Page 108 of Dangerous Mission
“Are you another of the silent brooding types?”
His eyes flick to mine across the bar, but then he silently focuses on his work.
“Come on now,” I plead with frustration in my tone. “If you know Griff, then just say it.”
He reaches for a bowl, rattles around in a kitchen drawer until he has a spoon in his hand. “I know him.”
“Jesus. Who are you?”
“Truck.”
I glance at the door and rub my forehead. If this guy expects me to get in a vehicle with him, he’s nuts. “Hell no,” I mutter. “I’m not going anywhere, I don’t even know you.”
He makes a face. “What are you talking about?”
“Truck?”
He goes back to working on the bowl of yogurt as heshakes his head for a few seconds as if I’ve lost my mind. “That’s my name.”
Oh. Truck—like Scout and Beast. Dropping my head back on the couch, I grimace. “Either I’m really drunk off that medication they gave me or this conversation is completely messed up.”
After some thunking sounds fill the kitchen, he returns. There’s a slight limp to his gait that I didn’t catch before. For a beat, I wonder if he has a war injury too. Not going to ask. Just like I don’t want people to ask about my wrists.
When he puts the bowl on my lap, there’s chopped bits of melon on top of the yogurt and sprinkles of shredded coconut.
For some reason this causes tears to spring to my eyes, making me feel ridiculously vulnerable.
“Oh brother, it’s just a bowl of yogurt,” he says gruffly and he takes a seat in the chair in front of me again. “Eat.”
I weirdly obey, maybe hoping it dissipates some of the fog in my head, or the emotions clawing at the inside of my chest. I’m exhausted too. Like the weight of the past two days is a heavy blanket draped over my shoulders.
He—the guy called Truck—watches me in silent tension. As if he’s looking for some kind of clue.
Well, good luck buddy. I’m clueless right now.
When I’ve finished most of the food, I place the bowl on the small end table and fold myself up in the corner of the couch. I feel small and out of place under his hawk-like observation. “Are you just going to stare at me?”
After rubbing the back of his knuckles over his chin, he starts to speak. “Do you know how Scout and Griff met?”
My brain is foggy, but not that foggy. “Yeah, they met on some kind of mission, I guess. I mean I don’t know the specifics. But Griff is a Delta, whichyou know, and of course you know Scout is a SEAL, so they work together sometimes.”
I find myself frowning at his stern expression. “Do you have something to add?”
“What has Scout told you about himself?”
I blink at Truck, the big, impossibly dangerous looking man, and realize that this is territory that I’m not comfortable entering. “Some things. But I’m not going to discuss those with you.”
Weaving his hands together, Truck cracks his knuckles. “Do they act jacked up toward each other?”
“Oh yeah.” I curl my arms around my knees. “Like they’re out for blood. Or they don’t trust each other. Or…I just don’t know.”
His eyes glint then he looks away. “You need to know what happened.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
I’m not sure if I’m alarmed—more alarmed—or relieved when I crest the hill and see there are no trucks parked in front of my cabina where I left Aria sleeping.
Surely she’s not alone.
