Eight Years Gone, page 2
But they also had a dead mother in a Philadelphia grave and a selfish bastard for a father who rarely made an appearance in his kids’ lives yet expected perfection from them nonetheless. Their best efforts had never been good enough—or at least that had been the case for poor Logan.
Grace was artsy and obsessed with her camera—ultra-talented, easygoing, and always the peacemaker between her father and brother.
Logan had been the athlete—the kid with the private former NFL coach and retired Army colonel who’d taught him how to shoot for their high school marksmanship team. There had always been room to be faster, more accurate—to do better.
When Jagger moved into the Evans household the summer before his sophomore year, Steve had expected nothing but the best. And Jagger’s natural athleticism had made it easy to deliver. But Logan had never been able to catch a break, even when he had been really damn good.
Jagger scrubbed at his face. He should have done more. He should have seen Logan heading down the wrong path sooner. Now there was nothing he could do to make any of this better.
The door opened, and the short, balding man he’d been talking to walked in. “Mr. Tennyson, I think we have everything we need. You can go.”
Jagger stood in the scrubs he’d changed into after he insisted on driving himself over to the station in his blood-soaked car. “Did you get him? Did you get my brother?”
Detective Morrison nodded. “They just picked him up.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Not much.”
“Levi knows everything you need to close this case—who robbed him. It’s his fault Logan’s dead.”
“We’ll take care of this, Jagger.”
He nodded, understanding that the detective was urging him to let the police do their job—to not take matters into his own hands.
Long ago, he’d promised Master Isaac he would stay off the streets and out of trouble in exchange for free taekwondo lessons, but currently, street justice wasn’t out of the question. “Sure.”
Detective Morrison held out his hand. “Thank you again, Jagger. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He returned the handshake. “Thank you.”
Stepping into the hallway, Jagger paused when he spotted Steve Evans talking to an officer down by one of the vending machines. Jagger started the man’s way, never seeing him look so disheveled. “Steve.”
Steve’s head whipped in his direction, blinking puffy, bloodshot eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry.” Jagger blinked back tears as he cleared the emotion suddenly clogging his throat. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get him to the hospital in time.”
Steve said nothing as Jagger stopped in front of him.
Jagger looked over Steve’s shoulder. “Is Grace—”
“You stay away from her.”
Jagger blinked his surprise at the venom in Steve’s voice.
Then Steve yanked him up by the V of his scrubs. “This is all your fault, you little bastard. My boy’s lying in the morgue because I was stupid enough to bring white trash like you into my home.”
Jagger swallowed hard, absorbing the insult. “Steve—”
Steve’s pointer finger was now in Jagger’s face as he gritted out each word through his perfect veneers. “Don’t you say my name. Don’t you speak my daughter’s. You will never, ever be good enough for her. The best thing you can do is walk away—get the hell out of her life because I swear to God, I’ll cut her off if I ever see you looking in her direction again.”
Jagger swallowed again because there was nothing that Steve had said that wasn’t true. He’d turned his grades around and graduated with honors. He’d taken the football and marksmanship teams to state three times. He was heading back to Syracuse University for his third year of college, but underneath it all, he would always be a Tennyson from East Wakeview.
“Grace’s spring internship with National Geographic,” Steve continued. “I’ll make it go away, Jagger. Her semester in Sydney will disappear.”
Jagger clenched his jaw as he stared at the man, knowing he would do exactly that—knowing that Steve getting what he wanted was more important than the fact that he would be hurting his daughter. “She’s worked her ass off—”
“That’s right. She has. No one knows that better than you.”
Jagger shook his head because he wasn’t going anywhere. “We’ll find a way.”
Steve laughed bitterly. “You’re going to pay for her downtown Sydney apartment? Her food? Her plane fare? And what about her tuition for Syracuse?”
Jagger clenched his jaw as he looked down, studying the scarred tile floor because he’d barely had enough to cover his car insurance this month after his car broke down.
“One phone call, and it’s gone. All of it will go away. You and that family of yours stay away from what’s mine. Do we understand each other?”
Jagger steamed out a quiet breath. “Yeah.”
“Bea’s bringing Grace down here to answer some questions. You’ll do her the biggest favor of her life and be long gone by then. Long gone, Jagger.”
Nodding again, Jagger pulled himself free of Steve’s grip, then headed for the door and the parking lot.
Getting in his car, he picked up the cell phone he’d long forgotten about, seeing that Grace had called over twenty times.
“Fuck,” he whispered, hearing the agony in his voice as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, wanting nothing more than to call her—to tell Steve to go fuck himself and take Grace away from here.
But then he looked at his seat covered in her brother’s blood—his fault that he didn’t save him. His fault that he’d ever mentioned Levi’s drug connections and numerous brushes with the law to Grace and Logan one summer night while they sat around the pool talking.
“Fuck,” he muttered again, searching through his contacts, selecting the number on his screen, and listening to it ring.
