name on a log sheet of prisoners. Now he was a gentle, world-worn face I couldn’t get out of my head. A man who didn’t look at me and cringe in horror at the scars I carried.
“This seat taken?”
I jerked in surprise when the object of my thoughts appeared in my peripheral vision with two plates in his hands. His kind smile soothed my annoyance at being startled, and I shook my head. “All yours,” I said.
He sat down in the middle, leaving only a few inches between us. The mark under his right eye had blackened. “You’ll probably say you aren’t hungry, but I brought you something anyway.”
“Thanks.” I took the plate, amused to see another roast beef sandwich and a couple of dill pickle spears.
“Ethan mentioned you like pickles.”
“I do, thank you.”
We ate in silence, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. My head was full of Double Trouble, and his was no doubt full of Landon. People we cared about were hurting, and neither one of us could do anything to stop the hurt. I hate that helplessness more than almost anything—I wasn’t physically tied to a beam on a burning platform, but I remembered the sensation. I remembered the feeling of being totally abandoned, completely alone, even surrounded by people. Because no one was helping me.
They’d come to watch me burn.
A sharp tremor shot down my spine, and I fumbled my plate. The last pickle spear tumbled into the grass. “Damn it!” I said, with more anger than a simple pickle deserved.
Thatcher’s hand landed on my neck, warm and comforting, and I didn’t pull away. “You okay, Renee?”
“No, I’m not.” I leaned into his touch a little, grateful for his presence. “But then again, neither are you.”
“Is something besides the turnpike fight bothering you?”
“Yes. But it’s not my place to tell anyone else about it.”
“I can understand that.”
“Well, I can’t, especially when someone else does deserve to know about it. Not you, by the way.”
He made a soft noise in his throat, something like a chuckle, but not quite. “That’s a bit of a relief. I’d hate to think everything is always about me.”
I looked at him, unsure of his tone of voice. The arch of one eyebrow and the tilt of his head clued me in— he was teasing me. So I did what any adult woman would do in such a situation. I stuck my tongue out at him.
He laughed out loud this time, and the deep sound rumbled in my chest. The hand on the back of my neck stroked very gently, fingers massaging in a way that seemed more instinctive than deliberate. It felt nice. “Were you injured in the accident?” he asked.
“Not really. Snapped my neck hard, but with my particular powers the pain won’t last long.”
His hand stilled. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. It feels nice.”
He put both of our plates on the bench beside him. I allowed him to shift us both until I was facing away and he was behind me. Both of his hands pressed gently into my shoulders, thumbs massaging both sides of my vertebrae. It felt amazing, and I leaned into the touch. It had been a long time since I’d felt a man’s hands on me in such a comforting way. I craved the attention, the sensation—even if it couldn’t possibly last. He hadn’t seen the scars on my chest, back, and legs.
And who said he ever would, anyway? He was a former Bane, loaned to us from prison for an investigation, and he was heading right back there at some point in the near future. Derek Thatcher wasn’t someone I was allowed to get attached to, no matter what.
But the fantasy was extremely entertaining.
And his hands were extraordinary. I closed my eyes and relaxed under his ministrations, as his deft fingers soothed and loosened tired, aching muscles. If I were a cat, I’d have started purring. No one had paid me this sort of attention in a long time, not since William died. Before him, I’d gotten laid pretty regularly. I couldn’t throw a poker chip in Vegas without hitting someone who was willing to sleep with the extremely flexible blue dancer, which meant I could be picky. Singling out the good ones, the best ones, became something of a game for me. It was in his eyes and in his touch, mostly, and if I couldn’t trust those two things, no way was I trusting a guy with my body.
I trusted what I saw in Thatcher’s eyes, and I trusted the smoothness of his touch. He’d be a hell of a lover—if only such a thing were possible.
“Can I ask you something?” I said without intending to.
“Of course.”
Now that I’d stuck my foot in it, I wasn’t sure how to phrase this. “In Manhattan, there weren’t as many women prisoners as men, right?”
“Correct.”
“So how did you . . . I mean, was it . . . Fuck. Never mind.” I was insanely glad he couldn’t see my face, because I was pretty sure I was blushing like an idiot.
His hands never stopped pressing and rubbing my shoulders and neck. “Are you asking if I’ve had sex in the last fifteen years?” And damn him, I could tell he was smiling when he asked that.
I’d tossed money into the pot already, so I might as well call. “Yes.”
“No.”
I turned around on the bench, stunned by his matter-of-fact reply. He dropped his hands into his lap and watched me with a calm, unembarrassed expression I couldn’t quite decipher. “Seriously?”
“Why would I lie?”
“I didn’t mean that, it’s just . . .”
“What?”
The truth came burbling up and out. “You’re so good-looking.”
His lips quirked. “Thank you.”
“It surprises me no one saw that.”
“There’s more to wanting to sleep with someone than finding them attractive, Renee. Most of us were incredibly angry at the end of the War, not only because of our situation in Manhattan, but at Specter and his manipulations. I was one of the worst, and my anger was only heightened by the news of my wife and son’s deaths. I was an emotional wreck, and so many of the couples who came out of the aftermath chose each other for the support they could give and receive. I was in no place to support anyone, and I was too damaged to take any kindness in return.”
“I’m sorry.”
His eyebrows furrowed and his mouth pressed into a line.
“Not that you weren’t getting any,” I said, trying to recover my verbal fumble. “I mean, I’m sorry that you were in such a bad place. That there was no one to be there for you.”
He shrugged. “I had some friends. Freddy and I were always close, and I was happy for him when Andrew was born. I was happy for him when he found out Ethan was his son.” Something in his voice still sounded hollow.
I touched his knee. “You can be happy for a friend and still envy their happiness, you know.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Yep.”
He brushed the pad of his thumb down my cheek, a gentle touch of skin on skin that made my spine tingle. “You deserve to find your own happiness, Renee. I sincerely wish that for you.”
I angled my head up, unsure what to say to that. His gaze flickered down, then back up. He leaned in. My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Hey, guys?” Sebastian’s voice echoed from the building archway.
We pulled apart. I glared at Sebastian over the back of the bench. “What?”
“Thatcher has a phone call.”
I held up the wall in the conference room while Thatcher spoke with Mai Lynn for a few minutes. His side of
