The Unwanted

Chapter Three

The flight from DFW to Richmond was uneventful enough after Destin had convinced the yuppie sitting next to her that he wasn’t really interested in her. All it had taken was turning around to face him so he saw her completely.

Once she’d met his gaze, once he’d had a chance to see her scarred face, he’d decided she wasn’t really worth a quick flirtation and he’d spent most of his flight with his nose buried in an urban fantasy. She couldn’t fault his taste…she loved the author herself.

But she had given up on casual flirtations a while back. Caleb had started out as a casual flirtation and she’d tumbled head over heels into love with him, then head over heels into heartbreak when he left.

“What was with the guy on the flight?”

Destin shot Caleb a look. Surprise barely had a chance to form before it died. Of course he’d noticed. Caleb noticed everything. It was one of the things that made him excel at his chosen profession. His psychic skill might be classified as a sub-ability but he had a unique ability to filter through the shit, as Oz had once termed it, and he noticed everything, saw everything. Hell, he could probably give a written report, five pages in length, on the visual details he’d noted in Oz’s Spartan office.

“There was nothing with the guy on the flight,” she said, shrugging.

“He’d been checking you out since before we boarded. Then five seconds after he tried to talk to you, he was all but crawling inside the book.”

Destin smirked. “He saw the scar, baby. It freaks people out, haven’t you noticed?”

He didn’t say anything else and as they approached the upcoming exit, he took it, slowing down only when he had to either hit the brakes or they’d go flying off the road. She braced herself. “I see your driving hasn’t improved much.”

“Did you expect it to?”

“Not exactly, but then, you showed up in Oz’s office looking like the typical cookie-cutter Bureau boy, shiny shoes, perfect suit… I guess some part of me thought you might have gone all straitlaced.”

A faint smile curled one side of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s me, all right, Destin. Just your typical bureaucratic FBI boy. I’m a dime a dozen now.”

Like hell, she thought.

Some part of her mind that she couldn’t turn off made her think about pushing that slate-gray suit jacket back from his shoulders. Wonderful, wide shoulders, and that suit was just a little too nice for him to look like a cookie-cutter Bureau boy. Especially with those shoulders.

Forget his shoulders, Destin. He walked, remember? She shoved a hand through her hair, flicking her bangs out of her eyes. She needed to get it trimmed again. Grew too quick. Keeping it short kept her from messing with it, and she’d discovered a serious pleasure with the wash-and-go look but it was a pain in the butt getting it cut every couple of months.

“When did you cut your hair?”

She turned to look at Caleb, but he was paying an inordinate amount of attention to the road as he slowed and turned into the parking lot of the restaurant. “Couple of years ago,” she said, shifting her attention away from him as he pulled into the parking lot of a little mom-and-pop diner.

She had no idea where they were, but she knew the sort of place. The food would be plentiful, filling and cheap, the coffee would be excellent and they may or may not take credit cards.

“I take it we’re getting dinner,” she said blandly.

“We can eat at the hotel if you’d rather, but I need to get out, hit the restrooms and get some coffee at the very least.”

The second he pushed the car into park, she was out, slamming the door and striding away. Food. I can do food. A break from him…yeah, that works…

It wouldn’t be a bad idea at all to get away from him, to quit thinking about the fact that she missed him, that she was still thinking about pushing that slate-gray suit jacket from his shoulders. That she—

Get it under control.

You’re on a job.

Remember the job.

Get it under control.

She was halfway through the third chorus of her little pep-talk mantra when a hand closed over her wrist. She recognized his touch, his scent, his presence even as her body started to jerk away in instinctive reaction. She slowed to a stop and waited.

Caleb faced her, studying her from under a golden fringe of lashes. When he touched her cheek, his fingers soft and gentle on the scar tissue, she held still. She couldn’t react, couldn’t lean into him, no matter how much she wanted to. She hadn’t ever gotten over him, nor had she tried to fool herself into thinking otherwise. But she’d be damned if she let him see that.

“Was it after this happened?”

“What?”

“This.” He pushed his hand through her hair, then curled it over the back of her head.

She could feel his heat, remembered the way his touch had always made her feel—it was like a drug, heady and euphoric. She’d been addicted, then he left and she came crashing back down to earth. Not going there again. Nuh-uh. She made herself pull away, but managed to resist the cowardly move of backing away. “Yes. I did it the day after I left the hospital.”

