“I want him to check in every two hours.”

“I told him every hour. He doesn’t need motivation to do this right. Brody’s emotionally tied tighter than anyone else in this case. He’s half-crazy with concern for Dr. Campbell. I’m glad he’s out of Portland and out of the line of fire.”

Mason disagreed with Ray’s statement. He could think of one man tied tighter.

Jack closed the door to the bedroom Alex had loaned him and stumbled into the attached bathroom. Some protector he was. Getting drunk with a buddy when Cal’s killer was searching for the defenseless woman in the next room. Actually, defenseless wasn’t how he thought of Lacey. She was tough and smart. He knew she carried pepper spray and watched her surroundings with a sharp eye.

There wasn’t another place in the world where he’d let himself fall so low, but in Alex’s home he knew he could let his guard down. Alex would always have his back. He’d drag Jack up from the floor a time or two when the past got too close. Then he’d pound responsibility back into Jack’s spine, and he’d be able to hold his head up. Alex’s home had been an oasis he’d escaped to several times since the shooting. He’d brought Lacey here because he had no doubts she’d be safe.

He swayed slightly from the alcohol, leaned his hands on the counter, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Lacey didn’t need him. He just liked to think she did. She only needed a shoulder to cry on every now and then. She could have done just as well with her cats for comfort. Great. He’d reduced his bodyguard role to a purring foot warmer.

Someone was feeling very sorry for himself.

This always happened when he thought about the shooting. He’d feel like a sham. Being a cop was one thing he’d truly wanted to do. He wanted to be part of that line that stood between the public and the scum. But he’d failed. And couldn’t handle the consequences.

He’d lost his edge that day. He couldn’t face another uncertain situation and that was what a cop’s life was. Every simple encounter could turn deadly. A traffic stop. A shoplifting. A domestic dispute. Stupidly, neither he nor Cal had checked the young man for weapons, and someone died from that mistake. Jack couldn’t get over it and had left the force.

Now here he stood, a drunken idiot, believing he could protect a woman from a killer. He’d finally stumbled across a woman who spun his wheels, and he didn’t believe he was good enough for her.

He reached to turn on the faucet, but knocked a hairbrush on the floor instead. He bent over to pick it up, got dizzy, and pitched head first into the shower door. “Fuck!” He grabbed at his forehead and sat on the floor, silently begging the room to stop spinning.

The bathroom door to the other connecting bedroom slid open an inch.

“Jack?”

“Don’t come in.” She couldn’t see him like this.

She pushed the door open farther.

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m pretty sure.” He tried to look her directly in the eye but couldn’t choose one of her four eyes. He did see the amazement flood her face.

“You are drunk. What were you doing?”

“Drinking.” She had to ask?

He pulled himself up and lurched out of the bathroom to his bed. He sat on the edge to unlace his boots. It took a while. Finally, he let them fall to the floor with a thump and lay back on the bed with his eyes closed. Much better.

His eyes popped open when he heard a sharp clatter as she tossed the hairbrush back on the bathroom counter. “Sorry,” he muttered. Couldn’t even pick up his mess. His eyelids felt like they were weighted with Buicks and fell shut.

It was too quiet. He pried one eye open and suffered a full body twitch. Her face was a foot and a half away, studying him as she wrinkled her forehead. “What?”

“I’ve never seen you like this.”

“You’ve hardly seen me.” He shut his eyes to stop her face from doing a pirouette. “You don’t know nothing about me. Maybe I’m like this every night.”

“I doubt that.” Her words were soft and he felt himself float away on their weightlessness.

Lacey was fascinated. The big protective man was drunk in his bed. He’d made so much noise in the bathroom, she’d thought someone had broken in. She sniffed at him. Beer. Why had he gotten drunk? She was the one with the baggage tonight.

Slightly envious that he’d managed to achieve the delirium she would appreciate tonight, she considered removing his sweatshirt. He’d collapsed on the bed fully clothed. At least he’d gotten his boots off. It’d taken him three minutes but he managed.

She couldn’t stand seeing him sleep with a thick sweatshirt on. She hated the feeling of sleeping in her clothes. Jack probably couldn’t care less, but she pulled at a sweatshirt cuff and slipped his arm out. She did the same to the other arm and pulled the shirt up over his head. Underneath he wore a black long-sleeve T-shirt that did good things with his chest and abs. She looked her fill; the man was cut. He was also out cold.

His jeans bothered her, but she wasn’t touching those. No way. Looking at him closer, she noticed he needed a shave. With a tentative finger she touched the bristly stubble, delighted she could study him covertly.

His short hair was mussed, making him look sexier than ever, like he’d been rolling in bed with someone all night. The stubble made his rakish air seem stronger than usual. He had a kind of rogue pirate thing going on. At least those intense eyes were closed instead of unsettling her. The thick black eyelashes made her jealous. Women would kill for those.