Wingman Warriors - Joint Forces Part 22

His fingers bit into her skin. She struggled not to flinch and up his concerns.

"But I'm fine. Really. I wouldn't lie about this, not when it comes to the baby."

Jaw still tight, J.T. stood, turning to Chris. "Son, are you okay?"

"Yes, sir." Chris fidgeted from foot to foot, his baggy clothes rippling with every agitated move. "I was on my way home from work. I would have been home sooner but there was a backup on the bridge. G.o.d, Mom, I'm so sorry I wasn't here. Maybe I could have done something."

Horror splashed through her. "You would have stayed right here in this house with me while we called the police." She couldn't even let herself dwell on what could have happened to him out there. "No more Price heroes for me this year, thank you very much."

The senior cop stepped forward, hat tucked under his arm. "Sir, we did a walk around of the yard, had a second car run a quick canvas of the area. There's nothing to report. It's probably just a teenage prank, like rolling a house with toilet paper."

"I'm not buying that." J.T. shook his head. "Didn't my wife tell you about the hit-and-run two weeks ago?"

The younger female cop thumbed through her notepad. "We have that report, too, and will follow up. We'll schedule a car to cruise by your house. Unless you have something else to tell us, that's the best we can do for now." She flipped her notebook closed. "You'll want to board up that window tonight, just to be safe."

"No problem," J.T. answered, already looking in need of some physical release for the tension visibly knotting his shoulders.

The police tucked away notepads and started to pack the evidence bag with the brick inside.

"Hold on a second." J.T. frowned, stepping closer. He c.o.c.ked his head to the side for a better look at the brick. Forehead smoothing, eyes icing, he jabbed a finger at a painted discoloration on the side. "d.a.m.n it, that's the same symbol as on the b.u.mper of the hit-and-run car."

Rena leaned nearer. How had she missed the markings? The inked red circle with a black triangle inside wasn't all that large, still it niggled at her brain with familiarity. Maybe because J.T. had told her, but she'd been too foggy from the accident to process the information?

Until now. Her fears for her child grew exponentially while foreboding smothered her.

"Uh, Dad?" Chris inched forward. "Can we, uh, go in the kitchen for a minute. I really need to talk to you."

Three hours later, J.T. hammered the last nail in the plywood covering the broken window. Pounding nails didn't come close to releasing the anger boiling inside him.

Somebody had screwed with his family. Put his wife's life at risk. Dared try to suck his kid into underworld c.r.a.p.

J.T. gave the nail a final whack, driving it home.

Chris had given his full statement to the police. For now, it didn't look as if they would need a lawyer, but if things shook down the way J.T. suspected, they would all be spending time testifying in courtrooms before this was over.

His son would have to testify against the people who'd threatened him. The sc.u.m-sucking b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had come after his family, leaving him in his front yard in the middle of the night doing his d.a.m.nedest to take some precautions for his family while the police looked into things.

Dangerous and scary-as-h.e.l.l things.

It had taken guts for Chris to come forward, and J.T. couldn't help but be proud of his kid for making the stand. Although he wanted to shake the boy for not doing it sooner. Just thinking about what could have happened- He jammed another nail home.

A cop cruiser drove past for the second time while he'd been repairing the window. Some rea.s.surance. His military web belt now in place with his 9mm holstered provided a little more.

Except there wasn't enough rea.s.surance to douse the fire in his gut. He'd rather be back in Rubistan sweating it out while he waited for an a.s.s-beating thinly disguised as an interrogation than have to worry about his family. He might not have provided the most glamorous life for Rena, but d.a.m.n it, she was supposed to be safe in her own house.

The hammer thunked to one side. Grazed his thumb.

c.r.a.p. He needed to get his head together before he faced Rena again. She would want to talk, and he wanted to pound more nails.

Pound some heads.

At least she was occupied now hovering over Chris. The kid was scared spitless. As well he should be. He could use some coddling from his mom and wouldn't want his dad around to witness him scared and tucked into bed.

Rena's face had been so pale when he'd walked through the door, he'd thought for certain someone had died. She didn't need this. She should be putting her feet up and banging back bowls of peach ice cream.

Instead, they were facing court cases and G.o.d only knew what from this Miranda person and her deliveries. Most likely it was a drug purchase.

How ironic. He was busting his a.s.s trying to collar drug runners to stop that very thing from happening to other people.

He'd already left a message for Spike about setting up a meeting with the OSI to report the brick incident. Not much sleep for the OSI agent tonight after the dive, but there were too many coincidences stacking up. Even if this bore no relevance to their investigation, he was bound by his job to report any brushes with possible illegal activities. h.e.l.l, even a happenstance chat with a stranger in a bar might not be so coincidental.

Had his family somehow been targeted because of him?

Paranoid? Possibly. But he couldn't be too careful when it came to Rena and the kids.

Crouching down by his toolbox, he tossed in the hammer, nails, and wished life could be this easy to organize. He hefted the box up, nails rattling against wrenches, and strode to the garage door, punched in the code. The door rolled up and open. Inside, he closed the door and double-checked the lock. Checked the window as well, then cranked the fan in lieu of a breeze since that window would be staying shut from now on.

He ditched the toolbox on his workbench-beside his Shakespeare anthology. The book was getting dog-eared from overuse these days.

Thumbing along the edges, he slowed, flipped it open. Two Gentlemen of Verona. "The private wound is deepest."

Well, h.e.l.l. He could use a little less insight tonight. He smacked the book shut. He'd have to work off his tension in a more basic way. s.e.x would be great. But not wise. And not an option.

