Ravaged River (Men of Mercy #6) (6 page)

"Are you afraid you're going to run out of alcohol?" Hayden asked.

"Up until now, our longest conversation was about how strong I want my coffee. I couldn't take the chance of bringing you something you didn't like." He lifted up his left hand a couple of inches. "I've got the classics here—a screwdriver and a margarita."

Brightly colored liquid sloshed in the solo cups. Hayden kept her face carefully blank, waiting to see what else he’d brought. Although she wouldn't mind either of those, a little torture had never hurt anyone.

Chance lifted his right hand a few inches. "And just in case you’re one of those secretly daring types, I've got a whiskey sour and our newest pledges' version of hunch punch—although I cannot vouch for its contents."

Hayden pretended to study the drinks, enjoying this game. "I do have a secretly daring side." She trailed her hand down the smooth skin of his right arm.

Chance froze, his gaze locked with hers.

"This is the first drink I've had in almost a year. Better stick with something light."

"You don't have to drink. I'll bring you some water. I’d never want you to feel uncomfortable around me." Chance's sincerity caught her off guard, and for the first time she saw the real guy beneath the cheerful frat boy.

He'd all but courted her since last summer when he’d first arrived from Berlin. He'd never been anything but respectful. Polite. And his last words had put the nail in the coffin. Chance Beckham didn't just look like a good guy. He
was
a good guy.

She reached forward, covering the back of his hand with her own, lingering and learning his feel. He didn't have the same kind of heat or musky spice as Malik. Hayden inhaled, recognizing the classic Polo.

Hayden stepped closer, curiosity urging her to tilt her head back. Chance kept his arms out, balancing the array of drinks he’d brought to her. She wrapped her hand around his neck and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Firm lips. Light spark. Not bad.

And it left her with the lingering feeling of disappointment.

Chance blinked but didn't move, and uncertainty slammed into her. Had she been too bold? Maybe she'd misread his signals, maybe he was just trying to be friendly to the girl afraid of joining the party. Or maybe he’d read too well into her lack of reaction.

He didn't move for one full confidence-blasting minute. "Would you say something already?" she finally blurted out.

"If that's your version of a test, I want to take it every day."

Instant relief burst through her chest and spread down her arms. She reached for the margarita, her fingers brushing his. Another bolt of awareness. She lifted a trembling hand and took a sip—the tangy bite of sour lime, reminded her of how good it could feel to wield her sensual power. "If you're a good boy, I might give you that test again."

"If I'm a good boy, can we go past the true-false stage and move on to a full-on essay?"

A
fter the crash
, his commander pulled him off duty for a rest, but while he was holed up in the back of the ambulance, Hunter had called and asked him to go get Hayden. His baby son, Henry, had been sick and apparently his wife, Evie, caught the bug, too. Ranger, Hayden’s other brother, was busy trying to move his fiancée’ and her children to Hanks.

Hoyt could have gotten out of it by telling him about the wreck, but he didn't want to get out of it. He wanted to see her. To touch her and protect her.

The medics tried to insist on taking him to the hospital, but now that he’d been given permission to see Hayden, he simply couldn’t wait. The thought of her being in danger terrified him.

But he didn’t want to screw up the mission. He made a quick call to Grey. “Colonel, Hunter needs me to go get Hayden. The medics have cleared me. Am I good to go?”

“What about the head injury?”

Hoyt touched the butterfly bandages near his left temple, the throb there steady and pounding. “Fine. Just a Band-Aid.” Merc staggered over into his line of vision, a big white bandage wrapped around his head. “Merc’s been cleared, too. We both got just a scratch. But the Jeep’s totaled. Gonna need a different ride.”

Grey cursed. “I can’t get you a lift for another thirty minutes. Ethan’s pegged a new suspect and we’re trying to track down his location.”

Hoyt’s gaze landed on the bright yellow Hummer. “Got any other leads?”

“No. You just took out our two main suspects. We’re tracking the third right now, but we’ve got a load of shit to go on.”

Merc staggered over to sit on the ambulance bumper with Hoyt, cradling his injured head in his huge hands. He groaned. Hoyt elbowed him and held a finger to his lips.

“Sir, what if me and Merc tried to draw them out?”

“How so?”

“With their own ride. The Hummer looks loaded. We can drive it to get Hayden and then head back to base, let Mr. K’s guys inspect for intel, and then drive it around a while, see if anyone sits up and takes notice.”

