TAG Read online

  He twists the radio knob and surfs the channels until he finds a country station. “Keep the windows closed,” he says, stifling a snicker. “I’ll be laughed out of this state if anyone hears this music.”

  “I grew up in Texas, so this kind of sounds like home,” I say, offering up more information than usual.

  He looks at me through the corner of his eye and clears his throat. “Yeah. I know.”

  “I sort of wish you didn’t know everything about me.” I keep my focus on the blurred lines on the highway, suddenly feeling very exposed.

  “I don’t know everything about you.”

  “Seems like it,” I say gently, trying to keep my hostility at bay.

  “How about I tell you what I know? Anything I don’t mention is something I honestly don’t know about you.”

  “Sure.” I actually really want to know. Although, what I do know is this is where I find out if he really thinks I’m a cool chick, as he said, because he does know everything about me. Or, I find out he only thinks I’m a cool chick because he doesn’t know anything more than what is on the surface.

  “Your name is Carolina Anne Tate. You’re five-foot-three, one-hundred-ten pounds, you have three freckles on your nose, shoulder-blade-length black wavy hair, one tattoo on your right arm, two on your left arm, and the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” His words pull me to look at him. But he’s concentrating on the road and won’t look back at me. He seems unaffected by his own words, as if it were a robotic description. Though, I doubt he describes all of his client’s eyes as beautiful.

  After keeping my eyes locked on the carved edge of his jawline for more than a few seconds, I gather he isn’t planning to look back at me, and I turn my attention back out my window.

  “Hmm,” I sigh. “Is that all?” Please tell me that’s all.

  “Your mother died of breast cancer when you were nineteen. Your sister died a couple years later. And you haven’t seen your father in three years.”

  My sister died? That’s not exactly how I’d put it. “Is that all?”

  I feel the brakes compress as we near a stoplight. He turns his head and his eyes center on mine. “Yes.” He didn’t blink, twitch, or stall. He’s being truthful. If there’s anything I’ve been raised to do well, it’s to read someone’s facial expressions. He’s a challenge, but I have to think his lack of nerves is a telltale sign of truth.

  “What did you do before my dad hired you?” I ask while I have his eyes still locked on mine. Dad always said, eyes are the best lie detector on the human body, and he still hasn’t blinked.

  As I assumed he would, he twists his head forward and almost simultaneously, the light turns green. He turns the music up and pulls his sunglasses down from his head, placing them over his tell-all eyes. I can’t obtain a fucking thing from him. Maybe he trusts almost as little as I do, which probably won’t make this working relationship any easier.

  We pull into a dirt lot, and the silence between us enhances the crunching of the gravel below his tires. The pines overshadowing the building tell me this place is for locals—this place wouldn’t be found unless someone was looking for it.

  Without any exchange of words, we enter into the shooting range. I place my hand down on the front desk and pull my license out with my other hand. My eyes scan the back wall, admiring all of the weapons. My focus stops on my favorite: “the 40 Cal Smith & Wesson, please.”

  The man studies me before complying. His dark eyes, chiseled jaw, and starched flattened shirt and pants tells me he’s either seen his day in the military or in some kind of law enforcement position. He’s looking at me as if he wants to get inside my head, like any other law enforcer I’ve ever met. He clears his throat and sucks his breath in, puffing his chest out before leaning over the counter onto his elbows. My lip unintentionally curls at the close proximity he’s claimed toward me. “Seems like an awfully specific request from a girl like you.”

  “And what kind of girl am I exactly?” I chuckle once and stand up straight, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He pushes off the counter and turns to the back wall and retrieves the weapon. With his fingers bent around the neck of the pistol, he places it down on the counter. “Keep the handgun in front of you at all times. Don’t point it at yourself or anyone else. If we see you doing this, you will be removed at once. Please confirm that you agree to this policy.”

  “I agree.” I reach for the pistol as he releases his grip.

  “I’ll have the same,” Tango says. Maybe he really doesn’t know much about shooting. If he did, I’m sure he’d ask for something larger or more powerful—typical guy move.