Exercise.

He sat on the edge of the weight bench and unlaced his boots, one, two, tucked them to the side. He unhooked his web belt, placed it within easy reach on his workbench, then peeled off his sweaty flight suit. G.o.d, how many hours ago had he put the thing on?

Wearing only his black T-shirt and boxers, he reached for a pair of workout shorts flung over a weight bar.

The door from the house opened-revealing Rena. His hands closed around the shorts. Talk about being caught with his pants down.

She startled to a stop. Tension to match his rippled off her in visible waves. Corkscrew spirals of hair all but crackled with energy.

After a quick flicker-glance down his near-naked body, her gaze met and held his. "I have something I need to say."

Uh-oh.

The determination in the tilt of her chin, he recognized well. The vulnerable glint in her eyes, however, caught him completely off guard at a time when his defenses were already somewhere in the negative numbers.

He braced his shoulders for whatever she planned to tell him-and wished he had some pants to go along with the strengthened will.

Rena's slim fingers wrapped around the stair railing, queenlike in her garage castle. "Temporary truce."

Chapter 12.

Rena gripped the railing until the edges cut into her palm. Swallowing her pride came hard.

Being alone right now was harder.

She moved down another stair, closer to J.T. and the weight bench. "I don't have a clue what we're going to do tomorrow. Or the day after that. I know you want to move back in for the baby, and you have to know I'm still not sure I can live with that. We haven't really resolved anything."

His face blanked, but she'd expected that once she started discussing their problems. He gave her so few glimpses into him, his feelings. She would have to go with her instincts, all of which told her to forge ahead. To take what she could right now, find something solid to hold on to.

"But I also know this is about the worst day of my life, second only to when I heard you'd been shot down."

A vein throbbed along his temple. Not as outward a sign as some of the ones Bo displayed in her office, but she read the tension in her husband well. Her arms ached to hold him as much as her body yearned to be held.

"I can make it through tonight on my own if I have to. But G.o.d, J.T., I don't want to. I want somebody to hold me for just a few minutes while that somebody tells me everything is going to be okay. I need for you to hold me."

He moved toward her, slow, silent, her big stealthy husband, and yet somehow he was there in front of her before she could blink. His arms went around her, lifted her off the last two steps and clasped her to his chest, lowering her in a glide against his solid body that comforted and excited all at once. Her feet lightly touched ground, if not her senses, which were definitely still flying.

His fingers smoothed over her hair, again and again without stopping, his other hand working a firm ma.s.sage against her waist that kept her anch.o.r.ed to him. "I can't promise you it's going to be okay. But I can promise I'll do my d.a.m.nedest to make that happen. And I can most definitely hold you for as long as you need me."

How about forever? she wanted to ask. Except needing him meant more loss if he left again. Not that she expected him to walk out the door with the baby on the way. But she'd learned there were so many other ways to leave. He'd lived in the house with her for years while still seeming thousands of miles away.

J.T. rubbed circles on her back. "Did everything go okay with Chris upstairs?"

She nodded. "He actually fell asleep. I think the fear exhausted him. Is it totally ridiculous that I stood there at the door and watched him sleep as if that could somehow shift things back to when he was five and I used to do the same thing?"

"Not ridiculous at all. The five-year-old was a h.e.l.luva lot easier to deal with. Bigger kids. Bigger

problems." His arms tightened around her.

Frustration sparked inside her, the need to do something, fix things in a way she could with a little child.

"What did we do wrong that he didn't come to us right away?"

"Teenagers don't always see long-term ramifications. I'm guessing he kept slapping Band-Aids on the problem hoping it would get better on its own."

A coping method that sounded familiar. "Who are we to judge on that reasoning?"

"Guess you have a point there, babe." His chin fell to rest on the top of her head. "But bottom line, he's old enough to know better. He understands right from wrong, and whatever is going on with Miranda Casale is very likely wrong."

"He was worried about us. He was trying to protect us. That's not how it's supposed to be. We're

supposed to protect him."

"And we are. He did come to us-even a little late-but he came clean on his own. He could have kept trying to bluff. I don't know about you, but I'm proud of him for standing up. He had to be scared as h.e.l.l."

She turned her head to the side, resting her cheek on his chest. "G.o.d, you must think I'm a total mess. I'm okay now though. I only needed a second to find my footing again. Thank you."

He didn't let go.

And she didn't argue.

His hands kept their steady pace along her springy curls and against her back, slowing, shifting from soothing to sensual.

Still she didn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything but stand, gripped by his arms and the fire swelling through her as surely as the proof of J.T.'s arousal. "What are we doing here?"

"Nothing yet, babe."

The promise in his deep voice strummed through her. She buried her face deeper into his chest, scent, heat. "But we're going to?"

"I sure as h.e.l.l hope so." He tipped her chin until she looked up at him. "But not if it means you're going to send me packing tomorrow."

She couldn't stop herself from asking, "You would hold out to stay because of the kids?"

He cupped her face, in both hands. "I would hold out so I could stay and have more time to fix this mess we've made of our lives."

Could they be "fixed," like the house or the car? She couldn't sort through it all now with her mind awash with worries for her son, her body craving the reliable comfort only J.T. could provide. And even though

he'd avoided answering her question about staying for the kids, the fact that he wanted to try sent hope and fear-lancing right through her.

Her fingers splayed across the ridged bands of muscles along his chest. "How about we cut a deal?"