LINKED (The Bening Files Book 1) Read online

  A hand found her shoulder and squeezed. “He’s a fighter, McKenna.”

  ###

  A jagged, thorny stick scraped the inside of Jordan’s throat and made each swallow difficult.

  Each inhale of breath took concentration, it seemed, since the nurses had removed the breathing tube hours ago. Or was it minutes?

  He couldn’t remember and forgot to ask each time he opened his eyes. Part of him was afraid he’d see something other than flowers, cards and McKenna. Or he’d hear something other than the steady blip of a monitor.

  Something moved in his hand. Fingers curled around his. The tap of shoes on the opposite side caught his attention. A scraping sound filled the air.

  “I’m going for coffee.” A male voice said. “Want anything?”

  Rupert. Right, he was here. Jordan couldn’t remember why.

  “No, thanks,” McKenna said. Her voice held the same strain he’d heard the last time he’d surfaced. The urge to shake himself awake was strong. He wanted to sit up, hold and comfort her.

  “Okay.” The shoe taps got quieter and then disappeared.

  He focused on moving his hand. Focused on opening his eyes and staying awake long enough to make sure she wasn’t hurt. Then he’d tell one of those nurses to stop drugging him.

  The fingers around his gave a squeeze. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes,” he croaked. Yes, he needed to wake up.

  “I’ll get a nurse.” Her fingers started to leave his, but he held on.

  “No.”

  “No?” A shadow fell over him and a hint of flowery shampoo washed over him. Had she always smelled like this? Even when they were kids?

  “Need you.” He focused on lifting his eyelids, one millimeter at a time. By small degrees, the world around him came into view. McKenna bent over him, her dark hair falling in waves around her face. Beautiful. “No more drugs.” The image of her face distorted. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” her voice faded.

  He drifted in a sea of dreams and reality for what seemed like days.

  The next time he woke, his body ached from the tip of his head down to his toes, but his mind was clear. And his eyes didn’t feel like weighted bowling balls.

  McKenna sat in the same chair next to his bed. She braced her head on her bent arm—the same arm that had held a cast—and flipped through a magazine. A few dark tendrils of hair escaped from the loose knot at the base of her neck. After a moment, she flipped the glossy pages shut and closed her eyes.

  “I’m going to turn it down,” she said.

  Before he could respond, a male voice said, “It’s a great opportunity.” Robinson stood near the window looking out. “I thought the CIRG job was what you’ve been working toward.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  He turned from the window then. “You don’t have to give them an answer right now. Think about it.”

  A sad shake of her head filled his view. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Jordan’s voice held the grainy edge of disuse.

  A sharp inhale of breath filled the room as McKenna jumped. The magazine crashed to the floor as she turned toward him.

  “Hey,” she and Robinson said in unison.

  Her lips curled upward. “Did we wake you?”

  “No.” He took in the dark circles under her eyes. “How long have I been lying here?”

  “This is day five, you big faker,” Robinson said.

  “That explains why my backside feels like its part of this bed.”

  A watery smile lit McKenna’s face. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’d run a marathon and lose, but be really happy to do so.”

  “I’m going to hit the cafeteria and give you guys a minute.” Robinson reached Jordan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t scare us like that again, man.” Then he exited.

  “Give me your hand.” Jordan extended his hand, palm up.

  After she stood, she placed her hand in his. The soft texture and warmth vibrated through him. Real. This wasn’t a drug induced dream. The images of Matthew, his mother and Hannah inside his head—that had to be morphine or something.

  Worry wrinkled her brow as she watched him. “You okay?”

  He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand. He’d almost lost this. Lost her. Then he lifted himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sharp pain radiated up his left side. He touched it. “Broken?”

  “Bruised.” Her free hand was mid-air, as if ready to brace him, should he fall. “Take it easy, okay?”

  “I’m fine.” A pounding started at his temples.

  Her eyes flicked to the bandage on his head. “Thought you hated those words?”

  “Only when you say them to save face.” He took in the dark circles under her eyes. It mirrored the sadness lurking in her posture.

  She blinked a few times and sniffed. “I don’t know how to tell you… Matthew, didn’t make it.”

  Oh, geez. Like a sucker punch to his gut, the sadness, fresh and raw washed over him. A tear tracked down McKenna’s cheek before she brushed it aside.

  “Hey, shh.” Ignoring the protest from both his side and his head, he stood and gathered her close. Her arms came around him and her body fit against his as if she’d always been there. He rubbed her back. Hot tears soaked his thin hospital issued gown. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He smoothed a hand against her head, brushing her hair behind one ear. “I’m going to miss him, too.” The side of his head started throbbing, but not bad enough to make him sit down. Not yet.

  She pulled away, but remained in his arms. Worry appeared in her eyes as she glanced, again, at the bandage on his head.

  She needs you more. Turned out, he needed her just as much.

  He cupped her face and brought his lips to hers. The soft texture of her skin against his, elicited a groan from somewhere deep inside. The pain in his head started to recede.

  “I’m so glad you’re awake,” she whispered against his lips.

  He sat down on the bed and pulled her down next to him.

  “Did I hear right? You got the CIRG job in Quantico?” Excitement coursed through him even as dread followed behind.

  “I’m not going to take it.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s too far away.”

  “It’s not like you’d have to commute. We could make it work.”

  “I only applied for that job because, deep down, I thought I had to prove I wasn’t the weakest link. I thought I needed to get away. To start over.” Her eyes met his, then. “Turns out I just needed to come home. You’re my home, Jordan. You always have been.”

  He held out his hand and watched as her fingers link with his, a tingling sensation starting in all the places her flesh touched his.