  The man asks for his ID, but he doesn’t study his face or try to read his thoughts. He mindlessly pulls the pistol out from behind the counter and places it down gently. He doesn’t recite the policy or ask him to agree.

  Whatever. Let it go, I have to tell myself.

  “I’m Chuck. If either of you have any questions or need anything, give me a shout.” He leads us to two side-by-side alleys and hands us each a pair of safety glasses and ear protection. “Have fun.”

  I waste no time lifting the pistol, squinting my right eye closed, aiming, and releasing. With each shot, my body relaxes a little bit more. Once I’ve gone through my first round of shots, I remove my glasses and reload. I notice Tango hasn’t shot one round. He’s watching me intently, studying me.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  “That was pretty crazy.” His focus moves from mine over to the target. Fifteen rounds put down range and hitting center mass of the target. “You practice a lot?”

  “Yes.” I insert a fresh magazine and rack a round into the chamber. I’ve practiced weekly since Krissy was murdered. I won’t ever miss another shot. If I didn’t miss that one shot, Krissy might still be alive. Anyone can tell me her death wasn’t my fault, but I will forever blame myself for not saving her. “You planning to shoot?”

  He turns to face the target. He closes his left eye, opens it, and closes his right eye. He holds the pistol out in front of him and shoots aimlessly. The bullet grazes the outside of the target, and he grunts with annoyance.

  He shoots off another three the same way, and I’m honestly shocked he doesn’t know how to shoot. My shock is turning into curiosity, though. Things aren’t adding up.

  He suppresses a laugh and throws his head back. “This is so fucking embarrassing.” His cheeks are visibly red and you can’t fake that.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Here, I’ll show you.” I clear my pistol before placing it down next to me, being careful to follow protocol so Chuck doesn’t find a reason to throw me out. This is going to look ridiculous. I’m at least eight inches shorter than he is, trying to wrap my arms around his to show him how to aim. I point to the top of the pistol. “See this u-shape?” I point out the sites.

  “Yeah.”

  “Look through it.” I wrap my fingers around both of his biceps, which feel like stone beneath my touch. “Extend this arm out,” I say, pressing down on his right arm. “Now bend your left elbow slightly, while cupping the bottom of your right hand.” I shove my knee in between his legs. “Leave some space here for balance.” I’m more or less hugging him right now, and it feels . . . nice. Maybe even more than nice. I force myself to refocus my attention, and I take a step back. “Now take a breath, release, and when you feel yourself relax and all of the air is out of your lungs, slowly and steadily squeeze the trigger.” I place my hands over his chest, sending a thrill of nerves to coarse through my body at the slight touch of his hardened muscles.

  The round shoots straight through the neck of the target. “Not bad for a beginner,” I say. Is that a smirk tugging on my permanent scowl? It can’t be. What is he doing to me? What. Is. He. Doing. To. Me?

  He shoots a few more rounds. Most of them are scattered around the outside of the target, and a few make it in to the inside range. Nevertheless, all of them are better shots than the fi
rst ones he let off.

  After an hour of releasing all of the steam my body has pent up for the past two weeks, we turn in our pistols.

  “Nice shot, honey,” the attendant behind the counter says. Now he’s giving me compliments?

  “I know,” I respond, before walking out the door.

  For leaving the shooting range only sixty seconds ago, my brain is already bubbling. Thoughts prickle my mind and I feel out of control. I feel like my mind has taken over and I’m not responsible for what I’m about to do. Since I don’t have the ability to trust people, I sense eyes and ears in every hovering shadow, and my gut tells me Tango’s lying—likely lying about more than just not being able to shoot a weapon. I shove my hand into Tango’s chest and push him against the wall of the building. Caught off guard, he complies with my force. “Whoa!” He puts his arms up by his head. “Chill. Will ya?”

  “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t know how to shoot. Tell me that was all an act.”

  “Why does it matter if I can shoot or not?” His expression is firm. The skin around his cheeks doesn’t tighten, and he doesn’t lower his hands. But he’s not afraid of me. On the contrary, he keeps giving in to me. I want to know why.

