A door clicked open down the back hall, and Rixey’s muscles tensed. Socked feet scuffed against the wood floors. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “How long was I asleep?”
Rixey turned and found her standing at the edge of the kitchen, sleep still clinging to her features and making her look young, innocent. “Not long. Don’t worry about it,” he said, hoping his suddenly dark mood didn’t bleed into his words.
She hugged herself and met his gaze. “You put me in bed.”
He had no response that wouldn’t leave him feeling exposed, so he shrugged. A trickle of embarrassment mixed inside him with the flash fire of anger set off by thoughts of her father. “So, you wanna eat or what?”
She frowned and looked away, her arms squeezing tighter across her chest. She took half a step back the way she’d come.
Damnit. She’s not her father, asshole. “Wait. I’m sorry. I’m a moody bastard sometimes. Come sit down.”
Becca hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached a stool at the breakfast bar. She eased herself onto it, and her gaze flicked to the stove. The hint of a smile played around her lips. “You made sloppy joes.”
He crossed his arms and nodded, discomfort crawling down his spine. Why the hell did this woman tie him up in knots like this? And exactly why had he cooked for her?
“Sloppy joes are your specialty?” She glanced up at him, her expression two seconds away from breaking into a grin.
He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound defensive or insecure. Fucking sloppy joes. He clawed a hand through his hair. “It’s not filet mignon, I know—”
“It’s perfect. Sloppy joes are on my top five comfort foods list, ever.”
Nick eased onto a stool at the bar, her words quieting some of the bullshit in his head. “Yeah?”
“Yes, they’re awesome. So, thank you.”
Side by side, they made their sandwiches—him two, her one—and then she took a bite.
Her eyes flew wide. “Mmm. This is so good. This isn’t just Manwich sauce, is it?”
Manwich? “Hell, no. How would it be my specialty if all I’d done was open a can?”
Her laughter was full and deep, easing the tension in his shoulders. She returned her sandwich to her plate as her humor turned into an outright belly laugh and she covered her mouth with her napkin. “Sorry,” she finally said. “Didn’t mean to insult the chef.”
Warm satisfaction flowed through him at her obvious enjoyment of what he’d made. No need for her to know it was one of about four things he could cook. “Manwich.” He shook his head and took a bite.
“Oh, come on. Manwich is good. I make Manwiches.”
“Now you’re just being difficult.”
She laughed again, just like he’d hoped she would, and, oddly, he felt it right in the middle of his chest. Now this, this was what he’d been hoping to do for her when he’d offered to make her dinner in the first place. Put her at ease. Take her mind off her problems. If he could just keep a lid on his inner asshole, though knowing who her father was taunted that motherfucker like nobody’s business.
Taking another bite, he glanced her way. And found her sideways gaze focused on his arm, where a band of ink circled his bicep. Six soldiers in black silhouette connected by the dark ground on which they walked. One soldier for each of the men—each of the brothers—he’d lost in what had been an ambush meant to kill the whole team of twelve. Hindsight was always fucking twenty-twenty. Now when he replayed that day in his head, the setup was so damn obvious that he never failed to wake up in a cold sweat, yelling at his dream self not to go forward. But that ship had sailed and crashed on the rocks of misguided trust. Later, he’d gotten the tat. A small way to commemorate those who had gone before him, who had died while he’d lived. His gut rolled.
Those baby blues lifted to look at his face, a furrow marring her brow, then cut away again. “So, um, do you have any idea why Charlie might’ve thought I should come to you for help?” She sat the uneaten half of her sandwich down and shifted in the seat toward him.
“No. I was going to ask you the same thing.”
She sighed. “He told me almost nothing, which is my own fault.”
The sadness in her eyes filled him with the urge to make this all better. No way it was that simple, though. “Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning.”
“Well, I mentioned that Charlie is a computer security consultant. He got into that by being a hacker. A really good one, apparently. He mostly stays on the right side of the law these days, but because he’s played on the wrong side and has seen things people aren’t generally supposed to see, he’s prone to conspiracy theories.”
“Probably part of the job description.”
She twisted her napkin and nodded. “Probably. Lately, we’d only been communicating through this online chat program he created. He wouldn’t talk on the phone, and he hadn’t been staying at his house. Last week, we had a fight because he started in on my father, how he wasn’t the man I thought he was, that he’d found something that proved it. This wasn’t new ground for Charlie. He and Dad didn’t get along, and—”
“Why? If you don’t mind my asking.” All of this made Rixey’s instincts prickle with awareness. What the hell did Charlie find? Given the trouble the Army had gone to prettying up Merritt’s story, Nick was surprised to think they’d missed a loose end somewhere. Was it possible that trouble had followed the colonel’s casket home from Afghanistan?
Becca cut her glance to him, her expression wary. “Charlie’s gay. Dad didn’t react well when Charlie came out, and he never made it right before he died.”
Rixey frowned. Sonofabitch. The news soured his stomach and stripped away another part of the heroic veneer her father had worn. Given Jeremy’s inclination to play both sides of the field, Rixey had no tolerance for homophobic bullshit. That Rixey knew of, Jer had never been serious about a man, but that was his business and no one else’s.
“Some of the things they said to each other . . .” She blew out a breath and shook her head. “It wasn’t unusual for Charlie to go off on a rant. Last week when it happened, I cut him off and told him it was time to move on. Dad was dead and nothing good could come from continuing to dwell on the past.” She dropped her gaze to the counter, and Rixey studied her as his brain chewed on her story. “He disconnected the chat, and I couldn’t get in touch with him after that. Day before I came to see you, I found he’d posted the message I showed you about finding you at Hard Ink.”
Damn, there was a lot to process in all that. Not the least of which was the fact that the last time Becca spoke to her brother, or chatted, whatever, they’d fought. And now he was missing. Why and how had Charlie connected whatever he’d supposedly found out about Frank Merritt to Nick, to a member of “the Colonel’s team”? Why would Charlie have thought Rixey relevant for helping them? And how did any of it relate to the guy’s disappearance?
“God, it’s really not much to go on, is it?” The pleading he recalled from the day before returned to her gaze and sliced into him all over again.