The line fell silent and Hoyt held his breath. If Grey didn’t agree with his idea, it would be that much longer before he could reach Hayden and get her to safety.

“Fine. But you better go straight to Hayden and get your ass here, pronto. I don’t like this idea but I don’t really have a choice.”

Hoyt resisted the urge to fist pump. “Yes, sir.”

When Grey disconnected the call, Hoyt nudged Merc. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

Merc sat up and then groaned, grabbing his head. “I did get hit by a damn truck. What’s this about Hayden?”

“We’re going to get her. Now. In our new ride.” Hoyt gestured to the Hummer with its dented brush guard.

“That things gotta be way out of alignment.”

“Yeah, maybe a little, but I bet it can get us across town.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Hoyt stood, and fought off a bit of dizziness. “Then I’ll walk.”

He climbed into the Hummer, cranked the engine, and Merc climbed into the passenger seat beside him, his bandage sporting a small circle of blood. He looked about as good as Hoyt felt.

The drive over was a messy haze.

It wasn't until after he pulled into the lot between the row of frat houses and Hayden’s coffee shop that his world came back into focus with a massive smack. The Java Shop was dark, obviously closed and music boomed from a party going on to his left.

“Don’t think she’s at work anymore,” Merc said.

“Think she went home already?” Her apartment wasn’t too far, he could be there in five minutes.

“Nope.”

“What makes you say that?”

Merc pointed to Hoyt’s left. Hoyt followed and his gaze landed on Hayden, leaning against the fence in the back of the party. He pulled around and parked two rows back, far enough she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. Every inch of her and her figure hugging outfit.

He guessed somehow, in his muddled state of awareness, he chose to forget she wasn’t his to protect.

"We might need that steering wheel later." Merc's sandpaper-rough voice jerked Hoyt back to the present.

Hoyt loosened his white-knuckled grip and eased back into his seat. "Just checking to make sure it worked."

Merc grabbed his laptop, which they’d rescued from the floorboards of the ruined Jeep, and snapped it open. "Sure is a nice upgrade from your last vehicle. Think you can keep from destroying this one?"

Hoyt gave Merc a death stare and then turned his attention back to Hayden just in time to see a guy get up the nerve to approach her. And when he did, the blood froze in his veins.

"Run him, now." Hoyt's throat constricted and he palmed his 9mm.

Merc lifted his phone, took a picture, and then downloaded it to his laptop, a process that took all of ten seconds, but felt like ten hours. "Running now. Hold on. We need to know what we're dealing with before you start blasting into a crowd of kids."

Hoyt knew he was acting like newbie, but this was
Hayden
. He forced himself to relax back into the buttery leather seat, but he didn't tuck his gun back into its holster.

"Got it. Name's Malik Hussein. Raised in England. Been in the country for almost six years studying psychology. He graduates in a few weeks. No flags. No terrorist connections." Merc kept scrolling.

The guy lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. Hoyt nearly punched through the windshield. His head started to pound with a migraine, the pressure hard and steady. Dammit. He needed to be numb again. He could handle that. Even just normal anger. But Hayden had this way of evoking feelings in him. Feelings that were very different from anger, which meant he was no longer equipped to handle them.

He used every single ounce of restraint he had left not to rip out of the Hummer and tear across the parking lot. He grabbed the steering wheel and gripped it like an anchor, knowing that if he let go, he'd lose control.

"Dammit. I think the processor got damaged,” Merc said. “The screen just froze."

Hoyt grunted a response. He was too busy staring at Hayden to give a more collected response. There was a newcomer to Hayden's little man party, a dopey looking blond guy in a toga. The dark-haired student, Malik, stayed for a second and then broke off and walked into the house. But Hoyt’s attention was on the blond idiot who’d scooped Hayden up into the air and was spinning her around.

A heavy boulder bounced up from Hoyt's stomach and into his chest. He rubbed his sternum. Hard.

Forget doing the right thing and letting her move on. He set down the pistol and grabbed the door handle.

This guy was obviously not a terrorist, but he was seriously encroaching on Hoyt's territory.

What territory? You told her you didn't want to see her ever again.

He let his hand slide from the door handle.

The guy set Hayden on her feet and stepped back, giving Hoyt a clearer view of his features. Blond hair. Decent build. Tan skin. Like a younger, better-looking version of Hoyt.

