Page 54

“Jack.” She drops her arms and shifts back, putting distance between us.

Those large brown eyes are glassy and reflect the golden overhead light.

“I just… I don’t fit in your world. I care about you, and I’m glad you know the truth, but I can’t…

” She glances over her shoulder, through the open door into the cocktail banquet room.

“This isn’t me. Those people? If Patrick didn’t spend a small fortune, these people, they would all see it. ”

“How can you say that? You’re the most beautiful woman in the room, inside and out.”

“I only fit in tonight because Patrick dressed me. If it wasn’t for these mesh sleeves, they would all be staring at my arms.” A winding mix of tropical and wildflowers cover her arms in arresting sleeves.

The dress covers her in such a way that the designs show, but one might assume the tattoos are the gown’s designs. “You need—”

“Don’t you tell me what I need. Ava, I need you.”

“It crushed me to think that you thought I was just one more person who would hurt you. But… Jack. This. Your world…” She’s struggling for the words, but she doesn’t need them, because I have them.

“My world needs you.”

I link my fingers through hers. She might think this banquet room means something to me, but she couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Let’s go.” I need to get her out of here. I need to show her I love her in the only way I really know how.

“Don’t you need to… you’re on the program.”

“I’ve done what I need to do here.”

The dining room hall doors have opened, and attendees filter through, searching for their tables. I lead Ava in the opposite direction. I text Fisher, letting him know we’re ready to leave.

“Where are you going?” Uncle Mark blocks the exit. “You can’t leave.”

“We can. And we are.” I move to skirt around him. He presses his shoulder into mine and leans so his lips are inches from my ear.

“You don’t give a shit, do you? It was all an act.”

I haven’t been acting with him. I’ve been avoiding his calls. “Excuse me?”

“You walk out of here, how will it look to the industry?”

“I don’t care.” I stare back at the man who played father figure for so much of my life. A virtual stranger.

“You don’t, do you? You’d willingly be seen with a woman like her, and not give a damn if it hurts your reputation or the company.” Fury illuminates his expression. He’s off kilter. Awareness flashes. He might break, and I’m wearing a wire.

“I’m glad you understand. The company would never be my highest priority. Unlike you, I would never hide my true self for the sake of a business. And that right there is why you lost Patrick.” The glare he gives me would shoot bullets if loaded. “And as for the company, I’m cleaning shop.”

“What do you mean?” He grits the words out, leaning so close his breath heats the side of my face.

“What do you think I mean?” I hold my breath, waiting.

“If you think you’re closing down the international partnerships I have worked damn hard to cultivate, you are out of your mind.”

“Plural? Which partnerships do I need to leave alone?”

He scowls, but he doesn’t speak.

My grip on Ava’s hand tightens, and I move to bypass Mark. If anything will make him break, it’s bypassing him and moving on.

He pushes hard against my shoulder, keeping me in place. Through gritted teeth he says, “There’s a group of feds monitoring this site. We thought it was typical government overreach. Watching the NRA.” His eyes narrow. “Are you working with them?”

No, the automatic lie thanks to years of training is on the tip of my tongue. But I hold it back, willing him to break. I raise one eyebrow and put on what I hope is one smug fucking expression.

His gaze falls to my chest, and his fingers rip my tuxedo shirt, sending buttons scattering across the marble floor. “Don’t look surprised. I’ve ripped many in my time.”

His fingers lift my undershirt, and his face transforms the second he spots the thin wire.

“First Patrick, and now you.” In the last week, I have questioned if my uncle were a sociopath. But his pale skin and sad eyes hold too much emotion. He’s simply a misguided man with warped priorities and a weak moral foundation. “I gave you so much.”

“I know you believe that.” It’s all I can say.

He disregards me, and his focus falls to Ava. “And you. I’ve given you your life.”

She’s silent. Which doesn’t seem to work for Mark Sullivan. He raises his hand, and I block him.

“Don’t.”

He peers around me to glare at Ava. “I’ll get Patrick back.”

“No, I don’t think you will.” She holds her chin up, and in her elegant gown and glittering diamonds, she looks like a queen censuring a peasant.

Mark’s face contorts into one of blood-soaked rage.

A few stray tuxedoes and gowns gather nearby.

My hand wraps around my uncle's frail wrist, and I discreetly speak into his ear. “People are watching.”

It’s the magical phrase for Uncle. He straightens his coat and glances down at my torn shirt.

“Don’t leave like that. The media is outside.”

He leaves through the front of the hotel. And I curse, because he’s right. I text Fisher and ask if I can borrow his tuxedo shirt. He’s about my size.

It takes several minutes for an inconspicuous change to occur. As we’re exiting the hotel, one of my uncle’s assistants comes out of nowhere.

“Mr. Sullivan?” A young woman wearing a black business suit instead of a gown approaches. I recognize her from my uncle’s office staff. He’s brought her along to some of our meetings.

“Yes.”

