Page 77 of Ford
A friend.
Tasha had never been a friend. Exotic. Passionate. A cure for his loneliness, color for his rather stale world. But he never truly had his thirst slaked with her. Had often felt like she didn’t even truly see him.
Perhaps, if anything, Tasha only made him hungrier.
Maybe he’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone care forhim.
No. That wasn’t it. He didn’t need anyone to look out for him. He’d been a loner his entire life.
Liked it. Really.
It would have helped if RJ hadn’t kissed him. Maybe he could stop thinking about it. About holding her in his arms and kissing her back, and—
RJ sat up and reached for a bag under the tiny table between the bunks. Pulled out a thermos. “God bless Coco and her love of coffee.” She filled her glass cup with coffee, set it in thepodstanika, a metal Russian holder, then brought it to her lips. “Do you miss America?”
Oh. So this was the part of the seven-day journey where they got to know each other. Yippee. Still, he hadn’t exactly brought a book to read. He sat up and clocked his head on the upper bunk, made a face. “No. Sometimes. I miss watching live football.”
“Really? What’s your team?”
“The Packers. My grandparents lived in Milwaukee.”
“Of course. I never had a pro team, but we were huge Bobcat fans, from Montana State University. How did you end up in Russia?”
“Long tour of duty. I started as a Marine, right out of high school, then went into FORECON for a number of years.”
“Marine Force Recon? Wow. My brother was a Ranger.”
“I thought you said your brother was a SEAL.”
“A different brother.”
“That’s right. Five brothers.”
“Five amazing, over-the-top brothers.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee too. Sipped it. Yeah, that could wake him up. “My uncle was a Marine, and he visited my grandparents whenever he was on leave. He felt like a big brother, in a way. Took me to football and baseball games. Told me stories. Career Marine. Retired a few years ago. He lives on a farm outside Racine.”
“Hence your career choice.”
“Yes. When I left FORECON, I transferred to the embassy in Russia—all the embassies have marines protecting them—and took over as one of the heads of security.”
He stopped there because, hello, that was diving too deep. There were some wounds that simply shouldn’t be reopened. So he simplified. “When my tour was up, I stayed in-country as a private contractor.”
“Like Roy?” she said.
He shook his head. “No. Not like Roy. I’m not with the CIA. I work on my own terms.”
“Doing?”
He shrugged. “Deliveries. Diplomatic protection. Screenings. Training.” He looked at her. “I’m not an assassin, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Her eyes widened, and then she shrugged. “Just wondering if I should start calling you Jason Bourne.”
“York will do.”
“York what?”
He shook his head. “Just York.”