Page 31 of Echo, the Sniper (Men of PSI #2)

Toxic People

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Echo

“N OW I UNDERSTAND WHY you said not to get the Big Gulp,” Rory muttered as I escorted her back to the SUV.

It was half past four in the afternoon. I hadn’t wanted to leave my position at the edge of a busy Gas ‘N’ Go gas station outside the sprawling airport, but I wanted to let Rory go unaccompanied into the gas station even less.

If we missed Josiah Armstrong leaving his job, there was always tomorrow.

But if I let Rory out of my sight and she vanished because I relaxed my guard, there would be no do-overs.

She’d be gone, just like I’d thought she’d been gone when I’d turned my back on her and she’d vanished from that bench.

I still wasn’t over how much that had rattled me.

Or the fact that I’d allowed myself to be rattled in the first place.

All I knew was that my world view had narrowed to one thing and one thing only—Rory. Her safety. Her happiness. Her physical, mental and emotional wellbeing.

Her.

“On the upside,” she went on when we were both settled back into our seats and eyes glued on the road beyond the windshield, “the bathroom wasn’t a complete nightmare.

Out of the three toilets, one of them actually worked.

I count that as a win, though I now wish I had a vat of hand sanitizer to swim in. ”

“You’d think a busy station like this where people gas up their rentals before returning them would be better maintained.

” I knew I had to keep my eye on the winding, four-lane road leading out from the airport’s car rental and employee parking areas.

But that didn’t stop me from looking over at her.

God, how did she keep getting more and more breathtaking with each passing day?

Yesterday, in the blue hoodie, I was convinced she should never wear any other color because it made her blue eyes almost incandescent.

Now, in a black Colorado Buffalos pullover sweatshirt and the sides of her hair pulled back to show the delicate fragility of her jawline, her pale hair looked almost silver, and her complexion became porcelain perfection.

By tomorrow, she’d have me convinced she was part goddess and carried a slice of heaven inside her.

A faint grimace scrunched her face as she stared down at her hands as if she believed she could see germs and bacteria if she looked hard enough.

“All I know is that I used my foot to flush and elbows to turned the faucets on and off. You could build an entire stand-up comedy routine around the way I tried to open the door without using my hands before I realized all I had to do was pull my hand up my sleeve.”

“Kinda sorry I missed seeing that.”

“It was quite a show, I’m sure.”

I chuckled and reached into the backseat for my duffle bag. “Since we’re on the subject of cleanliness, we might as well take advantage of this downtime and change out your bandages. How’s your hand feeling?”

“Good. I barely feel any pain when I move it.” As I pulled out the first-aid kit, I saw her open and close her hand a few times. “I’m always so impressed with how you seem to have everything a person could possibly want in your bag. You’re like the paramilitary version of Mary Poppins.”

“Mary Poppins would’ve made a killer drill sergeant.”

“Nanny, drill sergeant—same difference. Except for the show tunes.”

I snorted. “I would’ve dropped dead if my drill sergeant had suddenly busted out with a jaunty version of Step in Time or Chim Chim Cher-ee .”

“Annnnd, now that’s all I want to see, complete with an accompanying dance routine.”

“Same.” Smiling at the sass that kept peeking through with her, I cut away the old bandages.

After a quick examination of the healing blisters crowning her palm, I reached for the antiseptic wipes, ointment, gauze and tape.

“Do me a favor and keep an eye on the road while I take care of this, yeah?”

“Dark green Subaru Forester, right?”

“Right, just like the picture I showed you, with gaudy orange accents.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I used to think Josiah had excellent taste. But now that I know he voluntarily chose a dark green car with splashes of Halloween orange, I’m seriously rethinking my stance.”

“At least it should stand out, so I’m happy for his poor taste.” I ripped open a packet of wipes. “It’s not quitting time yet for Josiah, so I’m not expecting anything right this very second. But you never know.”

“Gotcha.”

“Your hand’s looking really good,” I added, wiping down the healing skin and was pleased she didn’t show any sign of discomfort, much less pain. “Another couple of days, and I think we’ll be able to leave it uncovered without worrying about infection.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said absently, clearly keeping her attention on the road outside. “I’ve never had a burn that was so bad it actually needed bandages like this.”

