the fact that he was a lieutenant with the U.S. Navy SEALs.

Unless, of course, Alyssa Locke called him up and begged him to come over, get naked, and light her world on fire.

If that ever happened, all bets were off.

Alyssa was neither empty-headed nor a stranger, but during the few nights they’d spent together, way back before Sam married Mary Lou, she’d definitely thought of him as only a temporary plaything, which still stung.

Sam leaned over to look at the numbers on the houses as he turned on to Mary Lou’s street: 458, 460, 462.

Bingo.

Number 462 Camilia Street was a tiny little single-story Florida-style house with a carport that sat empty. There wasn’t a car in the driveway either, nor one parked out in front.

Sam pulled up and sat, air-conditioning blasting, just looking at the house. With flaking paint and shutters that hung in crooked disrepair, it was about half the size of their place in San Diego. The yard was dry, the grass and plants brown, courtesy of the drought that was turning Florida into a desert.

A tired-looking palm tree provided the only shade out front. The door was shut behind the torn screen, and the dark shades on the windows were pulled all the way down and—

What the fuck . . . ?

Sam turned off the engine and got out into the sweltering heat, staring across the roof of the rental car.

Were his eyes playing tricks on him, making those window shades seem to shift and move, or . . . ?

He moved closer to the house.

Holy Lord Jesus Christ Almighty, those weren’t dark shades, those were
flies
. There were so many of them, they seemed almost to cover the windows.

Oh,
fuck
! That many flies inside a house could mean only one thing.

Whoever was in there was dead.