Hell for Leather Page 20

Taken as a pair, the two were incongruous. What with Mac estimating Greasy didn’t weigh in at over a buck and a quarter soaking wet while Mrs. Greasy had to be pushing the scales at close to four hundred pounds.

  This is the clean, secure place Morales reserved for us? he thought, glancing around the wood-paneled office with its row of dusty tchotchkes in the window and the lone gumball machine by the front door. The ceiling fan whirled drunkenly overhead, off balance and doing little to cut through the smoke floating near the ceiling.

  The flickering neon sign outside proclaimed the place was the Noel Motel, but from the looks of Mr. and Mrs. Greasy—not to mention the hourly rates, the rickety row of doors leading to no-doubt questionably cleaned rooms, and the off-street parking located in the back of the place—Mac figured it might as well have been named the No Tell Motel. And if Delilah hadn’t looked as though she was about to collapse in her tracks, like her giddy-up-and-go done got up and went, he might have insisted they go somewhere else.

  “My boss called and reserved some rooms for us,” Agent Duvall announced as she shouldered through the front door, Zoelner, Ozzie, and the SWAT guys—now dressed in civilian garb—ambling in behind her. Quick as a cricket, the CIA had replaced the agent’s car while simultaneously supplying Fitzsimmons and Wallace with new duds. Mac had to give it to the spooks. They were grade-A number ones when it came to pulling rabbits out of hats.

  “You’re the Land Management folks who’re in town to check on our water quality?” Greasy asked, dragging his eyes away from Delilah’s breasts in order to assess the newly arrived group. He grinned again when he got a load of Agent Duvall’s rack.

  Talk about ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, Mac thought uncharitably, moving slightly in order to draw Greasy’s attention away from the women. It worked. When Greasy saw his unfriendly expression, the guy’s smile faltered.

  “That’d be us,” Chelsea concurred, pushing her way up to the desk.

  “You come to find out why the water outta the tap smells like swamp ass some days?” Mrs. Greasy inquired, never taking her eyes off the television screen. Smoke curled from her nostrils as she used the butt of one cigarette to light the tip of another.

  “Sure did.” Chelsea reached into her carryall to whip out a credit card stamped with a picture of a pine forest and the words Land Management.

  See… Rabbit out of hat. Mac shook his head, then narrowed his eyes and stepped over to Delilah when she swayed slightly. She lifted a hand to her temple and squeezed her eyelids closed.

  Okay, and just call him Mr. Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Because the Southern boy in him, the gentleman in him, couldn’t stand there watching her wilt right before his eyes, not when it would be so easy to lend her his support. Then again, there was the whole crack cocaine thing. And, truth be known, his little addiction had only gotten worse since that scene up in Sander’s bedroom.

  Christ. How did I let it go so far? How could I have forgotten about the past? About Jolene? About not falling into that same ol’ trap that—

  The decision of whether he should or shouldn’t lend Delilah a strong shoulder to lean on was made for him when she opened her eyes and lifted her gaze to his face. Her expression was sad enough to bring a tear to a glass eye. And—ah, hell—that was it. He couldn’t stand it a second longer. He threw an arm around her shoulders.

  “Okay,” Agent Duvall said to Greasy after having run her credit card. “We’re good here. Thanks for the hospitality.”

  “Any time,” Greasy answered the CIA agent’s chest. Zoelner looked like he was ten seconds away from ripping the guy’s head off. And, yessiree, Mac certainly knew the feeling.

  Luckily, he and Zoelner were saved from being forced to hone their decapitation skills when Agent Duvall turned, motioning for the group to follow her. And like a troop of well-trained goslings, they tailed Mother Goose out into the motel’s patchy front lawn.

  “Morales booked it so you men are bunking two to a room,” she said, sorting through a handful of old-fashioned keys. The bits of dull metal were attached to key rings that were themselves attached to plastic circles sporting numbers. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Greasy hadn’t upgraded the Noel Motel’s locks to that of twenty-first century standards.

  Again, Mac couldn’t help but think clean and secure? This place?

