The General Read online

  That was why he had gone away. He'd went to warm the car. Because even from a couple dozen feet away, he knew I was shaking from cold, not emotion.

  Lincoln came out of nowhere, sliding into the front seat even as Smith moved in beside me in the back, pulling my body close to his, his hands reaching for my legs, chafing some life back into them.

  And I was so cold that I didn't even notice if it felt good or not. It was just helping to warm me up.

  "Not to be indelicate," Lincoln said as we pulled away from the curb, "But I think my balls are going to need to be surgically extracted from wherever they have burrowed inside."

  And that was just the perfect kind of ridiculous and inappropriate to penetrate through my misery, making a hysterical little laugh bubble up and burst out, something that made a smile tug at Smith's lips as well.

  "What's the matter with your arm?" Smith asked, making me realize I had been absentmindedly rubbing it.

  "It's nothing," I said, dropping my hand.

  But Smith wasn't having it. He grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, yanking it upward, showing the faint blue finger bruise outlines on my skin.

  "That bastard..."

  "He was... trying to make me keep it together. He thought I was hysterical, not cold."

  "I don't give a fuck what he thought," Smith shot back. "No one should be putting their hands on you hard enough to leave bruises, sweetheart."

  "I bruise easily," I insisted, not wanting it to become a whole big thing.

  Smith opened his mouth to say something, but I could have sworn Lincoln murmured from the seat right in front of him Don't.

  I was never so thankful for Lincoln than I was in that moment.

  "I am just hitting up the drive-through for coffee," Lincoln explained when he took a turn that didn't lead to the club. "Warm up your insides too," he added, pulling up to queue up behind four other cars.

  "Take a breath," Smith said, feeling me tense. "They will all just assume you needed a few minutes to pull it together. If you didn't know better, it did look like you were falling apart up there," he added, giving my arm a little squeeze before pulling my sleeve back down.

  "Right," I agreed.

  And fifteen minutes later, that was exactly what everyone thought.

  I was swarmed right at first before Maren moved in, pressing a white wine into my hands, whisking me away to a corner, keeping a running monologue about the club until I loosened up enough to start responding.

  "How are things going really? Did you fire the staff yet?"

  "No," I admitted. "I am thinking of having them cut down on their hours first."

  "You don't have to give loyalty to people who have never given any to you," Maren reminded me. "But I get that this is a process. I love your bracelet," she said, changing the subject, not pressuring me, something I appreciated.

  "Oh, thanks. I made it last night," I admitted, shrugging it off even if my heart was soaring a bit.

  "What? No way. I didn't know you made jewelry."

  "It's been a hobby the past several years. I am thinking about opening an Etsy shop now that... now that I will have more time," I rushed to cover.

  "That's a fantastic idea. You'll have to let me come over and pick some pieces too."

  "I'd like that."

  And I would.

  Maren had proven the only genuine person in my social circle, the one person who actually cared about how I was instead of how they could position themselves to be most important in this situation.

  "Jennifer," Bertram's voice called hours later after Maren had been dragged away to discuss stock options for her company, leaving me to sink down in one of the seats, the night of sleeplessness catching up to me. "I think it would be wise to get home and rest. It has been a trying day for you," he said, voice booming enough that everyone nearby could hear his faux concern. "Let me walk you to your car."

  "No, please, stay with the guests," I insisted as Smith moved in a bit, getting protective. I got the feeling that if Bertram put a hand on me again - even gently - Smith might pounce. "I have the guards to help me out," I added as Lincoln moved in as well.

  "Of course. I am proud of you for holding it together. Get some rest. You are looking tired."

  I bit my tongue, letting Smith guide me outside where Lincoln took a call, making him turn to Smith.

  "New case," he said to Smith. "Miller and I need to catch the next flight to Florida. She's coming to pick me up now."

  "It's not Fenway, is it?"

  "For once, no," he said, smiling a little and I suddenly wished I knew who Fenway was, why the idea of it being him was funny.

  But then a car was pulling up, a pretty brunette woman calling to Lincoln, making fun of his suit.

  "Sorry to leave you like this, angel face. But work calls."

  With that, he was gone, and Smith and I were making our way to my car.

  "What's the matter, sweetheart?" Smith asked when I rested my head against the window at my right.

  "I'm tired. But I don't want to go home."

  I expected him to tell me it would pass, that I would feel better when I got in my new clothes, when I got a cup of tea in me, when I got into my bed.

  But he didn't say any of that.

  He put the car into reverse.

  And he said okay.

  SEVEN

  Jenny

  He took me to his house.

  I had no idea where we were heading - possibly considering the idea of him dropping me off at a hotel or something - when we pulled away from the club, taking the turn in the opposite direction of my house.

  Navesink Bank was a melting pot of every type of home available on the market - from the lush, palatial estates in the neighborhoods such as my own to the middle-class suburbs, townhouse communities, apartments in the less desirable areas. One turn of the main drag could make you sure you entered another town entirely. But it was all our one, big, mixed bag of a community.

