I smile as I close the window, returning to packing what I probably won’t be needing for our honeymoon, when it hits me...

...heroes around whom we’re doting...

The look on the bastard’s face as he looked at me from inside the cruiser. The smugness, the barely hidden contempt. “Guess what, hero...”

The backpack the bastard put in my car. It’s a bomb!

I run to the window, calling my husband’s name, hoping against hope that I’m not too late to save him, when the blast knocks me back onto the bed as shards of glass rain down on me, stinging my face.

Car alarms start blaring on the street as I start to shake...As I scream his name...

“Logan!”

I snap awake with a start, shaking and clammy with sweat.

Something cold and wet is bumping against my neck, something is scratching against my exposed upper arm and huffing, whining sounds have finally started to come through the rushing of blood in my ears.

I look down and see Pony, obviously desperate to wake me, trying to scramble up my side of the bed. He must’ve sensed my distress and came to investigate.

I sink my fingers into his short fur, his presence grounding me in the present, in reality.

“It’s okay, boy,” I whisper, pressing my lips against his forehead. “I’m awake now. I’m fine. It was only a bad dream.”

He obviously doesn’t understand, since he’s still trying to climb onto the bed with me, so I scoot away from the edge, allowing him to jump in beside me.

“It’s okay, Pony,” I coo, partly to keep him calm, and partly for my own benefit. “It was only a bad dream. A stupid dream, to boot,” I add, cuddling around him. “Who doesn’t check the car after a crazy bomber’s been in it? I know the police force around here isn’t exactly stellar, but they’re not stupid. And Mars Investigations even less so.”

But as I close my eyes, running my fingers down Pony’s ears, I can’t help but tremble at the more-than-merited fear of losing Logan. Him dying because of a jackass leaving his backpack-bomb in my car was a dream, but the threat is real.

He might not come back from one of his missions...

Pony snuggles closer, whining slightly, and I clutch at him, desperately wanting to hear Logan’s voice, know that he’s okay. But until our next Skype call or his next leave, I’m in the dark as to his well-being. All I have are his voicemails I’ve been hoarding to keep the nightmares and fears at bay.



In the morning, all that I really remember about the nightmare is that final blast and the desperation that flooded me in that moment, while the rest is shrouded in misty clouds of forgetfulness.

Still, there’s something that’s bothering me, a niggling of a memory, keeping my apprehension ratcheted up to the max.

“I was a real bitch to everybody. The details are more than fuzzy, but I do remember that part,” I tell Jane. Our usual appointment isn’t until the end of the week, but I called her once I got to the MI offices, unable to shake the flimsy memory of my behavior toward everybody in my dreamscape.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” she asks me in that soothing, melodic voice of hers.

When I’d finally caved into Logan’s pressuring me to at least meet with his therapist—which I know he did out of worry for me, because he loves me and wants the best for me, which in this case is dealing with issues both my own and our combined ones—Jane Meyer’s mannerism really set my teeth on edge.

But if my degree from Stanford taught me anything, it was that I tend to run away from things I don’t care to examine too closely. My initial dislike of Jane had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with me and my tendency to bury my head in the sand. Or pack up and leave.

It was that, coupled with the dejected look on Logan’s face, the one he quickly masked, because he’s so good at that having learned it from an early age, that made me reevaluate going to therapy. Actually talk to someone who doesn’t know me, an objective observer, someone who doesn’t judge. Granted, I’m still skittish at times, but I like Jane. I trust Jane. I trust her, because Logan trusts her. I trust her with my issues, because Logan trusts her with his.

We’re not people who easily trust. The doubt is ingrained in our DNA, albeit for different reasons, but distrust is one more thing we have in common.

She doesn’t know everything about me, I know Logan hasn’t told her everything he still keeps bottled inside, but she certainly knows more than my dad, which makes her the person who knows me the second most. The first being Logan.

If nothing else, Logan and I will be always and forever bound by the joined secrets we keep and issues we share.

“Veronica?” Jane gently prompts and I shake my head to get back into the present.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

I haven’t been listening, but she merely smiles and repeats her question, “Is that what you’re afraid of? Being ‘a bitch’ to everybody?”

I nod slightly. “I’m afraid she’s in here somewhere,” I say, placing my hand on my chest. “I’m afraid that’s who I really am and this seemingly adjusted woman I present to the world is just a mask.”

Jane nods, uncrosses her legs, and leans forward. “She’s a part of you, yes, she’s what helped you cope in highschool. She was your armor, but you don’t need her anymore. You know it, Logan knows it, your father knows it, your friends know it. You’re a successful young woman with two degrees, you have a normal, grown-up life with grown-up responsibilities. Rent, monthly costs, a dog...You have a family—”

“What if something happens to that family?” I whisper and Jane smiles.

I realize she has me right where she wanted me from the beginning, from the moment I told her about the dream and how it ended.

“If something happens to Logan, you mean,” she says slowly as my heart speeds up. “She might come back to the surface to help you cope or she might not.”

I open my mouth, although I don’t really know what to say, but she’s not done yet.

“It’s normal to fear for your loved ones’ safety. It’s normal to fear for your father, it’s normal to fear for your friends, and it’s normal to fear for your lover’s life, especially with Logan’s line of work, but you cannot let that fear dictate your life. You must not let that fear win, because if you do—”

“The bitch will be back,” I finish.

