Page 14 of Resurgent
“Nope.”
“How is that possible?”
I sigh. “Because I don’t remember anything that’s happened since last November.”
She’s looking at me wide-eyed, her mouth a little “O,” and I have to resist the urge to lean over and kiss her again. Those damn dreams of mine have fucked with my head.
“You know that long story about how I’m alive? I guess now’s a good time to tell it. We’ve got a few hours before we hit Playa Nayarit.”
As we drive along the deserted highway, I fill her in on everything that’s happened in the last month, starting with waking up in the hospital and barely remembering my name and ending with seeing her picture on the news along with the story of her kidnapping and my journey to find her. I tell her everything—about the pictures of the guns on my phone, the incriminating emails to Noah, my contact with the drug cartel, the bank account, and the fact that I don’t remember a damn thing about any of it. By the time I finish, the sun is coming up.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
I shrug. “Going to some biker bar with Walker in San Diego while we were on leave. I think we were going on vacation, but I don’t remember the details.”
“That must have been right before you and Walker met us in Playa del Carmen. You don’t remember going on vacation with Kenzie, Gemma, Walker, and me?”
I shake my head.
“Or getting deployed on an emergency mission a few days after you got back? Or visiting McKenzie a few months later?” she presses.
“Nope. You know more about what I was doing during that time period than I do.”
She whistles softly. “Damn.”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “That’s all you have to say?”
She smiles—a real one this time—and it transforms her face. “You’re right. That was totally inadequate. That definitely deserved at least a ‘hot damn.’ Maybe even a ‘holy shit.’”
I chuckle. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘I’m so sorry I thought you were faking it and kicked you in the nuts.’”
She just laughs, and my cock stirs at the sound. I take my eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a grin. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”
She gives me a prim and properI don’t think so look, confirming what I’d realized in India. There is no way Charlotte and I hooked up in the months before the explosion. But it has me having hot librarian fantasies nonetheless.
After a minute, she says, “So, what’s your plan?”
I shrug. “I haven’t got one yet.”
“Well, you need one.” Just like that, she morphs into Charlotte the wedding planner. She’s suddenly all business, from the rigid way she sits straighter in the passenger seat to the way she starts ticking things off on her still perfectly manicured fingers. For some reason, it gives me a hard-on.
She continues, oblivious to my reaction. “First, you need to look at your bucket list. Everyone thinks it’s a map to the guns, and if it is, maybe it will spark another memory and you’ll remember where they are. If not, you really need to talk to Walker. He’s been looking at the list and checking things off it, trying to figure out what might be a clue. At least then you’ll know where the guns aren’t. Then you can hit the things on your list that haven’t been crossed off. Eventually you’ll find the guns and return them and no one will have to know.” She sits back and folds her arms across her chest, as if she’s just single-handedly solved all my problems. I wish it was that simple.
She looks so pleased with herself, I can’t help but smile. “Do you have a plan for everything?”
She presses her lips together. “Yes, actually, I do.”
“It’s a good plan, but it’s not gonna work. For starters, I’m not talking to Walker. I got myself into this mess, and I’m going to get myself out of it. I’m certainly not taking my best friend down with me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don’t ask for help. Be all macho and do it the hard way.”
“Sometimes that’s the only option.” Since my parents died, leaving me with a pile of bills and a sister to raise, I’ve handled my own shit. When you rely on people, you get vulnerable. And attached. I thrive on the power of fuck it. It’s a recipe for unhappiness to care too much about anything. Or anyone. “Then there’s the small problem that I don’t have my bucket list. Sure, I remember the stuff I put on it when I was a kid, and probably even the stuff I added over the years as a SEAL. But if it’s really a map—and to be honest, that sounds like a load of bullshit—then I would have added the clues after I got the guns, and I don’t remember anything from that time.”
She twists around in her seat and pulls what looks like a passport out of her back pocket. Opening it, she takes out a piece of paper that she unfolds and waves in front of my face. “I have your bucket list!” There’s a hint of triumph in her voice. “Walker asked me to go by McKenzie’s apartment and get your passport—that’s why I was at her place and the kidnappers thought I was her—and I found your list, so I grabbed it too.”
“Yeah? Good work.” I shoot her a smile. “I’ll look at it when we get to Playa Nayarit, okay?” I don’t mention that even if I do manage to remember where I put the guns, it’s not going to be as simple as just returning them. Because the drug cartel has paid me half a million dollars for a shipment of guns, and I have a feeling they intend to get what they paid for—one way or another.
…
