Crashed, p.4
Crashed, page 4
The man who had been hassling her to join him for a drink, Miles Hawkins, was, oddly enough, the closest thing she had to a friend these days. He had long since told her about the part he’d played in Travis’s abandonment of her. At the time, she’d wanted to attack him, beat on him, screaming like a banshee, but the fury had passed, washed out to a tired, gray apathy.
It was over.
It was done.
Travis was no longer part of her life while Miles was her lifeline.
The FBI agent, alone, knew the worst things about her, what had happened to her, what her father had done—what he had allowed.
He hadn’t looked at her with pity or disgust when she’d told him.
There had been guilt aplenty, along with other emotions she hadn’t understood, but never had he looked at her with pity or disgust.
He’d told her he could put her father away so he couldn’t hurt anybody else, if only she would trust him, and she had.
Miles had kept his word.
It had been the answer to Isabel’s silent prayers.
The death of her relationship with Travis, followed by the sudden death of her mother and the slow destruction of any other dreams she’d had over the coming weeks had been the final casualties of Wilson T. Steele’s brutal reign.
It was over.
Every time her father pushed for yet another retrial—only two successful attempts had even made it to court—the man’s canny mind finding nearly invisible flaws in the trial that had sentenced him to life behind bars for the human trafficking and sexual exploitation of women, immigrants and minors, Miles had been there.
No matter what, he was there, taking several days away from his job so Isabel wouldn’t be alone. He had security watching the house so she didn’t worry her sisters would be in danger while she was gone.
Because he was a friend, and because he asked for very little, she’d dragged herself out of bed and pulled on a sweater and jeans, dragging a brush through her hair. The lobby bar wasn’t a sweater and jeans joint, but she didn’t have the energy for a dress and heels, or even makeup.
Catching sight of him sitting next to a broad-shouldered man with hair cut with near military precision, she told herself she could handle one drink. Just one.
But then the man with him turned around and blue-green eyes glanced her way.
Shock slammed into her, freezing her in place. She blinked, half-expecting him to disappear, but after another look, he was still there, real, solid ... and far more beautiful than he’d been the last time she’d seen him. He’d been close to perfection as a teenage boy, but now ...
His jaw was more square, brows heavier and those eyes ... so much more intense. There were other changes, too, small ones she couldn’t even identify and he seemed to have aged far more than just a handful of years would account for, but there was no mistaking those eyes.
It was him.
“Travis,” she whispered.
She felt like somebody had just reached inside and ripped her heart out, torn it into shreds before cobbling it back together and shoving it back into place. There were gaping wounds in place of all the missing pieces and the pain was too much, so numbness settled in—she had to go numb.
If she let herself feel this kind of pain, here and now, after everything she’d had to deal with over the past few days, after staring into her father’s hated face again, she’d shatter.
And she couldn’t ever shatter.
Her sisters, especially Mary Kate, needed her too much.
Drawing on the icy reserve that had allowed her to function while she still lived in Wilson Steele’s household, she took a slow breath, then another. Each one was agony, but she didn’t let that show.
She could do this.
She could face him.
She’d gotten through it when he abandoned her; it had been one of the most painful things in her life, but she’d survived.
If she could live with what Stephen Beresford had done, could function despite her father’s cold apathy and the weeks of being confined to the house so she couldn’t get an abortion once she learned about the pregnancy, if she could survive realizing Travis had turned his back on her after realizing she was pregnant, then she could face him now.
“Travis.” She inclined her head slightly, drawing on memories of her mother doing that very same thing as she greeted people at one soiree after another.
He was still staring at her, looking poleaxed.
Shifting her attention to Miles, she cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize we were going to have company.”
Miles gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher. It almost looked ... pleading.
His guilt all but clung to him and she realized she wasn’t shocked. That guilt was choking him and she hadn’t realized how much until now. Some distant part of her felt pity for him with that awareness, but it was distant, buried under a layer of ice.
She was grateful to Miles, so grateful. But she didn’t owe him this. And she owed Travis nothing.
“Isabel,” Travis said, the syllables of her name rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in ages. And somehow, the sound of her name was almost ... reverent, as if he were giving voice to a prayer.
The idea was laughable.
“Ma’am.”
She glanced over at the bespectacled, black-suited maître d’ and wondered what he’d do if she threw her arms around his neck in gratitude. She had a legitimate reason to leave now, one that wouldn’t look like she was running away. Instead of giving into the urge, she gave him a simpering smile that would have done her now former-socialite mother proud. “Yes?”
“We ... ah ... ” He glanced at the two men standing with her and paled, immediately jerking his gaze back to her. “I’m afraid there’s a strict dress code here at Henri’s. Your—”
“She’s fine,” Travis said, the words coming out a lethal growl, nothing like the roughly tender whisper of her name seconds earlier.
“Hardly,” she said, stepping between Travis and the pale hotel employee. Hooking her arm through his, she started ushering him to the door, giving the older, silver-haired gentleman no choice but to walk with her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I hope you’ll forgive the rudeness.”
