Page 117 of Tate
He closed his eyes against the image of her shaking her head, her meaning rising to fill his chest with darkness.
No, I won’t go with you.
I won’t trust you.
If you love me, you’ll stay.
He shook his head. He did love her. And if he hadn’t let his pride get in the way, he might have been able to convince Reba to let him stay.
Maybe.
Probably not.
They were all right. He was impulsive, and probably it wouldn’t be long before he…well, before he got her hurt. Somehow.
He ran his hands through his sopping hair, ready to leave, when the door opened again. He looked up and drew in a breath at the man who met his eyes and settled in beside him.
Rags waited until the other man left before he spoke.
“Sly said you were here.”
Rags wore a towel tucked at his waist, and for the first time, Tate noticed a scar on the man’s upper body, near his shoulder. Rags might have seen his gaze slip over it because he pointed to it. “IED. Shrapnel. Kunar Province.”
Tate pointed to the scars on his knee. “Paktia. Ambush.”
“Can’t be worse than what went down at the Jackson place.”
Tate lifted a shoulder.
“For the record, I was rooting for you.”
He glanced at Rags. “Who are you—Friar John?”
Rags frowned.
“He’s the messenger sent to tell Romeo that Juliet is faking her death to be with him…never mind.”
“Wow, you got it bad. If you’re thinking of sucking down poison.”
“I’m fine.”
“And so is Glo, by the way.”
“Thanks. That’s just what I want to hear.”
“I just mean that she’s still alive. No danger. I’m not sure she’s…well, she seems to have thrown herself into her mother’s campaign.”
“I can see that. She’s all over the place.”
“We’ve been in three states in the past forty-eight hours.”
“Good for you. What are you doing here?”
“Sly sent me.”
“He couldn’t call?”
“You tell me. He sent me on a field trip to the catering company for Liam Anderson’s party where I passed around the photo you pulled off the photographer’s phone.” He lifted the water ladle.