  Smith drove me through the main area of town, through the more inner city type area where young men hung out on street corners just a couple yards away from groups of scantily-clad women whose job was the oldest in the world. I'd never had anything against prostitutes. Not after living in my lifestyle for as long as I had. Because, quite frankly, the trophy wives were doing the exact same thing. The only difference was they demanded Chanel and Gucci for a chance to take a tour of the sheets.

  "Wait," I said, something catching my eye right after we passed the men who were clearly handing off little baggies of drugs - making me wonder a bit fleetingly if Teddy had ever slummed it in this area, getting whatever he flooded his system with from these gang members. What might Bertram say about that?

  "What's up?" Smith asked, turning to me at a red light.

  "Did that building just say Quinton Baird & Associates on it?"

  "It did," he agreed.

  "But..."

  "But?" he prompted as I tried to find a nice way to say what I was thinking.

  "But why in this part of town?" I asked, shaking my head. "I mean, with your fees..."

  "It was a huge chunk of real estate at a song," he told me, driving again. "When he first started, he didn't have a huge client list. He was being smart with the money. Besides, he thought setting up shop right next to the Third Street Gang would be smart. Even if the cops decided to get suspicious, they would be distracted by all their half-assed drug dealing over there."

  "And pimping," I agreed, seeing the logic there.

  "That too," he agreed. "He actually just bought the building to the left. The team is expanding more than he anticipated. We need to have more room for offices and a group conference area. Jules is gonna shit herself, having to share her job with someone else."

  "She sounded very calm and reasonable."

  "She can be. But she has been micromanaging that office since it first opened. If Quin fucked up and hired someone who kept a messy desk, she'd have a conniption."

  "Is it a big team?" I foun
d myself asking, wanting to keep up the conversation now that it didn't sound forced.

  "It's pretty extensive already. And we just added one more member a little bit back."

  "Lincoln referred to you as The General," I said, watching his profile. "Does everyone have a nickname? Do they mean anything?" He paused. Long enough for me to wonder if he wasn't going to answer. "If I am prying..."

  "No, it's alright. Quin is known as The Fixer, obviously. He fixes things. Gunner is called The Ghost. He helps people disappear. Or find people who disappeared themselves. Kai is The Messenger."

  "As in 'Don't shoot the?'"

  "Exactly. Lincoln is The Middle Man. He deals with situations that require..."

  "Charm," I supplied when he couldn't find the word.

  "Yes. Miller is The Negotiator. Which is self-explanatory. She's got the charm like Lincoln, but mixed with this ball-busting, hardass streak. Finn is The Cleaner. He has some pretty severe OCD about cleaning things. So when there is a scene that needs to be cleaned, that is his job." Like they may have used if my late husband wasn't who he was. "And then there's Ranger. He doesn't come to the office often. He's The Babysitter. We send him clients when they need to be watched while we deal with their situation, people we can't trust to do as they are told."

  "Like that guy you and Lincoln were discussing? Fenway."

  "Exactly. Ranger is ready to ban that one we have sent him there so much. And then there is Bellamy, who is new."

  "What's his title?"

  "Don't think you want to know that one, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head.

  "So, why do they call you The General? I mean, ex-military aside. What do you generally do that got you that title."

  "I kick ass. Literally or figuratively. If Quin needs a strong arm in a situation, he calls me up. Head up covert type operations. Intel gathering. And I'm Quin's stand-in when he is out of town on a job or personal business."

  "So if Quin had been in town when I called, you likely wouldn't have been on my case?" I asked, suddenly extremely thankful for timely vacations.

  "It likely would have been Quin and Finn that showed up at your door. But had he also needed to insert us in your life in this personal protection guise, he could have assigned whoever didn't have a serious case going on. It may have still been me."

  "Your job sounds exciting," I decided, knowing right off that I simply wouldn't have the countenance to handle it, but glad that there were people like him - and all his coworkers - who could handle it, who were around when people like me were in need.

  "It can be. You get used to it, though. Your tolerance for stress and the unexpected gets higher each time until even high energy, crazy situations don't even raise your heartbeat anymore."

  "I imagine having a military background helps with that too. Are your coworkers ex-military?"

  "Some, yeah. That's how Quin met a few of us."

  Smith flicked on his blinker, driving us down a road that I had thought to be nothing more than a walking path when I had passed it before, the property so wooded that you didn't see a structure on it at all.

  Of course, as we drove and drove, I realized this was because the house was set deep on the land, a charming one-story actual log cabin with a long, low front porch with a deep overhand to keep rain - or the presently falling snow - off of you if you decided to stand out front to watch, have a cup of coffee, enjoy nature.

  "This is your house?" I asked even as he pulled up to the side, revealing a shed a good half an acre from the back of the house.

  Where he worked on his wood projects.

  I could see him there with a little space heater on to ward off the chill, music humming from some old radio, the kind where you got to pick a.m. or f.m. and that was it. No USB connector or iPod port or Bluetooth. I didn't know much about what one found in a workshop, but I saw him there with his shirtsleeves bunched up, revealing his strong forearms, as he bent over a desk, sanding a piece of wood, maybe some of the shavings getting into his beard, the smell of the wood clinging to his skin.

  "Jenny," Smith's voice called, snapping me out of my daydream.

