Page 9 of Issued

The front door creaks open just as I round the corner into the foyer. Jim doesn’t notice me right away. His head hangs, his shoulders heavy, as he takes off his shoes, keys dangling in his hand. He slowly lifts his eyes to me.

I point to the keys. “Can I borrow those?”

He looks at them and then back to me. “Left the spare next to the coffeepot.”

The one morning I didn’t bother drinking coffee. Figures. I must look like such an ass. Clearing my throat, I tuck the shopping list into the side pocket of my yoga pants. “I’m going to the store to pick up some stuff. You need anything?”

“Yeah, a few things. I’ll take you.” His voice is soft, a whisper almost, as he starts putting his shoes back on.

“You don’t have to.” My eyes dance over his slumping body. Something isn’t right. “You okay?”

He looks up and searches my face a bit. “Just a headache.”

From the looks of it, more like another migraine. And while I understand how bad the sharp head pain sucks, the grouchiness side effect is one I can do without. Especially after two days of not sleeping.

He opens the front door and once I’m out of the house and the door is locked, we head down the walkway to the truck. Jim’s feet drag along the asphalt driveway and he reaches out, grabbing the tailgate when he stumbles.

“I know how to handle a larger vehicle. My father used to own a truck similar to yours.” I rest my hand gently on his shoulder, letting him know I’m close by if he needs me. “I can drive.”

“Fine.” He sighs as he hands me the keys, his hand clammy.

My mouth falls open. That was easy. Too easy. I expected some resistance or maybe a little rebellion from the man. My brows knit together as I watch him make his way to the passenger door. Being married to a SEAL was supposed to be safe, but after our conversation that threats do exist—even to me as his wife—I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. And worse—what I might have gottenhiminto.

We should be okay. My dad is dead. Any lingering evidence was turned over to the police department. No reason for me to be on Marco’s or Santoro’s radar any longer. Hell, even if Marco wanted to find me—which, why would he?—he’d have a tough time since the military is very protective of their members’ information.

My teeth sink into the flesh of my cheek when the truck shakes as Jim gets in and falls heavily on the passenger seat. Despite all of my logic, the back of my neck prickles. What if instead of moving forward I just sidestepped to being in a different kind of danger with a man who currently doesn’t seem to be able to even protect himself, let alone protect me? Should I tell Jim about Santoro and Marco?

My mouth goes dry at the thought. I hadn’t updated my IPP application about the change in my circumstances. What if my dad’s death were grounds for disqualification? I shiver. Things with my new husband might be a little awkward so far, but at least I had a place to live. A chance at a new life.

Before I even consider saying anything to Jim, I need to be sure I’m safe in the program. The thought of yet another major life upheaval makes me want to crawl in a hole and never come out.

Ugh. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Jim’s injuries are probably temporary and I’m probably safe. Yeah, I’m just overreacting. I take a deep breath and hop in myself, the truck barely budging, and settle into the seat.

“Jesus, you’re a freaking giraffe,” I say, pulling the driver seat forward.

His lips quirk up as he fastens his seat belt. “Not my fault you got wiener-dog legs.”

“Wiener dog? Really?” I turn the key and the engine roars to life. “I’ll have you know I’m five foot seven.”

“You sure about that?”

I turn my head over my shoulder as I back out, hiding my smile.

The road stretches out in front of us, the white lines beaming in the sun. Jim’s eyes are fixated straight ahead. He’s pale, his hands limp on his thighs. Is it because of the headache? Or because of me? My heart thumps painfully in my chest.

He inhales, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes, and I turn my attention back to the road.

“Blinker.” His sharp tone startles me as it cuts through the silent cabin. Jim points to the turn up ahead, which isn’t for another half a mile. He shifts in his seat, spine snapping straight. “Left blinker.”

Of course, he’s a back-seat driver. I comply and harshly grab the steering wheel again. As much as his comments grate on my nerves, this is his truck and he’s looking so vulnerable, so I take a deep breath and keep any snarky rebuttal to myself.

“Careful of that black sedan.” He nods to the right of the fork we’re about to reach.

“I saw him.” Stopping at the red, I wipe my sweaty right palm on my pants before moving it to the gear shift.

I reach for the radio. Maybe some music will distract him from pointing out things as if I’m a new driver. I push the black button and the harsh, high-pitched sound of pedal steel fills the car. I sway my head to the rhythm and mouth the words to “She’s Actin’ Single.” I love this song.

“You know Gary Steward?” The renewed interest in his voice makes the blood rush hot through my veins.

---