She was walking away.
Next to him, practically forgotten, Miles swore under his breath before speaking.
Travis was already moving, though. He had no idea what he was going to say or do. He couldn’t think, was surprised he could walk steadily after being poleaxed like this, but damned if he’d let her just leave without ...
Begging her to forgive me.
Telling her how sorry I am.
Asking if she’s okay.
Offering to cut out my heart, a lung, anything if it would fix shit.
Travis knew none of that would work. But he had to say...something. In his mind, he kept replaying the one time they’d talked since he’d seen her at the party, looking beautiful, aloof...and pregnant.
She’d called him, the third time in an hour, just a week later, and that was unusual enough that he’d finally answered, although he told himself he was a fool for doing it.
“Yeah, what?” he demanded.
“I ... Travis ... is something wrong? Were you ... what happened? We were supposed to meet ... ” Her low, husky voice trailed off.
It was like another punch to the gut, those words. Yeah, they were supposed to meet. By now, they would have been back in California, married.
But she was pregnant.
“Sorry. I guess I got a little confused and assumed the baby’s daddy would be taking you to Vegas, not me.”
She sucked in a breath. “Travis, wait. That ... look, you don’t understand.”
“Really?” He laughed bitterly. “Look, unless you’re the next Virgin Mary, I don’t think there’s anything to understand. We didn’t fuck. You’re knocked up. It’s not mine. Have a nice life, Iz. Hope the next sucker is smarter and quicker than I was.”
Shit, those words had haunted him over the years and he was dying inside from the poison of them.
She was already halfway across the lobby, striding on long legs wrapped in form-fitting denim tucked into knee-high boots. Those leather boots had a spike heel that could have qualified for a deadly weapon and judging by the way she’d looked at him, he’d be lucky if he didn’t end up with one of them in his throat.
But he didn’t fall back.
He caught up with her a few feet from the elevator bay and touched her arm. “Isabel, wait—”
“Don’t touch me,” she said, whirling around to give him a look of complete, utter scorn.
Her voice was so full of venom, he wouldn’t be surprised if he started showing signs of a toxic reaction, while her gaze was razored and cold, like blades made in the coldest pits of hell.
Travis deserved no less.
Holding his hands up, palms out, he backed up a few feet. “Okay, okay. I ...” Swallowing, he searched her face, taking in the differences—her cheeks weren’t as soft and that made her big green eyes look even bigger, darker, while her mouth was still the same sweet, lush curve, even set in that hard, unsmiling line. Her hair was no longer a smooth, elegant sweep of mink-brown silk she wore down her back or in a smooth twist away from her arresting face. No, it was loosely tumbled brown, streaked with lighter hints of gold, now cut to her shoulders, probably several months past a trim.
She looked the same ... but more beautiful.
She looked the same ... but sadder. Harder.
How much of that was because of him?
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Her lashes flickered.
He held his breath.
“Oh?” One arched brow shot up and she wrinkled her nose as if she’d just discovered the source of some foul stench. “And just what are you sorry for?”
His face slowly bleeding to a furious red and he had to force himself not to look away. The shame was eating a hole in his gut once more, but his folks hadn’t raised cowards—if you screw up, you have to own that mistake. Look the person you wronged in the face, and say your apologies. Mean them. Even if you know you’ll never be forgiven.
He wouldn’t.
He could tell just by the way she looked at him that forgiveness would not be granted.
“For what happened,” he said, forcing the words past the knot in his throat. “I...saw you. The day y...Steele had the party. I saw you. Saw you were...pregnant. And I lost it. I should have listened when you called—hell, I should have been at the park like we planned, and waited for you to explain. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Well.” She gave him a brittle smile. “I’m sure you’re glad to get that off your chest.”
He did look away then, unable to take that cold expression, especially knowing he was, at least in part, why she’d become that cold, that hard. Eyes burning and chest cracking wide open from the hollow ache that had replaced his heart, he forced himself to look back up—just in time to see her turning away from him.
Again.
This time, he didn’t say anything.
She was almost to the elevator when she stopped once more and looked over her shoulder at him.
The icy hardness had left her expression and she met his gaze, the sadness in her eyes so absolute, he would have done anything, anything, to take it away.
“Good-bye, Travis.”
The elevator doors slid open.
A couple stepped out and she slid in, keeping her back to him until the doors closed, hiding her from view before whisking her away, and out of his life once more.
And for the last time, he knew.
He’d never seen her again.
She’d make certain of it.
His heart split completely in two.
Chapter 3
Present Day
“I’m fine!” Travis thought about getting out of the hospital bed to shout the words into his handler’s face but he had a bad feeling he might collapse where he stood.
If he did, it would kind of negate the entire point of his argument.
“Bullshit.” Miles stormed across the room and bent over the bed, gripping the bedrail with a hand that become thin since the last time Travis had seen him. “You are going to take some time off this time, Travis. Take time off—real time, or you’re out. For good.”
