Body Shot (Last Shot)(81)

He thought he’d drowned all his anger in tequila last night, but apparently not, as his gut tightened again. But what was he even angry about? That she wouldn’t take his money? Yeah, that was it.

Fuck it. He threw back the covers. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. He showered and packed some things and drove to the airport, arriving way early, but what the hell. There was always a bar open in an airport and he needed another drink.

He called his mom and let her know his plans, and found out what hospital Dad was in. She offered to send a car to the airport to pick him up. Normally, he would have refused, but what the hell, it would just make things easier, so he agreed.

He ordered another drink.

His thoughts went back to Hayden.

He wasn’t mad because she’d turned down his money. He was mad because she was dumping him. He rubbed at the ache in his chest. Fuck. She was crazy. She was willing to sacrifice way too much for her career. He knew it was more than a career to her, it was a mission, but still. What he’d told her was true—she deserved to have a life.

And he wanted it to be with him.

Fuck. He slid down farther into the chair and tilted his head back. He’d tried to tell himself it was all just having fun, introducing his uptight little professor to new experiences, letting her experience all the passion and heat she kept hidden under tidy shirts and plain beige bras. But it had become much more than that. He didn’t only want her sexy body in his bed, he wanted all of her in his life. Surprising him with her sense of humor, charming him with her quirks and lists and need to plan ahead. He was totally falling for her.

And she’d kicked his ass out of her condo and her life. He scrubbed his hands over his face, his throat dry and scratchy.

Yeah, he’d been more miserable in his life. Hell Week, rolling wet in the sand until his skin was being abraded everyfuckingwhere, including his dick and balls. His time in Afghanistan, so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open, so freezing he couldn’t feel his feet. The rescue mission in the Indian Ocean when he’d spent hours in the fucking frigid water before climbing up the side of an oil tanker that had been seized by rebel gunmen. His current hangover headache and uneasy stomach were mild compared to those experiences. His mental toughness had got him through those situations, but it was failing him now. What the fuck? Why did he feel like all the air and light had been sucked out of his life?

Then around eight o’clock as they were getting ready to board, he called Marco. “Hey, man. I’ve got a little problem.”

“Yeah?” Marco sounded like he’d just woken up, a little hoarse. “Whassup?”

“I’m at the airport. My dad had a heart attack so I’m going home to see him.”

“Jesus! Seriously? He okay?”

“He’s alive.” Beck grimaced. “They’re doing some tests. I’ll find out more when I get there.”

“Hell, Beck. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Marco knew how much he detested going home, which was why he rarely did it. “I’m okay.” He kinda wasn’t, but whatever. He wasn’t going to get into it all right now. “Not sure how long I’ll be gone. Probably a few days, anyway. You guys’ll be okay without me?”

“Nah, man, things are gonna fall down around our asses with you gone for a few days.”

Beck gave a dry chuckle. “Asshole. Sorry about this.”

“Hey, don’t apologize. Not like you had any control over it. And yeah, you have to go see him. Make sure your mom’s okay.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.” She’d fallen apart the day Aidan had died, but since then, he’d never seen so much as one tear or flicker of sadness, fear, or even love. She might be a bit upset, but she’d handle this. “I’ll let you know what’s happening when I know more.”

“Yeah. Whatever you need, man, just let us know.”

“Thanks.” He ended the call and lowered his phone.

Traveling sucked. Sitting around waiting. Sitting on the plane waiting. A five-hour flight to Philadelphia, then waiting in that airport. He used that time to make calls to his financial advisor and his lawyer, for some discussion and to make arrangements for an idea he had. The next flight was short. Then he was in Boston. He only had his carry-on, so no waiting for luggage to arrive. He located the driver of the car service holding up a sign with his name on it, and followed him out to the town car at the curb.

“Where would you like to go, Mr. Whitcomb? Home? Or to the hospital?”

Home. It wasn’t his home. Hadn’t been for a long time. “Might as well go right to the hospital. Thanks.”