“Exactly,” Jane agrees. “Have you talked about this with Logan?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I squeeze the green stress-ball until my knuckles turn white. “Because...I don’t want him to feel guilty about his job. He loves it and he needs the discipline and order of it. And I’m so proud of him for what he does, for how he’s turned his life around, of the man he’s become. I’m so proud of him protecting us all. I don’t want to take it away from him...”

“And you won’t,” Jane soothes. “He might feel guilty for making you worry, but it’s important for you two to communicate. It’s important that he knows you can talk to him about this, about your fears for his safety. It just might help him communicate his own fears about your safety as well.”

Yeah, because that had gone so well in college...

“You’re not the same people you were in college, Veronica,” Jane says as if she’s reading my mind. “You’re in a long-term, committed relationship. You should be able to communicate with your partner, you should be able to talk to him about anything and everything, and vice versa, especially given your long history with each other.”

I nod. I know we’re not the same Logan and Veronica from college. We’ve changed as people are bound to do. We’ve grown closer together in the past five years as we’ve navigated the highs and lows of our relationship, succeeding in not making the same mistakes that had doomed us in the past.

And communication was key in making it work. I guess we’re not done communicating just yet.

“Good. You need to keep telling him how you feel. No matter what,” Jane says. “Our time is almost up, do you want to also keep our regular appointment or shall we see each other next week?”

“Next week,” I say quickly. Once a week is more than enough...Unless... “But can I call you if...You know?”

Jesus, am I pathetic or what?

Jane merely smiles, gentle and sweet, no mockery in sight. “You can call me anytime you like. You also have my home number, if you need to talk. I’m always available for a chat.”

I return her smile, but leave with just a hurried, “Thanks, doc,” thrown over the shoulder. I do have an image to uphold after all.



I’m reading dad’s text about tonight’s planned meeting at City Hall about the nut jobs or something like that as I unlock the door. I might just join him, it’s not like I have plans or anything for tonight. Mac’s on her much deserved vacation, Wallace has a thing at school and Logan is only-God-knows-where.

Pony’s enthusiasm knows no bounds; like we haven’t seen each other just a few hours ago, like we haven’t slept in the same bed tonight. He just loves me so...Or maybe he has to pee.

“Hey, Pony,” I coo, squatting in front of him and rubbing his adorable face. There goes my tough-chick image, straight through the still open door behind my back. “Hey, buddy. Do you have to pee, huh? You better, because if you don’t have to pee, it means you peed—”

I reach for his leash, see the well-known bag where there wasn’t one in the morning, and all thoughts of a peeing Pony magically disappear in a puff of smoke inside my head, leaving only one.

He’s home.

“Daddy’s home?” I whisper to Pony, excitement and anticipation slowly creeping through me.

I quickly shed my jacket and bag, stuff my gun in its safe, yet another thrill coursing through me as I see Logan’s weapon inside it—he’s home!—thank my luck that I put on a nice pair of underwear this morning, so I don’t have to lose more time changing, and kick off my shoes.

I know where I’ll find him and heeled ankle boots are a nightmare on sand.

Finally ready, I grab Pony’s leash and together we go in search of ‘daddy’.



We haven’t made it very far, when I see Logan emerge from the waves, board tucked under his right arm, water glistening on his body—is it me, or is he slightly broader in his shoulders than he was a few weeks ago?—, the tiny blue trunks leaving nothing to the imagination.

I lick my lips in anticipation of having that body all over and around me in just a few minutes, but some of the excitement is quickly swallowed by possessive ire when I see two spring-breakers have noticed the demigod rising from the waters and are openly ogling and arguing who should be first in line.

As if.

That’s my man they’re stripping with their eyes—not that he’s wearing much, damn those tiny blue trunks—and it won’t do.

The mood strikes to do a little bit of trolling, anything to shut them up and stop them from looking—who knew I could be such a jealously possessive woman—but he’s already seen me and made a beeline for our strange quartet.

Damn, just looking at him makes me all hot and bothered, I can’t wait to get my hands on all that bounty.

Mine, my inner cavewoman cackles with glee as all thoughts of any attempts at trolling the two bitches flee.

It’s not like we haven’t done it before. Logan is nothing if not quick to catch on and serve a nice comeback. A few weeks back, right before his latest job-related disappearance, we did the ‘I’ll trade a handjob for you moving my fridge’ bit and it was hilarious, but the fact is, I’m impatient to get him out of range of the two floozies and alone, and frankly, I’m feeling a little dumbed down at the moment, with all my blood having flown out of by brain and downward.

“Hey, there,” he says with a smile, his eyes heated.

Oh, hell yeah.

My fingers must’ve gone numb along with my brain, because Pony’s leash is no longer in my hands and the dog in question is all over Logan.

“Hey, baby,” he coos, making me melt a little more. “Did you miss me in this past hour we haven’t seen each other?”

“I know I missed you,” I blurt, snark and possible finesse elusive at the moment.

His eyes snap from Pony up to me, a question in them, mixed with pleasure and want.

Screw this. “There’s no line here, ladies,” I mutter, never looking at the two spring-breakers, as I step forward. “Seek elsewhere.”

I press myself against his gorgeous, hard, wet body, lift my arms to cup the back of his neck, grin at the surprise that flashes in his eyes—I still might not be a big fan of PDA, but I don’t really care at the moment—and lift my mouth to his.

He meets me halfway, lifting me slightly, with the arm not holding his precious surfboard, to help us align better, and everything else disappears. The beach, the revelry, the crowd, the two floozies...Nothing exists but me and this man I’d do absolutely anything for.