  It was almost like Agent Duvall’s supervisor was pulling a giant joke on them. And, come to think of it, he wouldn’t necessarily put it past the guy. After all, BKI’s relationship with The Company had been on shaky ground ever since the CIA erroneously listed Rock, the Knights’ resident interrogator extraordinaire, as a rogue operator. And then there was the fact that the Black Knights had happily taken on Dagan Zoelner after the spooks booted him out. So, yeah, giant joke. Had to be.

  Then again, Agent Duvall didn’t look like there was a hidden candid camera behind one of her shirt buttons. In fact, she looked serious as death while untangling the mess of keys. “All the rooms have two full-sized beds in them,” she said. “So it shouldn’t be a problem for you boys to double up.”

  “Don’t tell me the CIA is too cheap to spring for individual rooms,” Ozzie harrumphed, crossing his arms. “Or maybe you guys spent all your money on those two-hundred-dollar ashtrays and four-thousand-dollar toilet seats?”

  “Z,” Agent Duvall said, completely ignoring Ozzie, “you and Mac are in room three.” She handed Zoelner the key. “Delilah gets her own room, number four.”

  Mac watched Delilah reach forward to take the key and noted her hand trembled ever so slightly. He instinctively pulled her closer to his side. She tucked her thumb through one of his belt loops, and why that one small move—her subtle message of trust—should simultaneously thrill him and scare him shitless he didn’t know.

  “Fitzsimmons and Wallace,” Agent Duvall handed a key to the now jean-clad, T-shirt-wearing Fitzsimmons, “you guys are in room five. I figure with Delilah between both groups, no one will feel left out.” And that was a bit political for a spook. Generally, they weren’t known to be all that accommodating. “I’ll be in room six. Which leaves Ozzie and Steady, once he returns, to take up residence in room seven.”

  As if speaking the man’s name aloud somehow conjured him up, Mac’s phone vibrated in his hip pocket. Pulling out the device, he saw the medic’s encrypted number on his screen.

  “Go,” he barked, listening intently. Then, “Steady, man, I know details aren’t your strong suit,” BKI’s medic was notorious for being overly—and most times confusingly—concise, “but I’m gonna need more than a simple report of situation stable, medical intervention commencing.” Steady blew out a blustery breath on the other end of the connection before deigning to oblige him. Ending the call, Mac quickly relayed Steady’s news. “Fido’s bleedin’ has stopped. He’s bein’ wheeled into surgery. The vet says chances are good the big jughead will make it.”

  Delilah lifted her free hand to her mouth, her big green eyes brightening with tears. When her chin started to wobble, Mac knew the fear, fatigue, and overwhelming doses of adrenaline she’d been running on for more than a day had finally taken their toll. She needed a hot shower and soft bed. In that order. And fast.

  “He’s really going to make it?” she asked, trying to blink away her tears. One lone drop defied her efforts and slid down her dusty cheek.

  “He said chances are good,” Mac assured her, taking the key from her hand and nodding for the rest of the group to carry on as he escorted her to her room. Inserting the key into the lock, he had to wiggle it a bit, but the knob finally turned. Pushing the door open, he hit the light switch on the wall and discovered, much to his surprise, that the Noel Motel’s room number four was decently clean.

  Oh, the bedspreads on the two beds were faded, and the carpet sported a faint stain under the window air-conditioning unit. But the walls appeared to be freshly painted. The furniture seemed to have been made sometime within the past decade. And the air smelled of cleaning supplies, furnitur
e polish, and freshly laundered linens. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Greasy were smart enough to employ a decent maid staff.

  Who woulda thunk it?

  Maneuvering Delilah over the threshold, he allowed the door to swing shut behind them. Well, almost shut. It caught on the doorframe at the top and remained open a tiny crack. Yeah, super secure spot Morales picked out for us. Pfft. Not bothering to wrestle the aperture into place, he turned back to find Delilah watching him. And it was then he realized he was alone. With her. In a motel room. With two beds.

  His stomach began a freefall like the time he’d been on a BKI mission that required him to execute a HALO—high altitude/low open—jump out of a Boeing C-17 over the spiky mountains of the Hindu Kush. That particularly hairy assignment had almost killed him. He wasn’t completely certain this situation right here wasn’t just as dangerous.

