"Ortega's dead."
The news rocks through me and I'm on my feet in a second. "No, that's not true. Bill would have told me."
"Suicide," Dallas goes on. "And he didn't tell you because it's classified."
"Then how the hell do you know?"
He scowls for a second, as if I've asked him an inappropriate question, but answers anyway. "You know my friend Quince's in British intelligence. He told me, but don't repeat it or you could get his ass in serious trouble."
I nod numbly. "Suicide. That doesn't make any sense." I look at him as if he has answers. And then the real import hits me. "He was WORR's best lead."
"He was," Dallas acknowledges.
"Oh." I feel my knees go weak as all my hope drains away. That they'd find who'd taken us. That Dallas and I would finally have answers.
I'm starting to sag, but Dallas is right there to catch me. I hook my arms around his neck, and as I do, the whole world shifts again. It's no longer me and Dallas and Bill and Ortega. Or even me and Dallas and zombies.
It's just me. It's just Dallas.
Just the two of us and this living, breathing need that beats between us. That we can't erase, can't destroy, can't tame.
He is looking at me, and I can see he feels it, too. And when he bends his head almost imperceptibly I know that he is going to kiss me. And I want it. I shouldn't--I know I shouldn't. But so help me I want this kiss.
But what I want, I can't have, and I close my eyes, put my hands on his shoulders, and gently push him away.
"Jane?"
I shake my head. "Go. Please, Dallas. Could you please just go?"
And, dammit, he does.
--
"Well, at least you had a good reason for blowing off book club," Brody says after I've told him about my evening game fest with Dallas. I'd actually arrived just as the last member, Leo, was leaving, so I gave him a quick hug, promised I'd read the next book, and then let Brody lead me back to the kitchen so we could talk while Stacey
cleaned up.
She's wearing a short purple wig today. After she finished chemo and her hair started growing back, she decided to shave it all anyway.
"Now I can have a different color every day," she'd told me. "And honestly, life's too short not to have fun hair."
She's stuck by that motto, too. According to Brody, they converted the spare bedroom into Stacey's closet, and one entire side is for her rainbow of wigs.
Now, as we sip the celebratory champagne while she moves in and out of the room with dishes and glasses, I realize that Brody isn't the only one who knows my secrets. Stacey does, too. I'd given him permission to tell her when she was doing chemo. He'd wanted to talk with her during the long hours in the chair, and I'd wanted to subtly let her know that I loved her and would share her burdens, too, whenever she wanted to talk.
So even though I've never spoken with her directly about what goes on in my head and my heart, she undoubtedly knows most of it.
"So here's the important question," Brody says. "Did you have fun?"
"I did." I think about it once more, just to be sure. "I really did and I think he did, too."
"So, that's good, right?" Stacey asks. "That's where you two are trying to get? To be comfortable around each other as friends?"
I tilt my head to the side and shrug. "I said it was fun. I didn't say it was comfortable. Just the opposite, actually. I mean, at one point I banged the crap out of my knee because I practically leaped to the other side of the couch when he leaned toward me. Turns out all he was doing was reaching for the TV remote. And then when he told me about Ortega--"
I break off, shivering with the memory of how it felt in his arms. There'd been nothing overtly sexual in the way he'd held me, in the comfort he'd given me. But I'd wanted more. I'd wanted so much more, and I hate the way that wanting him makes me feel. Lost, when I've managed to find my way back in so many ways. Unsure, when I've fought to build up my confidence.
I lean forward and thrust my fingers into my hair. "I'm a complete mess."