Page 30 of Protected from Malice
He clicks on it, and the intro starts playing. A series of clips begin—competitors crying as they try to finish a tiny pepper, oneperson puking into a garbage can, and another accusing a fellow contestant, “Chasing it with milk is for pussies! I’ll show you how it’s really done!”
“Remember when Fox dared Indy to drink an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce?” I ask Rafe. “How dumb was that?”
That was years ago, back when Indy was still with the Green Berets, and he’d brought Rafe and Fox, another teammate, to visit me in Boston during one of their leaves. The three of them took great pleasure in coming up with ridiculous dares, like drinking Tabasco sauce and rappelling down my building in the middle of the night.
“Not as dumb as some of the things they did when you weren’t around,” Rafe retorts with a smile. “I won’t even tell you some of the things Indy did. But trust me, they were worse than that.”
As I think about it, a pang of loss hits me.
I didn’t lose him. And I’m incredibly grateful for that. But I wish I could have my old brother back. The one who laughed. Who enjoyed stupid dares and loved making fun of me. The brother I wouldn’t have hesitated to go to when I was in trouble.
“I miss him,” I find myself saying. “I’m glad he’s okay. But…”
Rafe’s smile slides into something more serious. Understanding fills his gaze. “I know.”
Those stupid tears threaten again.
Not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes, I focus on the TV screen, watching intently as some sort of pepper expert talks about the Scoville heat unit scale.
After a few moments, Rafe’s arm comes around my shoulder.
It’s strong. Firm with muscle. Reassuring.
Gentle.
And it feels so perfect, I never want him to let me go.
“I’m sorry Indy’s not here,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry you had to settle for me, instead.”
My breath catches.
“I didn’t settle.” My heart pounds with the truth. “I’m gladyou’rehere. Not Indy. You.”
CHAPTER 6
RAFE
I should getoff the bed and go back to the floor again.
Lay down on the scratchy comforter and wait out the remaining hours until the sun rises.
Get as close to the door as possible, just in case someone tries to come in.
I don’t think that’ll happen, not with the precautions I took—paying cash for the hotel room and using a fake ID to book it, plus finding the most roundabout route from Eden’s house to this three-star hotel on the outskirts of Portland so I could easily tell if anyone was following us.
As I glance at the carpet Eden was so worried about me sleeping on, I mentally downgrade the hotel rating from three stars to two.
Itdoeslook pretty nasty, honestly. There’s a large brown stain over by the beat-up dresser and another one peeking out from beneath the closet door. And I shudder to think of all the things on the floor that would only show up with a black light.
The entire room is pretty disappointing, really. Not that I was expecting something fancy. Hotels that accept cash as paymentand hire red-eyed employees that still smell like the weed they smoked five minutes ago in the back office aren’t exactly the five-star type.
But I wish I’d brought Eden someplace a little nicer, at least.
Someplace that doesn’t carry the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and onion.
Someplace with furniture that isn’t covered with scratches and water stains.
Someplace with a little kitchenette so I could make her coffee and an actual meal for breakfast instead of the stale honey buns the front desk receptionist brought us from the vending machine.