“I understand you need to leave. We’ve adjusted the program schedule. If you can just come and receive your award? Please?”

There’s a desperation to her, and if I were to bet, my uncle has threatened her with the fear of god’s wrath… or rather, his wrath. Ava’s fingers press against my forearm.

“You might as well.”

“I’m not supposed to tell you, but in addition to the golden jacket, you’re receiving the NRA Businessman of the Year award. It’s an enormous honor.”

I let out a loud sigh. If I have to do this, I will.

“You’re sitting at my table.” I look into Ava’s eyes, questioning. I’m only doing this if she remains by my side. Fuck my uncle and every other person in this room.

“If you’re sure.” She’s tentative, but I’m not.

I brush my lips across hers, and a seismic shift occurs within. I love this woman. Passionately in love.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re finally done. After curt apologies and excuses to our dinner table, we exit the ballroom.

As expected, the media hover outside the hotel on the street. Cameras flash.

“Mr. Sullivan, may we ask who your guest is tonight?”

Ryan and I arrived by the side entrance and escaped the circus earlier. I briefly check my phone for an update on where to procure our ride.

“Certainly. Her name is Ava Amara, and she is my girlfriend.” Ava’s eyelids flutter, most likely shocked from the explosion of bright white flashes. “Hopefully more, very soon.”

Adding that last bit goes against every bit of my nature. I do not share with the media. But if there is any doubt about my intentions, or where I think Ava can fit into my world, there’s nothing quite like announcing it to the media.

“How long have you two been together?”

“How did you meet?”

“Does she live in San Diego with you?”

I hold up my hand and say, “No more questions.”

They’ll be hounding our press department, but that’s a matter for tomorrow.

With her hand locked in mine, I guide Ava to Fisher and our awaiting limousine. He’s parked to the side, since other vehicles blocked his ability to approach the front entrance.

A green dot on the stucco pillar sets me on alert. Across the street, there’s a building. I scan the top, searching.

The green dot floats closer.

“Get down,” I yell.

A poof of dust floats behind my head on stucco.

All around us, men raise their guns.

“Shooter. Three o’clock,” a man shouts as I sling the back door open and shove Ava into the safety of the car.

She clutches my arm. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“To find the shooter.”

“What? No.” Her eyes are wide. Scared.

Ryan runs up with several men at his back.

“Sniper. He’s going to be running,” I tell him.

Police sirens pollute the air. Blue lights flash. On the street, cars are at a standstill, possibly barricaded in. No one is getting out of here in a vehicle.

“He was aiming at you,” Ryan says.

“Keep her safe,” I tell Fisher.

“No, wait. Why you? Let someone else go after him.” There is panic in those eyes, and I gently release her hold on me with my focus peeled on the front of the opposing building.

“Ava. This has to end. If we don’t catch this guy, it may never end.” And I’m done. I want evidence that will lead to convictions. We didn’t get enough from my uncle and nothing from the senator. I tap the window and close the door. “Take care of her,” I reiterate to Fisher.

Ryan and I cross the front of the limo, headed straight to the building. Given their proximity, the FBI are already in the mix.

“This is a shit show. By now, he’s off the roof. He’ll be in disguise. It’s the only way out of this,” I say to Ryan.

“Copy that,” he responds.

Shooting at an NRA event is complete madness.

Technically, guns aren’t allowed, but these people love their guns.

There’s no way the wealthy patrons’ security doesn’t have guns, and most of the attendees are proud conceal and carry members.

Plus, in Texas, it’s legal to conceal and carry pretty much anywhere you please.

A gun goes off behind us. We crouch. Scan. A drunken man yells, “Yahoo.” Another man says, “You dumbass. You just hit a car.”

Sirens flood the street.

I tap Ryan on the shoulder, inching forward. One of the FBI agents looks our way as we cross onto the sidewalk. He’s moving to stop us when he recognizes Ryan. He nods and turns his attention back to a police officer.

I tap Ryan and jerk my head in the agent’s direction. “Make sure they’re looking for uniforms. They shouldn’t let any cops off the block until we’ve confirmed identity.”

Ryan nods and steps back to speak to the FBI agent.

The building across the street is flanked by one building, and one narrow alley behind the building.

Blue lights flash in the alley. It’s an office building with multiple business signs in the window.

The windows in the office building are all dark.

If I were a sniper, I would either enter the building from the back or from the adjacent building. The building next door houses a twenty-four-hour Medic Aid. Several medical professionals in scrubs huddle outside, watching the pandemonium on the street.

A police officer yells at them, “Go back inside. We have an active shooter.”

The glass doors behind them open, and a man in scrubs exits. He looks like he’s going to approach the group. I recognize him. Black choppy hair. Navy scrubs. The other women wear teal. His eyes flash.

It’s the nurse. From Uncle Mark’s apartment. I leap forward, and he takes off running. Only, he’s shorter than I am. And within fifteen feet, I reach him, airborne, tackling him to the ground.