“Answer the question.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “A thousand now and a thousand after you go back.”
Disappointment rocked through her. Two thousand dollars would be a substantial amount for someone living on the street. Heck, less than a month ago, she would have sold herself to Marla Wagner to keep from having to hock her guitar or sleep in her car.
But she’d never sell out her own daughter.
Her gaze landed on the bassinet, and she pictured Halia asleep. Cheeks flushed, pink and puckered lips sucking gently. A wave of fierce protectiveness spread through her. Nope. Whether hers by blood or not, she’d never—EVER—allow any child to be bought or sold.
Didn’t matter the amount, or how dire her own circumstances, children were to be cherished. Safeguarded. Raised in the embrace of a loving family.
“You wouldn’t have to stay,” Melanie rushed on. “Go back for a couple of months until you find something better. Then you can move on and make more money somewhere else. Rich people are always looking for someone to look after their kids.”
“I already found something better.”
“Really? How can I believe what you say when you won’t tell me who you work for, how much they’re paying you, or where they live. You won’t even give me a number to reach you. Doesn’t sound better to me. What if they’re bad people? What if they’re preying on your innocent nature? What if they’re taking advantage of—”
“Mother.” Her patience at an end, Summer plucked her phone off the side table, and hovering her thumb over the disconnect button, she continued. “I’m in a good place, with good people, that’s all you need to know. If Mrs. Wagner calls again, tell her thanks but no thanks. I’m happy where I am.”
“But what about the money? I already pledged the two grand to Oshram. He’s expecting the offering in a few days.”
“Sorry. You should have checked with me first.”
“But—”
“Oh, I hear the baby,” she lied, not sorry for her mother’s predicament in the least. She’d gotten herself into this mess. Let her get herself out. “She’s due for her next bottle. I gotta go. Talk to you next week.”
“But—”
“Take care, Melanie. Bye.” With a fast tap, she ended the call, and dropping her hand into her lap, she stared at the blank screen without really seeing it. Once again, there’d been no mother/daughter connection. No asking for or offering of maternal advice and guidance. No miss you or love you expressions exchanged.
Not one.
Silly how much she craved to hear the words. How much she wanted to matter to the woman who’d birthed her. How much the rejection still hurt. But eight years after leaving the compound, she no longer felt like she’d done something wrong. Like she didn’t deserve to be loved. Didn’t deserve to be cared for. Didn’t deserve to be cherished.
She’d found her place and her people, and if she never connected with Melanie, at least she could say she tried.
* * *
Towel wrapped around his waist,Jamie shuffled out of the locker room shower and returned to his office where he’d dumped his duffel on a cot earlier. Apparently, he’d been relegated to the basement as punishment for…whatever the fuck he’d done to piss off his entire unit.
His go bag hadn’t made the trip with him, and feeling more than a little hostile about his plans being commandeered, he ignored the man leaning against his desk, and kept his focus on his intended target instead.
When he reached the cot, he yanked down the zipper on his bag and pulled out his last bottle of Flor de Caña. The rum being the best thing to come out of his stay in Nicaragua, he broke the seal on the cap, put the bottle to his lips, and pulled the trigger.
Sweet and spicy, the alcohol warmed the empty pit of his stomach but did little to melt the ice around his heart. He didn’t belong here with the JTT. Not anymore. His knee made him a liability. A hindrance. A foot-dragging drawback nobody needed to be saddled with.
Forget covert operations, tactical maneuvers, and covering his teammates’ backs. His handicap put them at risk. Left them vulnerable. He didn’t need to be told he was being benched. Put on light duties. Set out to pasture.
As a doctor and a former green beret, he’d be the first to permanently sideline anyone with his kind of debilitating injury. He didn’t need to look into Adam’s hard eyes to get the message straight from the top.
“One night.”
“Excuse me?” Jamie swiveled his head and watched as the leader of the JTT pushed off the desk before walking to the door with ease, the leather straps of his double holster crisscrossing his back.
Hands in his pockets, he turned when he reached the exit. “Vacation’s over, asshole. You have one night to get your shit together. As of tomorrow, you’re back on full duty. Debrief at zero seven hundred in the main boardroom. Don’t be late.”
“Don’t need your pity fuck,” Jamie grumbled. Worse than being sidelined, being mollycoddled would destroy any last shreds of dignity he had. This wasn’t grade school where every participant got a ribbon for doing their personal best.
