I scowl, scrub my jaw and stalk toward the doors, exiting to a short walk down a few steps. Both the assholes follow me and when I arrive at the jet, Adam is the one who starts chit-chatting with the crew. Fucking Chatty Cathy. I’m going to start calling him that. Chatty fucking-pain-in-my-ass Cathy. He followed me when I went to kill Tag and beg for Candace to take me back. Of course, I didn’t know I was going to beg her to take me back, but I should have. Holy hell, just seeing her again undid me in a way I didn’t know I could be undone anymore, by anything or anyone.
I claim a seat on the plane and Asher is right there, in a recliner across from me. “All right,” he says. “Tell me what you know. We’re doing a delivery. To and from where?” He pulls his MacBook from his bag.
On this, I don’t argue. Something about this whole delivery and pick-up shit Max is spewing is nagging at me, a fly buzzing around my head I can’t seem to swat. I pull out my phone and read him the first address in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. “Beautiful little place,” Asher says. “You ever been?”
“Never,” I say. “And I couldn’t give a shit if it’s beautiful.”
“Point is, asshole,” Asher replies, “I know the town. That might be helpful.” He types in the address, and says, “That address says its land is owned by a George Monroe.”
Adam sits down next to Asher. “Who the hell is George Monroe?”
“I assume an alias for Max,” I say, despite Max’s claim otherwise but I’m waiting for Asher’s input. That fly is still buzzing around my head.
“If it is,” Asher says, “it’s a pretty damn elaborate alias. George has worked at the aerial tramway in Gatlinburg for twenty years. But, before that, he was military.”
“That’s a potential connection to Max,” Adam says. “Which sounds like a dangerous mistake Max wouldn’t make.”
“Unless there’s no connection to his family at all,” I counter.
“If he’s using the address,” Asher says, punching his keyboard and watching his screen not me, “there’s a connection.”
Asher continues to type and says, “I don’t see a connection.” He glances at me. “Where are we delivering?”
“We pick up in Gatlinburg, drop off in Nashville, and then I need to drop off cash to Max in Colorado.”
“Nashville?” Adam says. “Why can’t the guy in Gatlinburg drop off to Nashville? It’s what? Four hours away?”
That fly is buzzing around my head again. Why indeed, I think.
“It feels like a set-up, Savage,” Adam says, leaning forward and giving me a worried look.
I’d agree, but this is Max. He has no reason to set me up. We were on the same side. Fuck. Unless we weren’t. Unless I have an enemy that’s his enemy. Or he needs money and that means helping one of my enemies. My lips press together and I read off the Nashville address to Asher. He keys it in and says, “A restaurant on the strip. Who are you delivering to there?”
“He said to ask for the owner.”
“Huh,” Asher says as if he doesn’t like the gist of the message and the truth is, neither do I. He returns his attention to his MacBook and then quickly says, “Jess Kelly is fifty, and retired military. Opened the restaurant ten years ago.” He eyes me. “Ring any bells?”
I shake my head, and he says, “Text me the address in Colorado. Let me see if I can make any connections in the locations.” The plane engine roars to life and I text Asher the address in Colorado while he works on more information.
Asher goes to work. Adam changes seats, landing in the one next to me. “I know you trust Max, but something feels off.”
That’s the problem, I think. I’m not sure I do trust Max, and yet he saved my life. But I was the guy at his back, too. Men that are mercenaries, as we were, are in the moment, satisfying what works for us at the time. I don’t really know Max. And I damn sure don’t know what motivates him in the moment.
CHAPTER SIX
Candace
As soon as the fitting is done, I send my hired car on his way and head for the subway, which gets me where I’m going faster than a driver. It took this Texas girl a while to appreciate the subway, but now that I do, I prefer it. A short train ride later, I’m at the residential side of the Walker building, punching in a security code. A quick trek up a few flights of stairs and I’m knocking on Blake and Kara’s door.
Blake answers the door, and I blink. His long dark hair is not long anymore. “Who are you and what did you do to Blake?”
He laughs a low deep rumble. “Kara says it gets in the way, so I cut it.”
“I’m not going to ask for details,” I say. “But I think it looks good. Can I visit with Kara?”
“Kitchen,” he says, backing up as I enter their gorgeous, recently remodeled, apartment. The floors are a shiny dark wood. The ceiling is covered in closely linked wood beams, while thicker wood beams support the structure. The kitchen island is made of the same wood as the floors, with a contrasting black flecked countertop. I find Kara behind that island, her dark hair piled on top of her head, and flour all over her face.
“Did you come to save me?” she asks.
I step to the opposite side of the counter as her and study the explosion of powdery substances all over the counter, and a bowl that seems to hold thick dough. “I didn’t know you baked?”
“I don’t, but Lauren has a big trial and she needs cookies for her kiddo’s St. Patrick’s Day party and it’s not even St. Patrick’s Day. I told her I’d help.”
“Just order them from a bakery.”
“It’s for tomorrow.”
“The grocery store bakery?”
“I looked,” she says. “They’re sold out. Apparently, everyone thought of this but me. What was I thinking?” she asks herself, trying to stir the sticky dough. “I’m the one you ask to do a self-defense class, not bake cookies.”
I laugh. She’s right, she is. She’s beautiful and sweet, but oh so tough and just as dangerous as any man on the Walker team. She’s a rock star.
“Slice and bake is an option,” I say, eyeing her work in progress. “Because what you have in that bowl is not edible.”
She stops fussing with the dough and eyes me. “Slice and bake. You’re brilliant.” She calls out, “Blake!”
He appears almost instantly and she gives him a pleading look. “Can you go grab slice and bake cookies?”
“If it will end this baking nightmare, hell yes.”
“And icing,” I say, glancing at Kara. “Unless you have icing?”
“I have a recipe,” she offers.
“The cookie icing is best,” I say, “but cake icing will work if needed.”
Like the devoted husband he is, Blake rushes for the door.
Kara sets the bowl in the sink. “I didn’t know you baked.”