She jumped. Ghost stood at the foot of the makeshift bed, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. She hadn’t seen or heard him come into the room; how like his club name of him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your nerves,” he repeated. “It doesn’t matter that it’s over, now. They’re all shot to hell and they’re gonna make you shake for a little while.”
She nodded. “Well that’s…fun.”
“Here.” He held the glass toward her. “In my experience, time and a little of this is all that helps.”
She took the glass, nose wrinkling as she caught a whiff of its contents. “What is this?”
“Bourbon.”
She took a sip and managed not to choke, but he grinned when he saw her face.
“It gets easier the farther you go.”
“I’m sure.” She added, “Thanks.”
Ghost gave her a nod and turned for the hallway. He paused, though, and glanced back at her. “Hey, Sam.”
“Yes?” The glass clicked against her teeth as the shaking intensified.
“In case shit gets crazy, and I forget to say it. Welcome to the family.”
~*~
Tango looked like a corpse laid out in Ava’s old bed. Aidan resisted the urge to lean over him and check that he was breathing, but it was a strong impulse.
The guy’s bedmate didn’t look much better. Whitney lay on her side, not touching Tango, but very close, her face pale and her brow creased with a worry that had chased her into sleep. Aidan felt like he ought to wake her, ask her where her parents were and drive her home. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
Plus…
He spotted a face in the window.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, recognizing the narrow features the moment panic struck.
They’d left the lights on in the room – previous experience had taught them Tango wouldn’t want to wake up in the dark after his ordeal – and Ian Byron’s expression was a study in elegant concern on the other side of the glass.
Aidan crossed the room, yanked open the window, and whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with you, you goddamn creep-ass?”
Ian was still dressed up in his black catsuit, secret agent costume, whatever the fuck it was. He didn’t react to Aidan’s question, but glanced around him, into the room. “How is he?”
“Asleep.”
“Obviously. Buthow is he?”
Aidan sighed. “My best guess is pretty awful. But we’ll know more in the morning.”
Ian exhaled loudly and slumped sideways against the window frame.
“He’s where he belongs, Ian.”
The other man’s pale eyes lifted, luminous with anger. “You think I don’t know that. I…” As quick as it had come, his temper faded. “My God,” he murmured to the open air.
“Yeah,” Aidan said. “I know the feeling.”
It was the coldest part of the night, the hour when the frost lay thickest and the air seemed to become a solid crystalline sheet. A car started, somewhere down the street: someone headed in for an early shift, or trying to beat the sunrise after a late night.