“Hello?”
“Colonel Hinders, this is Jagger Tennyson.”
“Jagger.” The man cleared the sleep out of his voice. “What a surprise. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to call so late.”
“You know I’m always happy to hear from you.”
Exhaling a long breath, he shook his head, not wanting to do this. But maybe this was best for Grace. They’d planned to finish school, then travel the world together while she took her pictures.
But they couldn’t do that forever.
What if his dreams of eventually opening his own dojang didn’t work out? Was he going to let Grace support him?
She was gorgeous, funny, talented, ambitious, and sweet. She could have anyone—do anything. The last thing he ever wanted to be was a burden—to hold her back. “Is that offer still open? Can you help me get into that special military program?”
Jagger pressed his lips firmly together, one hundred percent certain that the man on the other end of the phone was smiling.
The colonel had relentlessly recruited him, assuring him that his speed on the football field, dead-eye accuracy as a marksman, and the excellent brain in his head would be an asset to the United States military. ‘You’ve got something—a sort of grit we rarely see,’ the guy had told him repeatedly.
“Definitely. We can get the paperwork started—”
Jagger fisted his hand as he felt everything he’d ever wanted slipping away. “It has to be now. I need to be able to get in right away.”
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Logan. He’s—he died. He’s dead.” Maybe if he said it a million more times, it would start to sink in. Maybe he would feel something other than numb.
“What?”
“Tonight. Just a few hours ago. He got shot.”
“What the hell—”
“Levi’s mixed up in it. Steve said… I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t be in Wakeview.”
“Come stay with Sue and me here in Maryland. I’ll text you my address. Then I’ll start making some phone calls as soon as we hang up. This is your destiny, son. I knew it the first time I talked to you—was certain of it the day I saw you fire that gun.”
Right about now, he didn’t give two shits about his destiny. Nothing much mattered at this point. “I’ll start heading your way.”
Ending the call, he started the engine as his phone rang again.
He stared at Grace’s beautiful face smiling at him. Turning it over, he put the Stingray in reverse, then accelerated, leaving behind the life he’d fought so hard to create.
Two
New York, New York
Eight years later
Jagger headed down JFK International’s terminal four with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his phone at his ear.
After thirty-six hours in and out of the sky, it felt good to be stateside. It had been years since he’d walked on American soil, and his current conversation with his newly former boss was ruining the moment.
“They asked specifically for you and whatever team you want to put together. Top dollar.”
“Forget it.”
“We’re talking twenty thousand a day. I can probably get you more.”
Jagger didn’t give a damn about the money. He’d made plenty of that over the past couple of years.
When he retired from “The Unit,” he was immediately hired as a personal security expert for the ultra-elite Gray Corp.
He’d quickly learned that the higher the payout on a private contracting job, the more dangerous the assignment. The fresh wound where a bullet had grazed his left tricep still stung after the latest shit show he’d barely escaped in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
“I’m not interested. My last client was a pain in the ass, and nothing about that copper mine was on the up and up.”
He glanced around at the numerous people walking past him, saying nothing more because it was never wise to talk about the work they did in the field. In fact, it was prohibited.
“It’s not our job to worry about what’s on the up and up. He paid, and you guys got him out of there alive.”
In a hail of bullets and return gunfire. Jagger shook his head. “I’m done.”
“Guys like you are never done. When you get bored being an average Joe, give me a call.”
“Don’t count on it.” Ready to be finished with Jason Gray and private contracting in general, he cut their conversation short as he stepped outside into the chaos of the airport’s pickup lane.
He stared at dozens of yellow cabs and Uber vehicles in line, picking up or dropping off their fares, and immediately realized he’d long forgotten how to be an average Joe.
For the first time in eight years, he had no plan, no mission, no objective to relentlessly keep him busy. When he’d decided to come home, he’d taken the first available flight—Anywhere, USA.
He raised his hand, then got in one of the cabs. Instantly, he grew weary—exhausted as he let it sink in that he was here to stay. “Take me to a hotel.”
The cabbie eyed him with hostile disgust in the rearview mirror. “Which one?”
He shrugged. “A nice one. You pick.”
The cabbie shrugged this time. “You got it, buddy.”
Jagger stared out at the skyscrapers and endless sea of cars as the cab made its way downtown, knowing he needed to sleep. After that, he had no idea what he’d do with himself. But a comfy bed and a decent nap were a good place to start.
Three
Grace wandered around Central Park, forever searching for her next perfect shot. She grinned when she found it—a sweet toddler playing with his puppy in one of the green spaces just off the path.
“Oh, my goodness, they’re adorable. Do you mind if I take their picture?” she asked the woman who sat on a blanket close by.
“No, go ahead.”
Grace crouched in her fitted red tank and jeans shorts combination as she adjusted the focus on her lens, then pressed the shutter button several times, making certain she stayed far enough away so as not to distract the little boy and his dog while they played with their blue-striped ball.