  I pull out the knife I swiped from the sandwich shop earlier, knowing it would bring me some kind of comfort. I’ve kept it in the sleeve of my fleece. I couldn’t travel with any weapons, and it was the first thing I saw that could be used if needed. I raise it up to his neck. “Tell me who you used to work for?”

  His arm swings down and his hand clamps around my wrist, twisting it and pressing it against my back. I attempt to swing with my other hand, but that one gets slapped against my other wrist. With one hand, he encapsulates both of mine, holding them against me in a way that prevents me from moving. With no effort, his now free hand reaches around me and pulls the knife from my hand. He pushes me forward until we reach his truck, still keeping my hands locked behind me. He opens the door and lifts me up with his arm while easily shoving me inside.

  He closes the door and locks it, crating me in from the outside world again. My eyes scan the door for the lock button, but I don’t see one. Fire is blazing through my nerves, and my rage is overpowering what control I have left.

  He opens his door so calm and casual and slides in while gently closing his door. “What the fuck was that, Carolina?” His fingers wrap around the steering wheel, and the whites of his knuckles glow through his reddened skin. “A knife? Seriously?”

  “You’re a liar. Just like the rest of them.” The words flow freely. I went too far. I realize this, but my anger is not something to play with. If he actually read my file, he’d know that. He’d know how screwed up I am. He’d know not to fuck with me. Yet, he did.

  We pull into our parking lot and I flip the door handle three times before I turn and give him a blazing look. “Let me out of this fucking tin can,” I growl. He reaches over me and flips the lock I apparently didn’t see under the door handle. The locks pop up; I open the door and then kick it fully open. I jump out and storm toward the entrance of the apartment. I’m somewhat surprised he let me go so easily, but I take the opportunity and run. Because that’s what I need to do right now.

  I’m done.

  I’m so fucking done.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TANGO

  NOT SURE I EXPECTED a knife—a serrated bread knife of all things, to be pulled on me today, but I’ve encountered worse. She must have snatched it from the sandwich shop. I’m gathering she’s a bit more troubled than I was originally led to believe. Maybe I didn’t need to go through the trouble of making her think I haven’t shot a pistol, but the man in me needed to feel her touch. And I did. Her hands are small, soft and don’t match her personality. She smells like a flowery shampoo, and all I wanted to do was lose my face in her silky waves. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. This is my life and work, both meaning the same thing. I know better than this. But my problem is and always has been that I look for trouble, and I always love it—the feeling trouble gives me. And goddamn, this girl is nothing but trouble.

  She’s embarrassed; I can see that. I feel like I know her type. She’s lost within her own mind and doesn’t know what’s good for her. And I’m guessing that’s because nothing has been good for her or good to her in the past. Something’s gotta give, or this is going to turn bad real quick. I’m guessing if I’m not the thing that gives, the bad is going to be on my shoulders.

  She’s moving quickly ahead of me, trying to create the distance she apparently needs from me. It doesn’t take much to trigger her, clearly.

  CALI

  I bust through the front door and then my bedroom door. I’m out of breath after running through the parking lot and up the stairs. I had to wait for Tango to unlock the door since I’m essentially his prisoner now. Although, I didn’t have to wait long since he was on my heels the entire time, making me feel like a child. Now I’m gathering my things and shoving them into my bags. I sling my bags over my shoulders and head for the front door, ready to fight if needed. Ready to fire him if needed.

  As expected, I’m stopped at the front door where he stands—large, in my way, and taking up the entire doorway. “I can’t let you leave,” he says simply.

  “Get out of my way before I call my dad.” My jaw is tense and my pulse is palpitating in my ears. He needs to move. I need to escape. I need to be free.

  “Carolina, you can’t call your dad.” He drops his arms from the threshold of the door, giving me the illusion he might let me by. “He won’t pick up his phone.” He moves forward, but I don’t step back. I won’t be intimidated by him. “When is the last time he picked up your call?”

