Staff Sergeant Zander James had pulled many impossible missions in the last four years, certainly since he’d shipped out to a desert life of blazing days and freezing nights, his unit constantly thrust into the worst of every possible situation. At this exact moment, however, his assignment was epically simple: to let go of Erin Connelly’s hands, and allow the woman who’d well and truly jacked up his life four years ago to crawl back to whatever miserable existence she was living, never to betray him again.
Unfortunately, it appeared that said mission had already been compromised. All his careful strategies and well-laid plans to handle this fucked-up little reunion had completely fallen to shit.
Because something was wrong.
Erin was scared. Worried. And not just the garden-variety worry that she’d always seemed to wrap around herself like some sort of fucking shroud, every second of every day. This worry was real, immediate. It vibrated off her like a living thing.
Too bad he didn’t give a damn. He’d stopped giving a damn about Erin Connelly the night she’d not only sold him out, but then proceeded to completely cut him out of her life. After he’d enlisted in the army—his only choice with West Point off the table—she hadn’t written him, not once. He hadn’t expected her to write him, of course, but he sure as hell hadn’t come crawling back to her, either. Weeks had turned into months, months to years. All that time without an email or a text—and with him making only one, supremely ill-advised phone call. Hadn’t seemed so long, in the end.
In the beginning, that was another story.
But none of that mattered, he reminded himself. She didn’t matter.
Except now, as he stared into a pair of bright blue eyes he knew so well they were goddamned imprinted on his skull, he found himself unprepared for the shock to his system. His hands tightened on hers, and he fixed his glare on Erin Connelly’s startled face for one long, impossibly perfect moment, taking in the parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the stricken expression of a woman far more affected by him than she’d either planned or wanted to be. Good. “Now?” he asked bluntly. “Now, at my father’s funeral, this is when you want to ask me something?”
And, just like that, Erin’s chin came up, her shoulders firmed. That was new. “I apologize,” she said, her words suddenly as clipped as his, almost emotionless. “Of course not, what was I thinking. I’m so sorry.” Nice. She’d learned some evasive tactics of her own while he was gone. She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then thought better of it, substituting different words: “Your father will be missed.”
She moved to pull away, and Zander felt the action like a visceral tug, as if Erin held a direct line to his heart and she was towing it along with her. And since the entire point of this little maneuver was getting that shit to stop, he tightened his own hold, keeping her close. “What’s your question?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should go,” Erin said, shaking her head. She tried to take one of her hands out of his, to flutter it in front of her face—as if to push back the fringe of dark hair that was always falling forward over her brow, or wipe away some smear of paint or chalk or whatever the hell she was messing with in one of her ongoing art projects. Her nervous gestures were so ingrained that Zander holding her hands still was like performing a mini-exorcism, smudging the memory of her just that little bit. That was good, he thought, that was right. He needed to erase every last image he had of Erin Connelly, push her out of his mind completely. He’d come a long way toward that on his own, but seeing her now, here—clearly there was more work to be done.
He wanted to finish that job, too. Today. This afternoon. And she’d just given him the means to do so.
“No,” he said. “Come to the house, after.” He could sense the retreat in Erin, the shying away. So he went in for the kill. “We’ll talk then.”
“Oh.” Erin’s eyes widened, the haunted look back in her gaze. “Okay. Okay, well, great.” She glanced to her right at the next person waiting to greet him. She was holding up the line. She couldn’t just keep standing there, and she knew it.
“Come to the house,” he said again, this time more firmly, loud enough that his mother glanced over from where she was speaking with a crying older woman, clearly comforting her more than she was being comforted herself. Erin saw the glance as well, took in his mother’s relieved smile. And Zander knew she was done for. She wouldn’t want to cause any distress, especially if she still thought his mom knew the whole truth about the mess between them—which from the stricken look on Erin’s face, apparently she did. Worked for him.
“The house,” Erin murmured. “Of course.”
“Good.” Zander gave her hands a last, token squeeze, then—finally—released her. “I’ll see you there.”
Erin walking away from him gave Zander a weird feeling of déjà vu. More demons to beat down, he supposed, but he continued smiling and shaking hands with rote politeness, his mind only half-engaged. Even setting aside the whole clusterfuck of Erin Connelly, being back home felt wrong. Everything’d felt wrong since the moment he’d gotten the official notice about the colonel, but carrying his father’s casket through the middle of that knot of civilians this morning had been like navigating through members of an alien race.
He knew he’d been drawing stares the whole time, of course. Uniforms always drew stares. Guys sizing him up, women checking him out. That didn’t bother him so much.