The candid shot was the magic shot—the only kind she liked to take. “How do you handle all of this sweetness?”
The woman chuckled. “I spoil them rotten.”
“That must be easy to do,” she said as she checked her work on the digital screen, then showed the boy’s mom. “I freelance for Travel. I’d like to send you copies and a release to sign if we decide to use the pictures in the magazine.”
The woman studied her for a moment.
Grace sent her another warm smile, knowing she was being scrutinized as she often was. And that’s why she’d worn her past-shoulder-length hair in a ponytail and had chosen her white Keds with no socks when she left her hotel room this morning.
The friendly, casual, harmless blonde who unobtrusively took her pictures. Most people responded favorably.
The woman nodded. “Okay.”
Her grin was back. “Great. I’ll just need an email address.”
“Sure.”
Grace spoke the woman’s information into her camera, smiled as she waved, then moved on, soaking up every blissful second of her last afternoon in the city.
Mother Nature had granted her three amazing days on her early-September getaway, gifting her sunny skies and high-seventy-degree temperatures—and she’d taken advantage. She intended to do more of the same—or at least until she packed up her SUV and headed home in a couple of hours.
Her gaze wandered to the maple trees as she marveled at the quiet. One of the world’s largest cities surrounded her, but it was currently impossible to tell.
Choosing a new direction, she wandered closer to The Great Lawn and Turtle Pond, stopping by the edge of the clearing to take it all in while people lazed around on blankets or played in the grass.
This was life—the different slices of humanity she treasured. And somehow, the park had a way of dulling everyone’s urban edges.
The group of men playing hacky sack caught her attention. Suit jackets had been tossed aside and starched long sleeves rolled halfway up masculine arms.
Grace settled her camera in place, snapping numerous shots, laughing when one of the men fell to the ground in his attempt to keep the game going. “Great effort,” she called.
“Thanks.” The guy waved as he smiled.
She stepped in the group’s direction—to show them her work and ask their permission to use the images she’d captured. But she stopped when the man wearing a navy-blue muscle shirt and white athletic shorts ran past her on the pavement twenty yards in the distance.
Her pulse stuttered as she stared. There was something about how he moved—the familiar cadence of his efficient jogging.
Without thinking, she lifted her camera, searching for him with her lens, zooming in when she found him.
He was broad and fit—powerfully so as he swung strong arms with each stride. His hair was a shorter, darker blond, and he had a deeper tan, but he reminded her so much of…
He bumped into a runner, slowing to turn his body as he spoke an apology she couldn’t hear.
“Jagger,” she shuddered out, dropping her camera to dangle before she protected it against her chest when she took off at a walk-jog.
She picked up her pace to a full-out run, terrified she would lose him as he disappeared down one of the paths that led into the trees.
This wasn’t the first time she’d been sure she spotted him in a crowd, but today was different. The man several steps ahead was Jagger Tennyson.
So many emotions ravaged her system as the memories she’d tried hard to forget came rushing back.
Top 40 music played on the stereo when Grace heard the familiar rap of knuckles on her doorframe. She looked up from the equation on her page, smiling at the wall, already knowing it was eight o’clock as she glanced at her bedside clock—Jagger’s usual time for walking down the hall with his books and the laptop her father had bought for him hooked in his arm.
He’d moved into the house in late July—when football practice had officially kicked off at Sheraton Prep.
When she’d returned to Wakeview after spending the summer in Preston Valley with Aunt Maggie, the guy from the crappy part of town had been bringing his boxes inside.
By mid-September, Dad had called from the Philly condo he lived in more than he did the mansion, asking her to help Jagger with his studies. Quarter-term grades had been emailed out to all parents and guardians, and Jagger’s were less than amazing.
“Are you up for a study buddy?”
She casually shrugged as she glanced over her shoulder, ignoring the flutters in her stomach when he sent her one of his slightly crooked grins. “Sure.”
“Great.” Like always, he walked in, big, broad, and hot, bringing his freshly showered scent with him as he pulled out the chair she’d left at the side of her desk for him.
His dark-blond hair was damp, and he wore one of the sweatpants and muscle shirt combinations he typically changed into once he got home.
She sent him a friendly smile, pretending that she didn’t notice the hints of five o’clock stubble along his strong jaw or the way his shirt accentuated his excellent biceps and shoulders. “How was practice?”
He nodded. “Good. We’re ready for Friday night.”
“Good.” She focused on the next quadratic equation she needed to solve. Mr. Wright had said there would be several on tomorrow’s exam.
Jagger sighed as he opened his laptop, then tipped back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. “You wouldn’t happen to want to write a four-page English paper, would you?”
She began assigning her values to the quadratic formula. “I already wrote a four-page English paper, so I don’t know why I would want to write another one. Plus, we’ve already established that I’m not doing your homework.”
He shrugged. “If you never ask, the answer’s always no.”
“Well, in this case, you shouldn’t bother because it’s never going to happen.”
