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“He has the fucking pictures and video Maverick. I need to see him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I just came from Derek. He told me Cooper took the thumb drive. I want it in my hands, so that I can end this right now.”
Maverick swore a blue streak. “He told me that he had nothing to do with it.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s at his place in Maine.”
“Maine?”
Jack’s tires squealed as he moved over two lanes and made it back onto the interstate. Looks like he was heading to the airport.
“He’s got a place out there. An old estate he bought over ten years ago. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks,” Jack said tersely.
“Have you talked to Donovan?”
“No.”
“Do you plan on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, looks like you’ve got some stuff to figure out.”
No shit, Jack thought.
“And while you’re at it, try not to forget that Cooper has his black belt. I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours ruined.”
Jack sped into the night, his anger barely in check and his thoughts all over the place. He had no idea if he was going to accomplish anything, but it didn’t matter. He had to do something, because even the thought of doing something was better than sitting in his beach house thinking about Donovan.
Because Donovan was complicated and messy and mysterious and aggravating. And as hard as that was, he loved her. He fucking loved her. But then hadn’t he always?
The problem was that he didn’t know what to do about it. The pain of her betrayal was still too raw and though he knew he’d find his way back to her, he didn’t know how much time he needed to get his head straight.
He loved her. That was a given. This situation was going to take some time. Another given.
He just hoped she was willing to give him the time he needed.
***
Jack landed in Maine at close to midnight. He was dead tired and suffering from a severe lack of focus. He punched the address Maverick had given him into the GPS of his rental, and as he pulled out of the airport, he had to ask himself, was he going crazy?
“Let’s hope not,” he muttered.
Jonathan Grimes, his new campaign manager, had called him several times on the flight, and he knew that his political campaign was intact. His publicist had also made a statement, basically saying ‘no comment’, and for now the storm was at bay.
He needed to make sure it never reached land.
He drove for nearly an hour, out along the coast, and when he finally found the address he was looking for, Jack pulled into the long driveway, blinking away his fatigue. When was the last time he’d slept?
The driveway was nothing more than gravel littered with potholes. After the fourth time his front tire banged hard, he switched on his high beams. They lit up tall grass along each side that blew shadows across his windshield. Big drops of rain started to fall, and Jack peered into the distance, spotting a light among the gloom.
He passed a barn on the right—one that had seen better days—and a large house rose out of the darkness, illuminated by his car and nothing else.
