Page 50 of The Devoted Game

They were down the hall and at the stairwell door before Agent Pratt’s voice interrupted their exit. “Wait up, Grace!” He hustled over to where they stood. “SAC said I’m supposed to go with you.”

“I want a drink and someplace quiet,” Ryan announced to the two of them. His bullshit index had maxed out.

“That’s not going to be easy at this hour. Most of the clubs and bars will be loud,” Grace warned. “You can’t buy liquor anywhere else after midnight on Saturdays.”

Pratt reached for the stairwell door. “I know a guy. He’ll help us out. As for the other, your hotel room will be quiet.”

Things were looking up. Ryan clapped Pratt on the back. “Good. You can drive.”

On the landing inside the stairwell, Grace paused and said, “This whole thing is a mistake, McBride.” She searched his face and eyes as if she hoped to see some hint of agreement or sense of indignation.

“If you’re referring to the drink, you can give it up. If it’s that load of crap Worth just dished out, don’t waste the energy, Grace.”

“Look,” she argued, “I have my issues with you, but I’m pretty sure you don’t care for reporters any more than I do. This is crap. The director’s decision was unfair.”

Ryan had stopped expecting life to be fair about three years ago. Who knew? Maybe he had started to get a little cynical even before that. After what she had been through, Grace should understand that feeling. Or maybe she was still looking through the rose-colored glasses of youth.

Whatever, his excursion into the worst of his past was over. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

1:15 a.m.

Lucky for Ryan, Pratt’s source turned out to be a friend who operated a liquor store and who was willing to provide on the house a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee sipping whiskey.

Grace was annoyed with Ryan as well as her colleague, but right now the demons were grumbling and he needed some peace. The images and voices in his head just wouldn’t shut up. Mixed in with his own personal demons were some of Grace’s. He had heard more than enough about the ravaged bodies left behind by the serial rapist-murderer referred to as Nameless to have a reasonable handle on how that horror went down for her.

That she had survived the sick son of a bitch and had put her life back together so well was an outright miracle.

But the bastard had left his mark.

Ryan studied her from the corner of his eye as they exited the elevator on the seventh floor of the Tutwiler. That was why she had balked at the scene. Why she had a problem with comments about her body.

Damn, he had been an asshole.

He hadn’t taken into consideration that she might have suffered in her life the same as he had. But then, she was so damned young, who would expect such a horrific past? She’d only been seventeen when that twisted piece of shit took her.

She had every right to be hypersensitive about her body, and he had unknowingly capitalized on that.

Outside the door to his room, rather than unlock it, Grace faced him. “Don’t you dare look at me that way, McBride.” Her eyes warned that she knew exactly what he had been thinking.

He kept in mind that Pratt was right behind him. “Sorry, Grace. I was just admiring your ... shoes.”

Pratt chuckled.

Grace took it well enough. She arched one eyebrow and suggested, “Shove it, McBride.” She glanced past him. “You, too, Pratt.”

She opened the door and completed a walk-through of the room and adjoining bath while Ryan pulled JD from the brown bag wrapper. He reached for a tumbler. “I don’t suppose either of you would care to join me.”

“You know how it is,” Pratt said with a halfhearted shrug. Grace tossed her purse onto a chair. “Are you going to drink that straight, or do you need a cola?”

He picked up a glass from the silver tray on the table and poured a hefty serving. “Obviously you don’t know your whiskeys, Grace.” He indulged in a slow, soothing swallow, then turned to the lady glaring at him. “Otherwise you wouldn’t ask.”

“I’ll take the first watch,” Pratt offered.

He grabbed one of the chairs at the table and headed for the door.

Ryan looked around the room. No way was he talking openly in here where any number of bugs could have been planted by his friends at the Bureau. But he had things to say to Grace. He opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony, balanced his drink on the banister, and lit a smoke. He stared out at the city where Grace had grown up and wondered if she recognized that her need to escape to that bigger assignment was more about running away than proving herself. If she stayed clear of the past, she didn’t have to own it. Didn’t even have to acknowledge it unless someone, like him, forced her to. It wouldn’t do anything but fester. And one of these days, when she least expected it, she would wake up and discover that the infection had spread, consuming her entire existence.

Then she’d be just like him ... nothing.