Regan stops smirking like the cat who swallowed the canary when I say, “Get your finger off the trigger. None of them are your targets.” I nudge my head to the handful of men happy to risk their lives to continue enjoying the visual. “Me, on the other hand. . .”
Regan’s smile steals my words. . . and perhaps my jealousy.
* * *
Our time at the range goes better than I could have hoped. Regan’s confidence fed off the adrenaline racing through her veins, and the worry her eyes have held since Friday night is almost gone. Although real life scenarios will always be more harrowing than any amount of practice, workable knowledge will lessen the terror. I hope Regan is never in a position in which she’s required to protect herself, but if the unfortunate occurs, I’m confident she has the skills to safeguard herself.
Regan’s eyes swing from the road to me when I ask, “Wings or cob loaf?”
If I didn’t know her as well as I did, I’d be worried by her quietness. Fortunately, I’m pretty clued in when it comes to her emotions. She’s not quiet as she is angry. She’s absorbing all the information she’s been overloaded with the past four days. It’s smart for her to do. The more prepared she is, the less carnage there will be.
“Does your ma make the dressing for the wings?”
I shake my head. “Her cooking specialties don’t branch into poultry. There’s a wings joint a few miles from The Manor. It’s not up to my mom’s caliber, but they’re pretty darn tasty.”Not as tasty as you, but I’ll keep that info to myself.
Seeing Regan like that, a gun holstered dangerously low on her waist, and her hair pulled away from her face to ensure it didn’t hinder her long-range sight. . .fuck!Every fantasy I’ve ever had was played out today. I can’t wait for Halloween. Regan has mentioned she plans to attend a costume party dressed as Jeannie fromI Dream of Jeannie, but if I have my way, she’ll be a walking wet dream—a blonde Lara Croft.
After quickly adjusting my crotch, I shift my focus back to Regan. She’s tapping her index finger on her lips as if she’s contemplating. I know she isn’t. She’s loved the time we’ve spent with my family as much as I have. So much so, she suggested we return home after our five-mile run this morning to eat breakfast with my family instead of the little café we ran to.
She muses for a few more seconds before saying, “I’ve never had cob loaf before, so I choose that.”
“Alright.” I steer my dad’s truck to the left, pretending her decision solely resonates around her stomach’s cravings instead of her heart’s.
We travel two miles before flashing lights cause my foot to slip off the gas pedal. I pull up next to a state trooper directing us to the opposite side of the road. “What is it?”
There must be something in my tone that displays my authority, or perhaps the fact my family is well known around these parts, because he answers with no hesitation, “Bad traffic accident. Two fatal. One badly injured.”
“Are medics on site?”
He nods, his cheeks whitening.
“First to arrive?” Sympathy echoes in my tone. I can still recall the first time I was assigned to a homicide. It was a home invasion gone wrong. Quick, relatively clean death, but still hard to stomach.
“Yeah, it’s. . . ah. . . not pretty. That’s why we’re directing people to go via Trate.” He points to a street sign a few spaces up from us. “Travel half a mile before taking a right on Howdy. That will pop you out the other side.”
“Alright, thanks.”
I jerk up my chin in thanks before pulling my truck onto the opposite side of the road. The fire crew on site have done a good job concealing the wreckage, but nothing can hide the sight of two bodies lying roadside covered by white sheets.
I cut the corner of Trate, praying I’ll save Regan from a visual I know will shred her heart into a million pieces. I’m not fast enough, though. If the way her spine snaps straight isn’t enough of an indication she spotted it, the harrowing sob rumbling in her throat as she tries to maintain her composure is a surefire indication.
“Rae,” I say her name as painfully as my heart is bleeding from the pained expression etched on her beautiful face.
Realizing there isn’t a single thing I can say to help her through this, I unlatch her belt, seize her wrist, then drag her across the leather seat until she’s nuzzled under the crook of my arm.
There are a thousand sayings filtering through my mind. Quotes on sympathy, handling grief, and how she’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met, but no matter how hard I try to fire them off my tongue, I can’t get them out. She needs comfort, not words. Assurance, not regrets. But more than anything, she needs me. So that’s precisely what I’ll give her.
I pull her in even closer before flattening my foot on the gas pedal. My dad’s truck is an old girl, but she’s quick off the mark.
By the time Regan’s shaking begins to settle, I’m pulling into the driveway of The Manor. I park near the valet, leave the keys in the ignition, then slide out the driver’s side door, taking Regan with me.
“How about we shower before we eat? We smell like lead.”
She doesn’t, but it’s a good excuse to give her a few more minutes to compose herself before my family swarms her for the third time. My silent comfort eased the pain in her eyes, but the fact she didn’t jerk out of my clutch the instant we entered The Manor proves she still has a little way to go.
Regan’s frantic nod matches the thump of our feet hitting the landing at the top of the stairs. As I chaperone her to my room at the end of a long hallway, she takes in the family portraits dotting the walls. They’re similar to the photos my mom shared last night but ten times their size. They were professionally taken the day before my dad started his new placement over a decade ago. They include the same six faces: me, my parents, my two brothers, and my sister, Darcy.
I won’t lie; the jealousy that roared through Regan’s eyes when Darcy leaped into my arms yesterday afternoon was one of the best moments I’ve ever had. She can deny it all she likes, but I know she was seconds from yanking Darcy off me by the strands of her hair. It’s lucky I had a vise-like grip on her hand or nothing would have stopped her. Regan doesn’t seem like the type to get jealous, but just like her presence affects my mind, she’s learning nothing is as it once was.