  Not once. In three years. We text when he sends me a working phone number. Sometimes he calls to check in, but not since he set me up with this WWE-looking bodyguard.

  I disregard his question.

  “Let me by.” I step forward, leaving less than a foot between us. Most people would laugh if they saw me trying to intimidate this very tall and built man, compared to my five-foot-three self, but I know how to incapacitate him with one move.

  But he doesn’t move. His head remains straight, but his eyes lower to my face. “You need to stay with me for your own safety,” he says, staring into my eyes intently.

  “I don’t need to do shit,” I argue. I drop my bags and take the remaining step before popping my leg out and curling it behind his knee. I simultaneously twist my hand around the collar of his shirt and jerk him forward. His legs give out, and he falls to his knees. He lets out a loud cough, a painful sounding one. And for a second I think I actually hurt him. Remorse sets in quickly, since I didn’t expect to actually do any damage. “Feel better?” he asks, looking up at me. He coughs again and nearly folds in half from the deep fight within his lungs. He clears his throat and looks up me. “If you were smart—” He clears his throat again. “You would have moved me from my position if you really wanted to get by me. But now, I’m still here, only lower to the ground, and I doubt you can jump over my head.”

  Bastard. He’s right. I’m losing my mind. I can’t even think of a response.

  “Carolina, please stop.” He pulls in a deep struggling breath before looking up at me again. “Your dad is not in the CIA anymore. He stole something when he was on a mission in China three years ago. He’s been on the run ever since then. There are a number of people who are after him, and you for that matter,” he adds, as if scripted.

  My heart stops beating, and my mind starts racing. Know everyone . . . trust no one. Even Dad.

  “How do I know you aren’t lying?” I sound powerless. I sound as if I’ve lost control.

  I have lost control.

  He stands up and steps away from the door, leaving it free and clear. But I don’t leave. “Carolina, come here away from the door. We don’t need anyone hearing this shit.” He waves me into the kitchen, and my body obeys before my mind does.

  I drop down into a bar stoo
l and let my head fall onto my folded arms. “Where is he?” I mumble into my sleeve.

  “You don’t know, do you?” his voice grows behind me as he moves in closer.

  I snap my head up and twist my body around on the stool to face him. “No, Tango. My mother is dead, my sister was fucking murdered, and I thought my dad was in the CIA. They’ve all left me in a world where everyone wants to screw me over or kill me.” I feel hot tears piercing the back of my eyes. I will not cry. I’m done crying. I shouldn’t have any tears left. I pull in short spurts of shallow breaths until I regain my composure.

  He slouches down in front of my stool. “Hey,” he says, looking up at me. “You were put in this situation. It isn’t your fault. But you do need to be protected. If you don’t want it to be me, I can call someone else. Just say the word, and I’ll be gone. I don’t want to make this harder on you.” He places his hand on my knee for comfort. Not hostility. Like a friend would do. I like his touch. It’s warm. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt since Reaper touched me. “Honest.”

  I swallow my pride, and it goes down like a rusty nail. I don’t want to deal with a new guard. I don’t want to be watched. But if I don’t have a choice, I . . .

  I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. I promised the lifeless body of my little sister this wouldn’t happen again.

  My breaths increase even more. I might hyperventilate, so I suck in all of the air I can and hold it, hoping it will calm me down or cause me to pass out. Tango’s fingers slip through my fingers, and he pulls me off the stool and down to my knees. “Come here,” he says in a heavy voice. His arms wrap around my body, squeezing me tightly against him. “Friends. Okay?” He releases me and pushes me backward a bit so he can situate his face in front of mine. Being this close to him—it does something to me. It gives me comfort. I don’t even remember the feeling. “I will keep you safe from everyone, including yourself.” He takes my wrist and turns it over, scanning the area where a two-inch scar shows. Maybe he knew from my file, or maybe he noticed it over the past few days. It’s unmistakably a scar marking an attempted end. If he did read that in my file, it’s obviously something he didn’t feel like repeating to me when I asked him to tell me what he knew.