She went to go around him, but he wasn’t done. He rubbed the pad of his finger over one eyebrow, feathered it down her nose and then outlined her mouth. “No makeup. No jewelry. Did that happen then too?”

Whoa. Should have backed away. Her lips buzzed under his touch and her heart had settled somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, banging away merrily and making breathing suddenly seem a lot more complicated. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Well, your questions are now answered.” This time, she made sure to put several feet between them and she circled around him, giving him a very, very wide berth.

She could still feel his touch, though. And the memory of it, of their time together, was now living large in her mind. All of those memories that she’d fought so hard to suppress, to forget, and now here they were, tormenting her again.

Setting her jaw, she stomped into the diner. Damn you, Oz. Why did you have to do this to me?

“That went well,” he muttered, shaking his head.

He followed her into the restaurant and caught a glimpse of her sweetly curved ass as she slipped into the women’s room. He knew why. She was hiding from him. Sighing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and approached the counter.

It took her ten minutes to come out. The server had already been by twice, but he’d held off ordering because if she didn’t want to eat here, then he wasn’t going to do anything more than grab some coffee. And it was good coffee. Strong enough to wake the dead, but not bitter.

As the caffeine sang its way through his blood, he kept his eyes on the door until it opened and then he pretended to be completely absorbed in the plastic-covered menu. Not that there was anything earth shattering on it.

Simple, home-cooked food. The artery clogging kind, but he had to die sooner or later anyway and as long as he didn’t do it too often, all was good, right?

“Are we eating or what?” Destin asked, dropping into the chair across from him.

“If you’re hungry. The food looks like a heart attack waiting to happen, but it will taste pretty damn good,” he said, pushing his menu over to her.

She hummed under her breath. “Fried chicken. Nobody can do fried chicken the way a place like this can. We’re eating here.”

Twenty minutes later, he had to admit, it was a fact. He’d forget the name of this place once they were out of the little village, but they had a serious way with fried chicken. Chain restaurants just couldn’t even touch this.

“Are you happy working with Oz?” he asked, scooping one last bite of potatoes into his mouth. He could have licked the plate clean, but he figured he’d done enough damage.

“Happy…” She dropped a napkin on the table and leaned back, studying him the way she might have eyed something that had crawled out from under the plate. With acute disgust. “What does it matter to you?”

“Any reason I can’t ask?”

A tight smile twisted her lips as she stood, pulling a neat little black case from her pocket. She opened it to reveal money, a few credit cards and her ID. Well, that explained her lack of a purse. As she pulled a few bills out, she eyed him narrowly. “I can think of a number of reasons for you not to ask. The number one reason…it’s none of your business anymore, Caleb.”

Tossing the money down on the table, she turned on her heel and headed for the door. Caleb sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. He eyed the bills, did a mental tally in his head and added enough to cover his meal plus the tip.

Outside, he caught up with Destin. Instead of unlocking the car so she could hide away from him again behind her laptop and iPhone, he followed her until she stopped by the passenger side. Resting a hand on the car door, he asked, “The entire trip going to be like this? You and me either walking on eggshells or taking potshots at each other?”

Destin just stared at him.

“We used to be friends,” he said quietly. “Maybe it was more than that, but we were friends for a while.”

“Friends.” A queer smile curved her lips and she laughed. The sound was brittle, as sharp and jagged as broken glass.

Just hearing it was enough to cut ugly, nasty gouges into his heart.

Being with her had hurt. It had hurt, even as it made him more complete than he’d ever felt. It had broken him even as it made him. He had never fully been able to explain that to her because she had never fully been able to acknowledge the power of her abilities, or the devastating strength of it. She hadn’t realized what it was doing to her…to him. Hell, he hadn’t understood what he had been letting it do to him inside for a while. After he’d left, he’d tried to act like everything had been fine when he knew it wasn’t.

It had taken months for things to come to a head, but it finally had and he hadn’t had any choice but to face reality in a hard, brutal fashion.

Yeah. Being with her had turned into a wound.

But walking away sometimes hurt just as much.

None of it hurt as much as this did, though. Standing here, aware of some empty void, some pain inside her…knowing it was there, and equally aware of the fact that he couldn’t do a thing to help.