“I have, once.”

“What happened?”

“I was about seven or eight and I was in the kitchen with my abuela, bugging her about something, don’t ask me what. She’d pulled a pot off the stove and set it on the counter to cool, so I thought the stove was off. Like an idiot, I put my hand right on the burner.”

She gasped. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Instant blisters and screams from me and my abuela. And of course, that brought my tía in so she could complete the screaming chorus.”

She made the sweetest sound of sympathy. “I’ll bet they were terrified, which probably made your pain and terror that much worse.”

“They were terrified, and then furious, because I obviously hadn’t used my head. I have never been more lectured in my life about thinking before I act.”

“I’m assuming that by the end of the day you understood every possible definition of the word consequence ?”

“Damn, it’s like you were there.” Grinning, I placed medicated pads over just two of the worst burns since the others were healing so nicely, then grabbed up the gauze.

“As soon as I was able to use my hand again, they had me in the kitchen, learning how to cook and more importantly, learning how to safely act around things like hot stoves and sharp knives.”

“Wait.” Her tone brought my gaze up to her wide, waif-like eyes. “I know you said you can cook when we were first getting to know each other, but were you really serious? You can actually cook real food?”

“What does real food mean?”

“It means something other than grilling a hunk of meat on an open flame, or reading directions on a box of mac and cheese.”

“Hey, don’t knock a good box of mac and cheese.”

“There’s no such thing as a good box of mac and cheese.”

“But there is such a thing as a good piece of grilled meat—specifically a skirt steak for fajitas, marinated in my abuela’s famous lime, garlic and smoked paprika mix overnight. Put that together with roasted peppers and onions, and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? You really do know how to cook.

” She stared at me like I’d just landed my personal spaceship right in front of her.

“I know there are a ton of male chefs, but a regular guy who knows what he’s doing in the kitchen?

That’s just... I don’t even know what it is. I feel like I found Sasquatch.”

I bit my tongue before I could make a nasty comment about her shit-for-brains ex.

No reason to bring that bastard up when I was trying to make her forget he ever existed.

“Don’t tell me your dad never grilled anything.

Sure, he was a bigwig state senator, but I did my research on him.

He painted himself as a simple, boy-next-door family guy.

There had to have been cookouts during your childhood. ”

“The only cookouts I remember were catered affairs, with my father and mother shmoozing the big donors at the open bar. I loved my dad, but the image of him as a regular guy was just that—an image. Some PR firm carefully constructed it until it seemed real, but I promise you, I never saw that man flip a burger in his life.”

I grimaced. Welp. Should’ve known better than to fall for a politician’s bullshit.

“My family never would’ve allowed me to leave the nest without knowing how to properly take care of myself, and that includes cooking.

While my last name—Echols—comes from a man I never knew, we’re mostly Puerto Rican by heritage, and L.A.

by geography. That means the food I grew up with was mainly Baja-Mexican, with a bit of Puerto Rico thrown in so we never forget our roots.

” I cut the gauze and had her hold it in place as I reached for the medical tape. “How’s that feel? Too tight?”

“No, it’s perfect.” She kept her gaze trained on the road beyond our parked position at the gas station. “What are some of your favorite dishes that you can make?”

Heh. She still didn’t believe I could cook. “Is this a test?”

“No. Okay, maybe.”

“Obviously I’m going to have to make you some of my favorite shrimp and avocado tostadas with chili-lime sauce, or maybe a bowl of halibut or red snapper ceviche with tostones , which is like a double-fried plantain.

I also make decent alcapurrias —they’re like deep-fried fritters with seasoned ground beef inside, though sometimes my abuela puts in crabmeat instead, and that’s my favorite way to have it.

I’ll admit it’s hard to get my hands on yautia root in Chicago, so whenever I make it, I fake it with sweet potatoes.

I think you’d like them, especially when I serve them with a mango salsa I kind of made up that’s both sweet and spicy. ”

“That sounds... amazing. And if you hear my stomach growling, you have my apologies in advance.”

I smiled as I carefully pressed the medical tape in place, then closed the first-aid kit with a snap. “I’ll feed you once we’ve found out where Josiah Armstrong—and hopefully Edward Terwilliger—are holed up. You don’t mind eating late, do you?”