Hoyt glanced in the rearview mirror and cringed. The jagged scar running down the left side of his face made him look like some twisted version of the Joker.

As always, the scar itched and Hoyt lifted a finger and gently ran it down the scar’s smooth shiny length, catching the barest tremble of his hand in the mirror.

He’d bet anything that the frat boy in the toga didn't have scars disfiguring his entire body.

Hoyt tried to swallow past what felt like a tight fist clenching his throat. By appearance, the guy was the perfect replacement for him. Easy smile. Good-looking. Comfortable with Hayden.

Just like Hoyt had been before he was tortured on Crowe Mountain.

Just like he could never be again.

"You want to stop caressing that pistol? I don't think the locals will take it too well if you start capping civilians."

Hoyt hadn’t even realized he’d picked it up again. He forced his fingers to unwrap themselves from around the pistol and holstered the weapon. Even though he'd never admit it, Merc was right. He couldn’t deal. It had been a lot easier to tell Hayden to move on with her life from the confines of his bedroom. Through Jared. Actually seeing her with another guy was an entirely different matter.

And it was something he’d better learn to deal with really quick. He had no right to ask her to be with him again when there were still so many scars on his body and soul, no right to beg her forgiveness after leaving her with no real explanation.

He needed to remind himself that Hayden James deserved to be with another man. A better one. His gaze found the rearview mirror again.
Look at yourself. If you really care about Hayden, you'll leave her the fuck alone.

Never touch her again, just like he'd promised Hunter.

"I know it's not my place, but I don't think Hayden's bothered by the scars. As a matter of fact, most women kind of dig them." Merc's deep voice drew him out of his vortex of self-loathing.

Hoyt glanced over to see Merc shifting in his seat. “You get hit in the head harder than I thought?”

"Have you looked at me lately? It’s not like I’m freaking James Bond on the cover of
GQ
, badass because I've got a little scar," Hoyt snarled.

"James Bond doesn't have shit on you. He's a character played by a fucking actor. You’re the real deal."

"Well, the real deal makes babies cry and little kids hide when I go out to grab a bite. So why don't you back the fuck off."

A savage violence unleashed itself in him. He needed to hit something, and right now the best option was beating the shit out of his friend. Even if Merc was the deadliest assassin in the entire Special Forces. The rage ripping through him right now didn't know reason.

Merc leaned back and arched a brow, his casual I'm-not-really-scared-of-you look pissing Hoyt off even more. "I'm not the only one who’s tired of seeing you walk around pouting like a three-year-old girl who lost her Barbie."

He might as well have bitch-slapped Hoyt across the face. Pouting? He was doing the right thing. He was putting her needs before his own, whether she understood that or not. "You think I like giving her up?"

"I think you're scared. Your whole life you've had things handed to you on a platinum-plated platter. Now that things are getting hard, you're buckling under the pressure." Merc crossed his arms and any semblance of light-heartedness disappeared from his demeanor.

The rage rushing through his veins exploded. "Easy? When I was a little kid, my aunt locked Jared and me in a closet and tried to beat and starve us to death. We escaped and had to survive in the woods alone for months, and then we had to survive the foster system after that. Easy? You've lost your mind."

Merc’s hand suddenly shot out and pushed Hoyt against the driver’s side door. Hoyt tried to struggle, but his friend’s strength seemed superhuman.

"Exactly. That’s the reaction I was looking for,” he said, the side of his mouth tipping up in a sardonic grin. “You’ve survived more hardship than any man I know. This is just another notch on your belt. Pull your head out of your ass and fight. Fight for what you want. Because the Hoyt Crowe I know doesn't just give up. He destroys anyone stupid enough to stand in his path."

The laptop beeped and Merc jerked back, yanking the computer into his lap.

Hoyt rubbed the sore part of his neck where Merc had grabbed him. It would take him a while to process his friend’s words. "What's it say?"

"Finally loaded the history. Looks like Malik's father is English and his mother is Saudi. He's here on a student visa."

Merc was right—he wanted Hayden as much as he’d ever wanted her. The wanting hadn’t gone away. But maybe he had nothing left to offer her but a penchant for violence and nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat...

"Did you say student visa?" he said, finally tuning back in.

"Yeah, why?" Merc turned to him slowly, and Hoyt knew his head had to be throbbing too.

"The first guy, the one in the Honda, he had a student visa."