“I just took a couple of weeks last year.” He glared into Miles’ haggard face, taking in the bags under Miles’ eyes, the pale cast to the older man’s skin. “Shit, you don’t look much better than me.”
“I’ve been sick, dumbass. I also ride a desk. I’m not trying to infiltrate human trafficking circles. My life isn’t at risk every second of every day while I’m on the job,” Miles snapped. “When you’re in that line of work, you have to have razor-sharp instincts. Once mine started slipping, I made the decision to move off the front line.”
“I’m not slipping,” Travis growled. “The intel was shit and there were more potential targets than anticipated. And what the fuck are you bitching about? I got the information you needed. I got in, got out.”
“You got in, got shot, you ... ” Miles stopped and turned away, stomping over to the window to glare out over the skyline of Mexico City. “Travis. You can’t keep this up. With your last injury, that bullet you took put you down for three months. This time, you were on an op that should have been a cakewalk for you. You—fuck. Never mind. But you’re done. You’re taking time off. Six months, minimum, and if you even try to argue this, I’m cutting you loose.”
Six months?
Travis hauled himself into a sitting position, ignoring the nauseating pain through sheer will alone. Sweat dripped down his brow, the thick, clammy sweat that came from illness or exhaustion—or both. He ignored that, too, staring at Miles’ back with something bordering on desperation.
“Miles ... shit. Look, okay, I’ll be careful. You’re right. Maybe I was a little reckless this time.”
“Stop.” Miles turned and pinned a hard look on him.
Something in his old friend’s eyes made Travis do just that.
“You think I’m blind to how much you’ve changed in the past few years? How much you’ve changed since that night you saw Isabel?”
Travis jerked his gaze away, fixing it on the overbright sunlight streaming in through the window. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Bullshit.” Eyes hard, Miles cut between Travis and his determined study of the view of the city beyond the window. “Fuck me, it started before that. You’ve been half-dead inside ever since you learned the truth and it’s gotten worse every single year. For more than a decade, I’ve been watching you self-destruct, but this past year? It’s twice as bad. I think what really pushed you over the edge was seeing your twin get hitched. What’s the matter? Are you that fucking jealous of seeing your brothers all happy?”
Travis shoved out of the bed, temper exploding out in a rush of violence. “Keep it up, Hawkins, and we’ll see how fast I can put you on the floor.”
“You can’t stay upright for more than a minute.” Miles crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, giving his watch an insulting glance as if to measure the time. “Maybe we should make a wager on it. If you can come over here and make me eat my words, then fine, you can come back to work once the doctor releases you.”
Travis clenched a hand into a fist and cursed, each one blistering and hot. But he didn’t take a single step; he could already feel his legs going wobbly and weak under him, adrenaline deserting him.
“I don’t begrudge my brothers any happiness,” he bit off, furious Miles would even insinuate it. “Especially not Trey. He’s been through enough hell. He damn well deserves what he’s found with Ressa.”
“I never said you begrudged him, or any of them,” Miles said quietly. “You’re too good a man for that sort of pettiness. But even the best of us can feel envy and I know you too well, probably even better than your brothers, better than your own twin at this point, because you don’t let them know you. Ever since you got back from Trey and Ressa’s wedding, you’ve gotten quieter, darker, sadder. And we both know why.”
Travis wanted to tell Miles to shut the fuck up.
Not because he was wrong, but because Miles was right.
Too right.
About most of it.
“You’re wrong about one thing,” he said, dropping back down onto the bed, grunting as it sent pain screaming through him. “I’m not a good man.”
A good man wouldn’t have turned his back on the woman who’d loved him, not when she’d needed him the most.
“Travis ... ” Miles sighed. “You made a mistake. You were just a kid. And shit, you’re easier on me than you are on yourself. I’m the reason you made the mistake. Can’t you forgive yourself? It’s been almost fourteen years.”
“Ask me in a hundred and fourteen.” He flipped the thin, scratchy blanket over his legs and flung a forearm over his eyes. “You win. I’ll take some time off. But I can’t go back to my family with my head in the shape it’s in. Figure something else out. Shoot me the details when you do. Now get out and let me sleep. I’m tired, Miles.”
Chapter 4
Six Days Later
The rhythmic, frantic screeching woke him up.
It was the second morning in a row but at least this time, he didn’t strain his slowly healing side by rolling out of bed in a crouch and coming upon the side with his weapon in hand.
He did pull the handgun out from under his pillow where he’d stashed it, the habit too hard to break after years of training. But this time, he was able to stay on his back, breathing mostly level as his heart hammered away in sheer reaction.
The whole time, he listened to the strained, painful sounds and slowly realized there was some sort of intent behind it.
Yesterday, he’d been all but nauseated with pain, too much so to think past anything but now, as he sat there, breathing through the slightly less intense misery, it was obvious. Somebody wanted that sound—that sound in particular.