  ***

  “If you’re okay here, I’m gonna head next door,” Mac said after he switched on the window air-conditioning unit. It hummed to life, filling the room with the sharp, dry aroma of chemical coolant.

  Delilah turned to find him backing toward the door, the look on his face wary and slightly…alarmed? Wha—She blinked, narrowing her eyes as her weary brain tried to make sense of his expression. Then it hit her when his gaze darted to one of the beds and lingered there a moment.

  Really? He’s scared I’m going to jump his bones?

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. And then, blame it on exhaustion or frustration or mental whiplash from riding an emotional roller coaster for the last thirty-six hours, but she found, in that moment, she very much wanted to prove him right. She did want to jump his bones. If for no other reason than to wipe that ridiculous look off his face.

  Crossing her arms, she tilted her head. “What’s with you, anyway?”

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “I mean, all this time, I thought you didn’t particularly like me. Thought maybe you didn’t like red hair.” She lifted a lock off her shoulder. “Or thick thighs.” She motioned toward her legs. “But then there was that whole deal up in Sander’s bedroom and—”

  “You don’t have thick thighs,” Mac muttered, not quite meeting her gaze. “I don’t know why women always think they have thick thighs…”

  “That’s what you took away from what I just said?”

  He did meet her gaze then. And what do you suppose the big, irritating, lug did? He shrugged. Shrugged! Ooh!

  “Okay,” she huffed. “Let me put it another way. How can you have spent the last four years sneering at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of your shoe, and then suddenly claim last night that you’re my friend? How can you claim to be my friend last night, only to kiss me cross-eyed up in Sander’s bedroom this morning?” She enumerated her points on her fingers as she made them. “And how can you kiss me cross-eyed this morning, only to turn around and sneer at me down in Sander’s living room five minutes later? It’s like you can’t decide whether you like me or loathe me.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his front belt loops and rocked back on his heels. He may’ve been trying to pretend supreme indolence, but the air around him, the air between them, crackled with electricity. And his expression might’ve suddenly gone all lazy, Southern boy, devil-may-care, his stare heavy lidded, but his eyes were absolutely full of guarded calculation.

  “Like you said,” he mumbled, “given the evidence in Sander’s bedroom, it’s quite obvious my feelings toward you fall firmly in the ‘like’ category.”

  “I’m not talking physically,” she stressed. “I get now that your boy parts like my girl parts, thick thighs and all, but—”

  “You do not have thick thighs!”

  “Why the hell are we still talking about my thighs?”

  “Because you keep bringin’ them up!” He’d dropped the easy-going act. Now his wide jaw was sawing back and forth, and he crossed his arms over his chest. Yep. There were those barbed wire tattoos. And there were those bulging biceps.

  “Answer the goddamned question, Mac!”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you!” he roared, then caught himself and blew out a breath. For a second, he did nothing but give his jaw muscles a workout as he scowled down at the floor. Then, slowly he said, “But the thing is, I don’t want to get involved with you…with a woman like you.”

  Whoa. Huh? Her hackles twitched to life.

  “You might want to clarify that last statement,” she warned, fisting her hands on her hips as she stalked toward him. He retreated a hasty step in response. “What do you mean a woman like me?”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking up the tan column of his throat.

  “I just meant…uh…a woman who’s beautiful and vivacious and used to being adored and…um…stuff.”

  “Because…” She made a rolling motion with her finger, his pseudo-compliment having fallen on deaf ears because the way he said beautiful and vivacious, they might as well have been dirty words.

  “Because I’ve seen what happens.” He swallowed again when she took another step forward, then another, until the steel toes of her biker boots were barely an inch from his.

  He was trapped between her and the motel room door. And not that he couldn’t pick her up and toss her aside as easily as he could a cocktail napkin, but for now she had him right where she wanted him.

  “And what exactly happens?” Her heartbeat was slow and steady, efficiently fueling the fire building in her blood.

