Page 51 of The Captive
“You can’t.”He sank into one of the plastic chairs at the tiny table.“You just stop putting him on a pedestal and recognize that he’s flawed.Jeez, Lana,everyoneis flawed.”
She didn’t respond to the frank statement.Or maybe she’d simply chosen not to hear it.He noticed her hands tremble slightly as she unwrapped the sandwich and took a small bite.She chewed, then made a face.
“This tastes like sandpaper,” she remarked, but continued eating nonetheless.
Deacon dug into his own sandwich and had to agree with her assessment.“Definitely bland,” he agreed.“Too bad this room doesn’t have a full kitchen.I would’ve made you something else.”
“You know, you still haven’t told me where you learned to cook so well.”
“Culinary camp,” he said lightly.
Her blond eyebrows rose.“Seriously?”
“My parents made sure I had a well-rounded education.”He sipped his coffee again.“Cooking lessons, dance lessons, language classes, sports, literary clubs.I was probably the most overeducated teenager on the planet.”
“And yet…”
Her voice drifted, and he instantly stiffened.“And yet I became a criminal?”he finished callously.
She hesitated for a moment.“I understand you had to do whatever you could survive when you were younger, but you could have gone back to school at some point.Finished your education.Gotten a job.”
“I suppose I could have scribbleddrug dealerunder previous employment,” he agreed sardonically.
Irritation flashed in her eyes.“You don’t have to be an ass.I’m just pointing out you had other options.”
“Not back then.”His jaw tightened.“And not now.At some point I took the wrong turn, and it’s too late to take a different path now.I am who I am, Lana.I can’t rewrite history, and I can’t magically become the man you think I should be.”
“The man youwantto be,” she corrected.“Don’t deny it.I’ve seen the shame in your eyes, when you think you’re masking it.This has nothing to do with me, or what I want.This is all you, Deacon.Youdon’t like what you do.”
With a dainty shrug, she resumed eating, alternating between munching on cookies and taking little sips of the orange juice he’d brought her.Deacon’s appetite left him, as he sat there in silence, thinking about what she’d said.
Was this the life he wanted for himself?Growing up, he’d had big dreams—going to college, running the family business, maybe starting up his own company.
Growing up, he’d also had the means to do those things.
You have them now, too.
He reached for his cup, needing caffeine to fuel his rampant thoughts.Yeah, he did have the means now.Money.Plenty of time.
He quickly shoved aside the foolish notions running through his mind.Jeez, Lana’s hope-springs-eternal attitude was beginning to infect him.To cloud his judgment.
What the hell else would he do with his life?He was good at being a soldier of fortune.Great at it, actually.Those silly childhood dreams of his had been squashed years ago.They weren’t viable options any longer.
And he needed to remember that.
* * *
“Are you sure you can trust this guy?”Lana asked for the tenth time as she hovered behind Deacon’s broad back.
They were climbing a narrow stairwell up to Shane O’Neal’s apartment, and Lana hadn’t been able to fight her unease since the moment they’d arrived in Chicago.It didn’t help that O’Neal lived above a gun store, which he apparently owned and ran.She stuck close to Deacon, wrinkling her nose at the musty stench in the air.
“Yes, we can trust him,” Deacon answered for the tenth time.He glanced at her over his shoulder.“We’ll be in and out, okay?Ten minutes tops.”
They reached the top of the stairs and paused in front of a weathered wooden door that swung open before they could knock.Deacon had discreetly pointed out one of the cameras at the bottom of the stairwell, so O’Neal knew they were here.Apparently Deacon’s “friend” took security very seriously.
Not his appearance, though, Lana noticed, as she laid eyes on the man Deacon claimed to trust.Shane O’Neal had scruffy reddish-brown hair that came down to his shoulders and an unkempt beard that devoured his entire face.He wore camo pants with a red stain on the knee—she hopedit wasn’t blood—and a black T-shirt that boasted at least six holes in various places.
His pale blue eyes were sharp, however, out of sync with his couch-potato looks.