It was that there were so many people, all in one spot. Packed into a closed-up building—fat, skinny, young, old, babies, grandmas. It was a catastrophe waiting to happen. He’d plotted out seven different ways a target could cause major chaos and destruction before he’d finally abandoned the exercise out of sheer frustration. All those people, open to attack. It left him cold inside. Then again, everything left him cold inside these days.
He nodded at the next person in line, said the expected words. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be stateside, away from his unit. Didn’t want to be seeing his family again. He could serve them better by doing his job. Even if his dad had thought his job was shit.
His dad. Zander tightened his jaw, recognizing in some part of his brain that the change in his expression had an effect on the people standing beside him. His sister, covertly eyeing his profile. His mother, shifting nervously. They’d all been watching him, wary and on edge, since he’d touched down at Boston Logan. They shouldn’t have worried. They’d not been the problem. Especially not his mom, who’d done everything she could to make things easier between him and his old man. But full-bird-colonel William Frank James had never had enough time to unkink his ass from the stick he’d driven up it over Zander’s enlistment. He’d hated everything about Zander joining the army, because it hadn’t been perfect, hadn’t been the way he’d wanted it done. The medals, the honors, the missions, even making Ranger. His father hadn’t said a word. And that was fine. The old man had his military, Zander had his. Or “Z,” as his unit called him. He liked that, it suited him. Because if ever there was a soldier to end a mission with a bang, it made sense that his name would be Z.
For the first time in what’d seemed like weeks, Zander’s mouth kicked up into a smile. The air seemed to get a little looser around him, the constriction in his chest easing up. He was here on a mission, same as any other. He’d continue paying his respects to the man who had made him what he was. He’d make sure his family was okay. He’d even go lust after one of the sweet new Vipers that had rolled onto the lot this year over at the dealership in Danvers. They were just about perfect—so much strength and speed, he couldn’t even imagine what it’d be like to take one out on the open road, never mind that he’d never be able to afford one in this lifetime. Sure as shit not on his E-6 pay grade.
Whatever, though. Because after all of that was done and his leave was finished, he’d be back aboard another bird, officially re-upping for his next tour of duty. Ironic that the timing of his dad’s death had taken him out of the mix just when he had that process to complete, but it didn’t change anything. His CO knew where his head was, had even encouraged him to take the time to reconnect with his family, his old friends. From the way he’d said it, Zander’d gotten the idea that where they were sending him next wouldn’t be anywhere he’d be coming back from soon.
Worked for him.
He certainly didn’t need to see Erin Connelly again after today. She hadn’t been back in his airspace for more than twenty minutes, and already she was making him crazy. Those big eyes always so filled with worry, that full mouth, those perfect, sweet curves made just right for—Zander felt his body shift at the vivid images his memory was serving up. He gritted his teeth and fought to keep other parts of his anatomy from tightening, too. Jesus, now was not the—
Zander’s hand was suddenly gripped hard in a clasp so like his father’s that he snapped to attention, all thoughts of Erin evaporating. His gaze connected with an older man he didn’t recognize. The man was not in uniform but looked like he should be, the rigid, military set to his jaw marking his first profession as clearly as an insignia on his shoulder.
“Glenn Jackson, Zander. Your father and I were great friends. I’m sorry to see him leave the fight. He would have wanted to be here to welcome you home.”
“Thank you, sir,” Zander said, according the man the respect he’d doubtless earned at some point, even if he was no longer an officer. Because, of course, he would have been an officer once. Otherwise, he and Zander’s father wouldn’t have been friends.
“Call me Glenn.” Pause. “I don’t want to take your time now, but perhaps we can talk for a few minutes later today.” Grim smile, but a purposeful one. “I apologize for interrupting your time with your family, but I understand you’ll only be home for a few weeks.”
Zander raised his brows, but didn’t pursue the point. “I’ll be available later this afternoon at the house. I can speak with you then.”
“Excellent.” With a short nod, Glenn Jackson turned and strode off into the bright sun, leaving Zander to receive the next person in line. What could this man want with him that required a discussion at his own father’s funeral? He looked forward to finding out. Nothing like the anticipation of a challenge to get him rolling, after all.
And he was rolling, Zander realized. The familiar surge in his blood, the kick of his pulse—he smiled as his whole body practically hummed with expectation. Not just about Jackson, either. Zander knew himself well enough to know that. He’d talk with the guy, sure, but his mind was already skipping ahead to his conversation with Erin. He didn’t know what he would say—or what she would. But he did know what he wanted. What he was determined to get.
To obliterate Erin Connelly completely and permanently—from his mind, from his heart, and from every single one of his memories. He wasn’t sure what it would take to make that happen, but judging from the reaction she’d had to touching him, and with his own body already revving to go, he was starting to get some pretty interesting ideas.
This was going to be good.