Page 26 of The Captive (The Kelley Legacy #5)

D eacon and Lana reached Cleveland in the late afternoon, and by the time he pulled into the parking lot of the motel, he was dying to get out of the car.

Lana’s attempts at making conversation had begun to make him unbelievably uncomfortable.

Ever since he’d poured out his life story to her while they lay in bed, he’d tried to keep some distance between them.

Kept his responses short, forced himself not to touch her.

Yet Lana seemed determined to claw her way through his self-imposed distance.

And he knew why. Somehow she’d convinced herself that he was capable of being a father to this kid. She truly believed they might have some sort of future together.

Deacon knew better, though. Even if he weren’t on the wrong side of the law and would probably be arrested when this was all over, he didn’t belong in Lana’s life. He didn’t belong anywhere.

The motel he’d found was located on the outskirts of the city, near an industrial area where every company name seemed to have the word mega in it. Mega Steel Corporation, Mega Shutters, Megapaint, Inc. Considering the miniscule size of the buildings, mega seemed absurdly hyperbolic.

“Do you think there’s a mega sandwich shop around here? Because I’m mega hungry,” Lana murmured.

His lips twitched. Although she’d claimed in her endless chattering during the six-hour drive that she didn’t have a great sense of humor, he found himself amused by her wry remarks and subtle jokes. He’d had to stifle several chuckles already. That would have defeated the purpose of distance.

“I’ll grab us something from the café I spotted around the corner,” he said.

They entered the motel room, which was as shabby as the one they’d spent last night in.

Lana removed the oversize flannel shirt he’d given her, which left her in the oversize sweater that hung past the knees of her snug black track pants.

The bloodstained sweater she’d worn yesterday had been tossed out, and since Deacon had neglected to bring her suitcase when they escaped the apartment, she now had no choice but to wear his clothes.

For some reason, the sight of her slender body covered in his shirts brought a strange spark of satisfaction.

Lana’s blue eyes zeroed in on the telephone sitting on the splintered cedar nightstand. “Can I call my parents?” she asked softly.

Regret lined his tone. “I’m afraid not.”

She met his gaze. “Why not?”

“Le Clair probably bugged their phones. Or maybe not. Either way, we can’t take the chance that he or his men will be listening to the calls.”

“But what if I don’t reveal our location? I can just say I got away and I’m making my way home.”

He shook his head. “We still might be tracked here. If the phones are bugged, Le Clair will get a trace and find us.” When her face fell, he let out a breath. “I know you want to speak to your family, but just hold on a bit longer. You’ll be home soon.”

“When?”

“A few days, if we drive without making too many stops. But I want to get an early start in the morning so we can make it to Chicago at a decent time. There’s someone I need to see.”

Suspicion clouded her face. “Who?”

“An old friend of mine. We worked on a couple of assignments together in the Middle East.”

“Wait, you have a friend?”

She sounded so surprised he felt a prickle of irritation. “Even bad guys like me have friends.” He suddenly sighed. “Well, O’Neal’s more of an acquaintance, actually.”

Lana seemed to be fighting a laugh. “Okay. So why do we need to see this acquaintance?”

“We need money. Ammo. A vehicle I won’t need to ditch every six hours.”

“Are you sure we can trust this guy?”

“We have no choice,” he said quietly. “We won’t make it to Montana without supplies.”

“All right. If you think it’s safe.”

He almost cringed. She gave her trust to him so freely, without any hesitation. That unfailing idealism again, her need to seek out the best in everyone.

Discomfort curled in his stomach. Sometimes he wished she’d just hate him. Distrust him. Those were responses he’d become accustomed to, reactions he expected from those around him. Lana’s determination to ignore the dark ness inside him was something he didn’t quite know how to handle.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll go grab us some food. Lock the door behind me.” As an afterthought, he unzipped the duffel bag he’d set on the bed, retrieved a black .35 mm and held it out to her. “Keep this close.”

Leaving the room, he headed to the car and made a quick trip to the coffee shop, where he purchased several sandwiches, some cookies, coffee for himself and juice for Lana.

When he got back to the motel, Lana was sitting in the tiny kitchenette flipping through a newspaper that must have been left there by the previous occupant.

The frown marring her face told him the news wasn’t good. “What’s up?” he asked, gesturing to the paper.

“My dad.” Her tone was flat as she held up one page in particular.

Senator’s Extracurricular Activities, the headline read.

