War(26)

“We could have taken my car,” I grumbled about thirty minutes after we’d left the police station.

The haze of the police station had cleared a little and left behind a numbness I embraced. Numbness was far better than the despair that threatened when I even contemplated thinking about Tiffany. Better than numbness was having something to focus on, and right now, that focus was my car.

I shifted in my seat to face him, looked at him expectantly.

“We’ve discussed this, Milan,” Priest said.

He didn’t sound impatient even though I’d said the same thing twice before. Still, explanation notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but push the point.

“Yeah, we talked about it, but I don’t understand. Why couldn’t we take my car?”

When he pulled the luxury sedan we’d gotten into to a stop at a red light, he turned to face me, half of his face in shadow, the other half illuminated.

I swallowed, trying—and failing—not to notice his dark beauty, knowing that doing so was beyond foolish but unable to stop myself.

The intensity of his eyes was too much, so I dropped my gaze. The intensity lessened, but only barely, because now rather than looking at his eyes, I was staring at his solid, stubbled jaw before my gaze was drawn to the corner of his mouth.

What would it be like to feel those lips against mine again? As crazy as the thought was, I wanted more than anything to know. I felt myself smiling as he parted his lips, and it was only when I heard his voice that I realized he was speaking.

“Every cop, and by now, every criminal in this city knows that car is yours, and they know you were with me. Which makes it a target. People are going to look for it, hoping that if they find it, they’ll find you and me. If it’s the cops, you’ll be lucky. They’ll come up something to charge you with as punishment for leaving the station. If it’s not the cops, you’ll be less lucky.”

He didn’t elaborate, and when the light turned green, he pulled off. I got his point, but still couldn’t let it go that easily.

“I loved that car,” I grumbled, looking out of the passenger-side window, watching the scenery as it passed by.

He huffed out a breath, the first sign of impatience I had heard from him. “Milan, if I make it out of this alive, and you never mention that fucking car again, I’ll buy you a hundred of them. Deal?”

I turned to look at him, saw his jaw twitching, a clear sign of his exasperation. Oddly, seeing that out of him made me want to laugh. I didn’t laugh, though, because if I started, I doubted I’d be able to stop.

Maybe I was in shock or something, but this didn’t feel real. I mean I was here, in my body, but I didn’t feel like myself. I was waiting, hoping that at any moment I would wake up, tell Tiff about this crazy dream I had had.

The stab of pain in my gut was the proof that there would be no waking up from this.

Tiffany was gone.

Dead.

I had seen her myself, and no matter what I might have wished, prayed, she wasn’t coming back. I was not waking up from this.

“I’m not waking up from this,” I said out loud.

Priest had stopped at another red light, and when I turned, he was looking at me, his gaze searching mine, his eyes hard, glittering, but almost empathetic.

“No. No you’re not waking up from this,” he said.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” I said. Maybe an odd sentiment, but his words, his truth, was welcome and only strengthened my confidence that my belief in him, my faith in my perceptions, was not misplaced.

“Why are you thanking me for that?” he asked as he again began to drive.

“I can handle anything.” I chuckled, realizing that Priest, that this day, was going to give me more than I had ever anticipated. “At least, I like to think so. If I know what it is, I can plan for it, handle it, manage it. Can’t do that with lies. So thank you for not lying to me.”

He nodded. “We share that in common,” he said.

“Speaking of…” I said, deciding to address the thought that had had me so driven earlier.

“Speaking of what?” he asked.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Milan, we both decided we prefer the truth, so tell me,” he said.

“So whoever killed Tiffany, they were looking for you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I’d known that, but hearing him say it still left me momentarily stunned.

“You hold me responsible,” he said.

The certainty in his voice had me looking at him again, trying to gauge what had made him assume that. It also left me trying to gauge whether I did, whether I should.

“Sounds like you think I do. That you think I should,” I said.