The woman in front of him was about as likely to open up to him as she had been five years ago. She’d changed, but not that much.

He had to touch her, though. Just had to. Unable to resist, he reached out and cupped her face. Rubbed his thumb over the scar.

She scowled. “Would you stop touching it? I know it’s uglier than hell, but you’re a big boy—you should be used to seeing ugly shit by now. You should be able to manage not to stare.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “Ugly.” Then he laughed, but there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of humor in the sound. There was no humor about this situation at all, unless it was the irony of fate.

“Destin, there’s nothing ugly about you…and you know it.”

For a long, tense moment, she stared at him and then Destin turned her head, hiding the scar from him.

She knew no such thing. Once upon a time, there hadn’t been anything ugly about her—physically. Something she’d taken far too much pride in.

Her beauty and her gift. It was a screwed-up ability and one she’d loathed almost as much as she prided herself about. It was painful and she died a little inside every time she had to use it but when she did use it, she was able to do miraculous things. Granted, the miracle came from a place of pain and suffering and she suffered through it each time, but so what?

That had always been her line of thinking. She suffered, and the victims she connected with suffered, but through their suffering, she was able to save them. It sucked that the connection never came sooner, but that was life.

Right?

Up until the time she’d messed up so very badly.

Destin didn’t trust herself anymore, she didn’t trust her gift, and that scar served as a reminder of her failure.

An ugly reminder. She made herself look at it every day when she got out of bed.

“We’ve got a job to do, Caleb,” she said quietly, making herself look at him.

There was something in his eyes—something that made her want to squirm with nervousness. A curiosity. A wondering.

She pulled away from him and opened the door.

This time, she was the one who didn’t want to break the heavy silence, and even though he tried to start a conversation a few times, she tuned him out.

Caleb was usually pretty happy to be a filter. When working in close contact with a psychic or empath, he was able to help them filter most of the extraneous data so they could lock on the important details easier. It sounded complicated but it was pretty simple and although there were unpleasant aspects, it was a necessary skill. It helped. It wasn’t as flashy as the telepathy or as impressive as the ghost whisperers, and he’d never be one of the bloodhounds who drove the unit, but he did his part and he knew it.

Right then, though, he would have given quite a lot to have a more direct psychic skill. At least enough to penetrate Destin’s thick skull and figure out what was going on inside that head of hers. Figure out what made those eyes so dark and sad.

I know it’s uglier than hell, but you’re a big boy—you should be used to seeing ugly shit by now.

Ugly—shit, it was just a scar. Wasn’t even that much of a scar, narrow and neat—almost surgically neat. He had scars worse than that one and it didn’t detract from her beauty, but then again, considering the fact that he’d been shit-faced in love with her almost from the beginning, maybe it colored how he saw things.

Nearly an hour later, with that heavy silence still hanging between them, he pulled the car into the hotel where Oz had set them up. It was a Residence Inn, probably the best option since they didn’t know how long this would take, but if it took more than a few days, Oz would be wise to look for something other than a hotel.

Just then, though, it could have been a camping site somewhere up in the mountains and he wouldn’t have cared. As long as he had some time to himself. After those tense hours in the car, wrapped in terse silence, he needed a few minutes.

They could go to their respective rooms, take a few minutes so he could settle and then figure out their game plan.

Except Oz had only gotten them one room.

The desk attendant slid the room keys across the counter and said, “Your room is on the eighth floor—”

“Uh, excuse me…room?” Destin interrupted. “As in one?”

The desk attendant’s polite smile faded a little. “Yes, Ms. Monroe.”

Monroe—the false ID that Destin was using for the job.

Without blinking, without losing his smile, he reached for his wallet. “Ms. Monroe can use that room. Can you put me in another one?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re all booked up. There’s a conference in town, I’m afraid. We’ll have availability coming up once the weekend is over, but for now, this is the only room.” Her smile took on a decidedly strained cast and she offered, “The room is a suite—two separate bedrooms. But it’s the only one available until Monday.”

Two bedrooms. He blew out a controlled, slow breath and then made himself smile. “That will work fine, then.” Liar. He tucked his wallet back into his pocket and took the room keys. “Are you ready, Destin?”

She glared at him.

He stared back.

She finally looked away. There was rage in every line of her body.