Free Rush (Phoenix Rising) by Joan Swan Page B

we going?”
    “Speaking of sleazy,” Teague said with a smirk, “Mitch has a place for us to use as a base camp for the moment.”
    “Mitch?” She lifted her eyes to Teague’s. “As in your brother-in-law Mitch?”
    “Is there another Mitch?”
    “Not like him, that’s for sure,” Jessica muttered and returned her stare to the carpeted floor, trying to sort out and prioritize all the main events with a low thud rolling behind her eyes and fragmented memories of the . . . hallucination . . . vision . . . whatever thrumming through her heart. “Why is Mitch here?”
    “Because he has abandonment issues,” Keira said, “and can’t be left out of anything.”
    Teague laughed. “Save the good ones for when he’s around.” Then to Jessica, he said, “Mitch is here because he’s in this up to his eyeballs, and he’s a worrywart about Alyssa’s pregnancy, and he”—Teague shrugged and grinned—“can’t be left out of anything.”
    “Thank you,” Keira said.
    Their banter carried on in one ear, but Jessica’s mind drifted. I knew you’d taste amazing. The memory of that kiss created an ache down the center of her body. She pressed her fingers to her lips, unsure if they were tingling because of the freezing rain or—
    She stopped herself. Looked out the window where droplets darted diagonally along the glass. This was reality—the rain-soaked streets of Washington. Teague. Keira. This trouble. Her lips had to be tingling from the rain. Or maybe lack of blood supply to her head, because if she believed she’d actually kissed a real man, let alone her dead husband, she really did need that asylum she’d been considering in jest earlier.
    Leaning on the armrest, head braced in her hands, she said, “Who are you running from?”
    “That’s not entirely clear yet,” Teague said. “What happened with the coin, Jess?”
    She lifted her gaze to his. Held it. Road noise filled the silence for long seconds as Jessica tried to form an answer. She finally exhaled a heavy breath, slid her hands over her face and groaned, “I have no idea.”
    “Then just tell us what you saw,” Keira said.
    Jessica sat back and closed her eyes. The weight of hopelessness that always came when she thought of Quaid’s loss slowly filled her chest even as she battled it back. This was why she did everything she did—the move, the job change, the drugs, avoiding her abilities—because after coming so far in both life and rehabilitation, she was convinced there was only one thing that could break her: having to face that kind of loss a second time.
    But she wouldn’t have to face that—because the man she’d seen . . . imagined . . . envisioned . . . had not been Quaid. She could recognize that now in hindsight. And she could even understand why she’d thought—for that blissful moment—it had been.
    “One car,” she said, closing her eyes to aid the memories. “A few men . . . three, no four . . . wearing dress pants, shirts and ties. They were working together, but arguing like they didn’t get along. I saw another man, and he was a prisoner. But before you ask, I can’t even believe I’m having to answer this question seriously.” She straightened and held up a hand in warning. “No, it wasn’t Quaid.”
    Keira and Teague remained silent. They shared a look in the rearview mirror.
    Keira opened her mouth and Jessica cut off her next question with the answer, “Yes, I’m sure.”
    Jessica glanced out the windshield as Keira turned toward an upscale neighborhood. Teague leaned in and took her hands. “How do you know?”
    She pulled away, pushed her hands between her knees, and held tight to her last strand of sanity. “I know because Quaid is dead. I know because I’ve been living alone for five years .” She paused, and banked her temper. “The man I saw had a shaved head covered in scars. And he was small. Even if Quaid had lost fifty pounds, he’d still be a big guy.
    “His nose was too