  “Delilah.” When he said her name like that, all low and Sam Elliott throaty, she had to suppress a shiver. “I think very highly of you. I do. But…”

  The word hung in the air for what seemed like forever. In reality it was probably only a second or two, but it was a second or two longer than Delilah had the patience for.

  “But what, Mac?” she demanded.

  He stared at her for a second more, his eyes narrowed like he was trying to see into her soul. She let him look. She had nothing to hide. Then he shrugged. “It’s just that women like you aren’t cut out for—” He stopped and shook his head. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he finally finished.

  “Nothing but trouble?” If her jaw hadn’t been attached to her head, it would’ve dropped to the floor. “Jesus Christ, Mac. You’re a goddamned misogynist! I never would’ve believed that.”

  His chin jutted out stubbornly, making him look even more…stubborn. She didn’t want to press a finger to that fascinating dimple now. She wanted to slam a fist into it. Pow! One hit in the name of all womanhood!

  “I’m not a misogynist,” he growled. “I love women. Everything about them. But I have firsthand knowledge of certain types of women, and I know my tendencies and limitations as well as theirs.”

  “You almost had me convinced,” she sneered. “Up until that last bit, which was spoken like a true misogynist.”

  For a moment they just stood there, glowering at each other. Delilah fancied the flashing in her peripheral vision was actual sparks crackling through the air. The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up as if in warning of a potential lightning strike. And then it happened. But the thunderbolt wasn’t a burst of electricity from the sky, it was Mac’s next words…

  “Would a misogynist have resisted you all this time because he knew he couldn’t offer you anything more than a hard fuck?” And not that she wasn’t used to him cursing. He could sling a blue streak as well as anyone. But what she wasn’t used to was him being so crude about it. “Would a misogynist have suffered innumerable hard-ons just to save you the ignominy of a one-night stand?”

  Of their own accord, her eyes darted down to the fly of his Levis. Sure enough, there it was. Mr. Woody.

  “I was protectin’ you, goddamnit!” he nearly shouted, causing her eyes to fly to his face. “I know you’re lookin’ for more than a scratch for your itch. And since I can’t give you more, I was savin’ you the hurt and humiliation!”

  “But…” She knew she was about to op
en herself up for more rejection. “Why? I don’t understand!”

  He threw his hands in the air before pushing her aside so he could pace in front of the double beds. “We’ve already gone through this.” His booted steps thudded angrily against the carpet.

  “Humor me,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, chafing her biceps. Cold. She suddenly felt very cold. Because of the air-conditioner? Or because she somehow sensed just how chilling Mac’s next words would be?

  “I knew a woman once,” he said. “A woman who reminds me of you in some ways. She ruined…everything. And I’m not willin’ to stand by and watch history repeat itself.”

  She felt she’d just taken one punch to the chin and another to the stomach. “B-but that’s not fair,” she whispered. “You can’t hold me accountable for something—”

  “Fair?” His expression turned ugly. “Let me be the first to tell you, darlin’, life ain’t fair. In fact, it’s a goddamned—”

  A hard knock sounded on the partially closed door. Ozzie immediately popped his head in. “Damn,” he said. “I was hoping to catch you kids going at it again.” He wiggled his eyebrows. Then his grin faltered when he sensed the strained atmosphere. “Is…uh…is everything okay in here?”

  Okay? No. Everything was not okay.

  “We’re fine,” Mac grumbled, sparing her a quick glance. She wanted to gouge his pretty blue eyes out. “What’s up?”

  Ozzie hesitated a second, frowning at Delilah.

  Damnit! Tears burned behind her eyes. But this time they weren’t sad tears or frightened tears. They were pissed-off tears! I’m-going-to-punch-Mac-in-the-balls tears!

  “I feel like I’m missing something here,” Ozzie ventured.

  “Yeah,” Delilah told him. “You’re missing the fact that your pal,” she motioned to Mac, “is an enormous asshole.”

  One corner of Ozzie’s mouth twitched. “Nah. I’ve known that for years, and I—”

  “Ozzie.” Mac cut him off, that wonderful drawl of his grating against Delilah’s nerves like sharp teeth sawing on bone. “What was it you came in here for?”