Sighing, she waved for him to follow her and charged toward the garage apartment entrance on the side of her cottage. Why hadn’t she taken more time to get to know this guy five years ago? Oh yeah, she’d only wanted him to bang her brains out.
“This is it.” Her fingers fisted around the keys. A memory of her car exploding swelled in her mind, closing her throat.
Rick rested a hand on her shoulder. “Flashbacks suck.”
“Pretty much.” She clenched the keys tighter. “Nothing to do but deal with it.”
She didn’t question how he knew and understood what she was thinking. They had that career experience in common. The trauma of the car explosion may have happened in the civilian world, but it bore a stark resemblance to the type of event that could have taken place on an Iraqi roadside. They’d all been wound tight to be on the lookout for such things for years now.
Nola fit the key in the garage apartment lock. The door swung wide to a one-room studio. She’d used it for friends to visit—more privacy that way. God, she really was a mess these days, but yeah, she had some personal space issues left to deal with.
“You can move things around if you want.”
“I’d like to buy some weights tomorrow, so I can work out.” He thumped past, proficient with the crutches. “If you don’t mind, I’ll move the dining table to the side and put mats there.”
“Sounds fine to me. You’ve still got the bar and stools for meals.”
He grunted. “Sofa and TV are fine for mealtime.”
Sounded pretty much like her mealtime. How logical it would be to eat together. How logical…enticing…habit forming.
Dangerously addictive. “Do you need help settling in or would you prefer some peace and quiet?”
“I really can manage.” He propped his crutches against the wall and walked slowly around the apartment, not running any races, but making his way by unobtrusively holding on to furniture or walls. “They held me back by babying me at that place.”
Of course he could manage. Right up until the point where his legs gave out under him. She would have to figure out pride-saving ways to offer help.
Or just quit asking.
Nola walked outside, popped the trunk, yanked his suitcase and hauled it inside before he could argue. She pitched it on the sectional sofa. The bed in the corner would have been optimal, but she figured it was better to ditch the thing fast.
“Okey doke. You’re all set.” She pivoted on her heel and was out the door lickety-split, before he could get all uptight and macho again.>Something she could give him now.
“All right, roomie. How fast can we spring you from this joint?”
Through the café window, he watched the smoldering remains of her car in the lot, firefighters waiting, their foam caking and crackling like an over-baked meringue. Cops were long gone, having already finished their note taking and investigation.
They never even saw him from his perch in the nearby greasy spoon where he inhaled the scent of frying hamburgers and humanity.
If he wanted Nola Seabrook dead now, she would be six feet under. But he liked the hunt.
She always used her remote starter for her car, so he’d known she would thumb the button rather than turn the key. The look of shock, the fear on her face when her car exploded had been well worth the risk of planting the device in open daylight. Of course the thrill, the rush, that’s what this was all about.
Recapturing what he’d lost.
She would die—eventually. He had his timetable, but it would be his. He was in control of his life again. He didn’t need his youthful body. He’d learned to dominate with his mind, his brain. Working his way onto the military hospital parking lot had been a rush.
His street-smart wits combined with his warrior-honed skills made him indomitable.
The fun was in the cat-and-mouse game. She owed him for the humiliation she’d caused. She wouldn’t get away from him this time.
He started to leave, but reconsidered. He needed to eat after all. What better way to savor this victory than with a meal while he regrouped for the next stage of his battle plan?
Apparently he wasn’t the only one watching the rehabilitation center with such interest long past what the burning vehicle warranted. A teenage girl stared at the medical building—the windows, not the SUV. She clutched her cellular phone in her hand, her too-tight jeans slung low on her h*ps with too many holes in them to be accidental. Why did these youths want to appear poor? He’d been poverty-stricken and it was not fun or trendy.
She pocketed her cellular phone and sidled up to the linoleum counter. “I’d like an application for a waitress job.”
The woman behind the cash register shook her head. “We’re not looking for any more after-school help.”