Page 11 of Garrison's Creed

Roman’s face fell until disappointment snarled onto his face. “Boyfriend?” He turned from her, muttering something to Rocco while walking back down the hall.

Cash whispered, “I can’t believe I loved you.”

God, no. This was all wrong. She didn’t know enough about who they were or why they were there. Explaining her part could have exponential effects on the CIA’s other operations.

Why had she run into them tonight? Aching to tell the truth, aching to remember his love, Nicola looked in the mirror as she collapsed onto the bed. Maybe she was too weak for the job. Self-doubt ate at her like she was back on the Farm, in her first week as a recruit when every man, and the handful of women, had eyed her like lunch. She hadn’t been much, just potential, and she still felt the need to prove herself.

She could do this: act like the agent she was trained to be and stop reacting. Emotions shouldn’t dictate action.

I can’t believe I ever loved you.Don’t react. Don’t move. His voice clanged through her memory. Her internal orders didn’t work.

“Wait!” Nicola jumped off the bed as best she could, and bounced on one foot to the door.

But Cash was gone, taking the phone and leaving her the clothes. She tore off the mess of a dress, moving as fast as she could, threw the t-shirt over her head and—

And, oh God, did the shirt smell like Cash Garrison. Clean soap and a masculine, peppery scent. On one foot, with one good arm, she balanced with the shirt covering her head and just inhaled, immediately transported back to college. She was in her second year, and he was finishing up his fourth. They lay in bed, naked. His balled up t-shirt served as her pillow.

This shirt smelled like her past. A distant memory. A deep hurt blossomed in her chest.

Oh, no. I’m going to break my cover.

She finished pulling it on but grabbed the collar and held it to her nose. Just one more time. Just enough to relive the memory.

Cash told jokes. Always made her laugh, but at that moment, in that memory, he was dead serious and unsure how he would tell Roman they were together. At the time, they’d said together forever, and it’d been time to tell her brother. After she’d walked away, she’d cried for weeks. It still hurt.

She shook her head. Time to get this over with.

Nicola hopped down the hall, limped up the stairs, and found the men at the kitchen table, passing a bottle of Gentleman Jack. Roman stood up, staring at her limp. Cash threw back a shot.

Rocco waved. “Not much in the fridge. Power bars on the counter. But if you feel like joining us, shot glasses are next to the sink. We’re drinking to shitty days. Cheers.” He downed a shot.

“Nicola.” Roman eyed her. “Are you okay?” He smashed glare at Cash. “What’s with the yelling? Dickhead said—”

“She’s not welcome here.” Cash scowled and poured another shot.

This wasn’t going well, and she’d been in the kitchen, oh, two point five seconds.

“Shut your face, Cash.” Roman glared at the table. “Are you ready to, I don’t know, talk about this?”

“No.”

Roman sat down. Nicola grabbed a shot glass and sat down at the square table across from Roman with Rocco and Cash on either side of her. The lights were dim, and the table’s wood grain was suddenly very interesting. Instead of studying it, she grabbed the bottle of Jack, poured herself a shot, and threw it down.

It burned. It was perfect.

The kick gave her a shiver. God, she needed that. So she did it again.

When she looked up, Roman and Cash eyed her, maybe a little shocked to see her drinking like that since last time they’d seen her, she was allhi, I’d like a pink drink with my pink paper umbrella. Well, she still liked pink drinks. That hadn’t changed.

Damn, could she handle three shots in a row with nothing in her stomach? Nope, probably not. She slid the shot glass back a few inches.

“Antilla Smooth wasn’t my lover.” She met her brother’s eyes.

He coughed and squirmed. “Didn’t know that was the discussion we were having.”

Cash’s face didn’t register anything other than fury. If he didn’t believe her, that was his problem. It didn’t matter anyway.

Rocco picked up their slack. “Why were you running through the woods? Barefoot.”

---