Next to the article was a photograph of Hank Kelley’s distinguished features, a smug smile on his face.

Across from Kelley was a second photo, this one showcasing the striking face of a redhead in her mid-to late-twenties. One of Kelley’s mistresses apparently.

“How could he do this?” Lana mumbled, more to herself than him. He understood her distress—hearing the news was one thing, but seeing the photos was like a punch to the gut. “God, seeing this makes me…it makes me…”

“Angry?” Deacon supplied, handing her one of the plastic-wrapped sandwiches.

“Yeah.” Shock filled her face. “Yes,” she said in a raised voice. “I am angry.”

The look in her eyes revealed such disbelief, such startled confusion, that he had to fight another smile. “That’s not an emotion you feel often, is it?”

She slowly shook her head. “No. I’ve never really seen the point in getting ticked off about things. Besides, my dad isn’t a bad person. He’s made a lot of mistakes, sure, but he’s like a little kid, you know? So full of life and mischief and he’s…” She halted abruptly.

Deacon raised the coffee cup to his lips and took a long swallow, waiting for her to continue. He got the feeling he might be witnessing an epiphany here. And not the good kind.

“Selfish,” she finally burst out, her blue eyes blazing. “He’s selfish, Deacon! He cheated on my mother with who knows how many women! He’s let down each one of my brothers, on numerous occasions. He’s…” Her voice lowered to an anguished whisper. “He’s let me down.”

His chest squeezed at the forlorn expression that crossed her beautiful face.

“And I always forgave him. I always ignored everything he did.” She stared at him, suddenly looking beaten. “How can I ignore it now?”

“You can’t.” He sank into one of the plastic chairs at the tiny table. “You just stop putting him on a pedestal and recognize that he’s flawed. Jeez, Lana, everyone is flawed.”

She didn’t respond to the frank statement. Or maybe she’d simply chosen not to hear it. He noticed her hands tremble slightly as she unwrapped the sandwich and took a small bite. She chewed, then made a face.

“This tastes like sandpaper,” she remarked, but continued eating nonetheless.

Deacon dug into his own sandwich and had to agree with her assessment. “Definitely bland,” he agreed. “Too bad this room doesn’t have a full kitchen. I would’ve made you something else.”

“You know, you still haven’t told me where you learned to cook so well.”

“Culinary camp,” he said lightly.

Her blond eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

“My parents made sure I had a well-rounded education.” He sipped his coffee again. “Cooking lessons, dance lessons, language classes, sports, literary clubs. I was probably the most overeducated teenager on the planet.”

“And yet…”

Her voice drifted, and he instantly stiffened. “And yet I became a criminal?” he finished callously.

She hesitated for a moment. “I understand you had to do whatever you could survive when you were younger, but you could have gone back to school at some point. Finished your education. Gotten a job.”

“I suppose I could have scribbled drug dealer under previous employment,” he agreed sardonically.

Irritation flashed in her eyes. “You don’t have to be an ass. I’m just pointing out you had other options.”

“Not back then.” His jaw tightened. “And not now. At some point I took the wrong turn, and it’s too late to take a different path now. I am who I am, Lana. I can’t rewrite history, and I can’t magically become the man you think I should be.”

“The man you want to be,” she corrected. “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen the shame in your eyes, when you think you’re masking it. This has nothing to do with me, or what I want. This is all you, Deacon. You don’t like what you do.”

With a dainty shrug, she resumed eating, alternating between munching on cookies and taking little sips of the orange juice he’d brought her. Deacon’s appetite left him, as he sat there in silence, thinking about what she’d said.

Was this the life he wanted for himself? Growing up, he’d had big dreams—going to college, running the family business, maybe starting up his own company.

Growing up, he’d also had the means to do those things.

You have them now, too.

He reached for his cup, needing caffeine to fuel his rampant thoughts. Yeah, he did have the means now. Money. Plenty of time.

He quickly shoved aside the foolish notions running through his mind. Jeez, Lana’s hope-springs-eternal attitude was beginning to infect him. To cloud his judgment.

What the hell else would he do with his life? He was good at being a soldier of fortune. Great at it, actually. Those silly childhood dreams of his had been squashed years ago. They weren’t viable options any longer.

And he needed to remember that.

* * *

“Are you sure you can trust this guy?” Lana asked for the tenth time as she hovered behind Deacon’s broad back.