  "Sorry. I was just wondering what kind of project you are working on in your workshop," I told him. It was half true, at least.

  "Right now? A new coffee table for the upstairs at work. We have a common area there and little rooms. For when clients need to stay. And we had two clients staying at once who we didn't realize knew each other. And were not on good terms. They got into a fight. It got physical. And they crashed through the coffee table we had up there. What?" he asked, making me catch my own bemused smile in the side mirror.

  "I can't imagine getting used to those kinds of situations is all," I told him. "I almost kind of hope I never would. Takes the fun out of it in a way."

  "Never thought of it that way, but I guess that's true. So, do you want to come in? I know you said you didn't want to go home. If you'd prefer a hotel, I could drive there instead. I just needed to check on things here real quick if that's the case. But you're welcome to stay if you need a break from your house for a bit."

  "I think I'd like that," I told him, giving him a nod when my voice maybe didn't sound as certain as I felt.

  It was just new.

  Staying in a different home.

  I'd stayed in hotels when Teddy deigned to bring me on vacation with him. Or when we had joined Bertram on his campaign trail. But hotels were different. Perfect. Streamlined. Cold. Impersonal. It was why people who lived on the road craved home so much.

  This was different. This was stepping into someone's personal space, seeing what kind of furniture they liked, if they hung art on their walls, if they even painted them, if they had any little bits and bobs they liked to collect, if they were neat freaks or completely unconcerned with dust bunny colonies congregating in corners.

  The only other homes I had even stepped foot in in fifteen years were the kinds belonging to people in my circle. The furniture and art were chosen by designers, the house cleaned meticulously by staff.

  I missed the smell of other people's houses - that comforting mix of their own personal preferences for laundry detergent and room refreshers and what they cooked. That smell you knew whenever you came across it and could say, Oh, that is so-and-so's house.

  My childhood home smelled like knock-off Tide, Newports, popcorn, and the mixed smell of TV dinners.

  My home now had no discernible smell. Just a lemon clean for a few hours after Maritza got done. And nothing else.

  "Come on, let's make a dash for it," he said, cutting the engine, going around to help me down. But he didn't release me. His giant hand gripped tighter, the callouses a delicious scrape over my soft skin as he picked up the pace, both of us nearly running toward the front door.

  "Sorry. That was stupid," he said as he dug for his key. "You could have sprained an ankle in those things," he told me, nodding down at my heel-clad feet. "It might be a little chilly until I start a fire," he warned me as the door groaned open, something oddly charming. If the door even let out a tiny squeak at my house, someone in the staff was running for the WD-40 like it was a matter of utmost importance that everything was perfectly greased, like homes were supposed to be silent things. "I've tried to insulate it better than it was when I bought it, but there is usually a chill that won't go away unless I light some logs," he rambled on as he flicked on the light, and I silently wondered if maybe he was nervous. If maybe his house was not somewhere he brought random women.

  He moved in ahead of me, making a beeline for the oversized stone fireplace that took up the entire wall to the right.

  And with him busy, I got the chance to really look around, take it in without him feeling awkward for it while he stacked locks and papers.

  There was nothing to paint. The inside of his home was exactly the same as the outside - logs and the off-white stuff wedged between the flat-edge logs. The floor was wooden too - wide-planked with giant nail heads and no shine, just weathered and w
elcoming. There were woven rugs around in places in burnt oranges and greens and creams. Masculine, but warm.

  Directly in front of the fireplace was a giant dark brown material couch with a coffee table in front of it. No accent chairs. Like he never had occasion to need extra seating, keeping everything cozy and intimate.

  No TV.

  At least not in the open main space.

  The kitchen was situated in the back left corner with cherry wood cabinets and cupboards. the appliances were new, stainless. The countertops looked like they may have been marble - brown and gold swirls. The oversized island cut it off from the dining space toward the front of the house at my left - a highly glossed table with four chairs and an intricate pattern carved into the center base as well as the legs of each chair.

  He'd made them, I realized.

  He'd likely made the coffee table too.

  Possibly even the cabinetry in the kitchen.

  His hands had touched everything inside his house.

  I had maybe never been more envious of anything in my life as I was of his cozy, comfortable, lived-in home.

  "I know the curtain thing is weird," Smith said, drawing my attention to where he was half looking over his shoulder at me as he poked the burgeoning fire. The curtain thing he was referring to was the absolute lack of them. Not on a single window that I could see. "It's so secluded back here," he went on. "There is really no need. And I like seeing nature."

  He liked having it around too.

  There were houseplants situated in various corners - a giant, big-leaf one over by the dining room, trailing ones hanging off the edges of the fireplace. Bringing the outside in, cleaning the air, giving you fresh stuff to breathe.

  And breathe I did, taking a slow, deep pull of air in, letting it inflate my lungs, breathing in his scent.

  Campfire and sawdust and pine cleaner.

  That was the smell of his house.

  I wanted it all over me. I prayed it would cling to me when I left, that I could smell the fire in my hair, the sawdust on my clothes, the pine on my skin.

  "I like it without the curtains," I told him when I realized he was still looking over at me, anxiously needing some kind of response. "Do you want to trade places?" I asked, sending him a wobbly smile.