  All the times he’d imagined this scenario as a teenager hurried through his mind. All the times he’d stood next to her with those hormones and anxiety rushing though his system as he contemplated reaching for her hand. Contemplated everything beyond that and the complex perfection it could be.

  Reality, with its bumps and turns, was sweeter.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Linked. I hope you enjoyed Jordan and McKenna’s story as much as I did. Sending this novel out into the world was the culmination of hard work and persistence—on their part. These two have been trying to escape my hard drive for some time. If we don’t count the multiple computer crashes they’ve dealt with (thank you, dear husband for fixing my laptop, again) this is their very first introduction into the world.

  Please leave me a review on the site you purchased the book from. I would greatly appreciate it.

  You can also like me on facebook, or follow me on Pinterest or Twitter to keep up with my latest releases and the interesting things my characters are up to. I always like to hear from my readers, so feel free to visit my website and leave me your thoughts and suggestions or sign up for my newsletter. It�
�s always interesting to hear reader insights and find out about the characters you liked and those you might not have.

  Don’t worry. Jordan and McKenna aren’t finished gracing my hard drive. Read on for a sneak peak of Robinson and Amanda in Disconnect, available now, through Amazon.

  Until we meet again. God Bless!

  Sincerely,

  Rachel Trautmiller

  Acknowledgments

  I would be remiss if I didn’t list those who have helped in this journey. The names are innumerable.

  To my husband, Derek, thank you for believing in me all those years ago and purchasing a laptop for me so I could write no matter where we were (I know it kept me off your computer, but I love you for it anyway). You never stopped believing I’d achieve my dreams. Thank you and I love you doesn’t cover it.

  Christina, you read a lot of bad manuscripts. I don’t even know how to thank you. I remember those first books and I’m not sure how you stomached all the awful sentences. Somehow, you still managed to take a chance on this one. I hope I didn’t disappoint.

  Kristy, I’ve got to say, if we hadn’t had your amazing chicken dip and wine the weekend I spent at your house, I might have left this book sitting with the cobwebs. Your excitement spurred mine. I can’t thank you enough.

  Anna, you showed me that making a book cover wasn’t that terrifying—and actually a lot of fun. Must resist the urge to play with that program too much!

  Of course, I can’t forget the critique partners I’ve had, courtesy of ACFW. Thank you wonderful ladies—you know who you are, for reading this story and helping me gain writing strength.

  And to the Christian Indie Authors group—you guys rock. I’ve never had such an overflow of information about publishing in my life. Couldn’t have done it without you and your sound advice.

  And lastly, Camdynn, you taught me that life gets better after children. My dreams don’t have to die. While your father and I are still trying to decipher your cute chatter, I hope you know you are our world.

  I love you.

  Rachel

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rachel Trautmiller lives with her wonderful husband, extremely cute daughter, two unruly dogs and a fat cat in Fresno, California. She grew up in the harsh winters of Minnesota, but has traveled the U.S. with her USAF husband. She prefers the hot, dry summers of California.

  At the age of fourteen, she wrote an essay on her top three choices for careers.

  Writing was among them, but she found herself in the Healthcare field, where she’s stayed for over ten years.

  Rachel continues to write and has books planned for release in 2015, including Disconnect and Aftermath.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PTSD.

  The acronym imbedded itself somewhere inside McKenna Bening’s brain. It overtook easy aspects of her life, even more so than the child growing inside her uterus. It, along with the psychologists attached, was a noose hanging around her neck. A small bunching of letters that should have described lingering feelings of impending doom, in the most clinical way.

  Except, like the roots of a large oak tree, this tightening in her chest was firmly planted in the present. And the space where an organ should reside, held a circus freak show full of animals jumping around to a gnarly beat. If the tempo increased, her heart might leap to the Third Avenue pavement, on which she walked.

  McKenna sucked in a breath.

  The FBI psychologist said this type of side effect—as if she'd merely taken an antibiotic she was allergic to—was typical of people who suffered from the disease. Disease. It wasn’t cancer. At least a doctor might cut that out. Was she supposed to take a knife and remove her nervous system? Her memories?

  Stay calm, they said. Yes, because she wanted to have her heart shaking around in her chest and fifteen-thousand pounds of invisible elephant taking up residence in the same area.

  Think of Riley.

  She adjusted the strap of her purse with one hand, the other resting on her protruding stomach. A swift movement met her palm, as if her child were telling her to chill.

  Okay. One foot in front of the other. One step closer to her destination. Closer to safety.

  Two teenagers rushed by, chatting about something incoherent to her. A man in a dark suit brushed her elbow as he passed, engrossed in a conversation with someone on the other end of the phone pressed to his ear.

  A woman in a jogging suit, pushing an active gear stroller with a curly-haired toddler inside, glanced up. She caught the sight of McKenna’s protruding belly and smiled. Then she moved on.

  Breathe. Everything is normal. Just another day in Charlotte, North Carolina.

  That pinprick of anxiety wouldn't leave her shoulders. It dribbled downward, like sweat from her pores, until it sat in her stomach. Unshakeable.

  She looked over her shoulder. Nothing, but ordinary people covered the crowded sidewalk. A husband holding his wife’s hand, out for a stroll. Teenage girls checking out a boy across the street. Two older ladies occupying a bench and people-watching.

  No threats. No one chasing her. The ripple of danger urged her forward, at a pace better suited to the jogger.

  Screw PTSD. Someone watched her. Followed her. And she wasn't going to wait around for them to catch up.

  She reached for the comfort of her SIG. It wasn't there, and hadn't been for about seven months, because the FBI refused to clear her for duty. Maybe they never would. And these weekly therapy sessions were part of a drawn out mind game of how to let the agent down gently.

  They thought she had unresolved psychological issues. It was a risk, in which they couldn’t afford to gamble. She understood that. If she were on the outside, looking in at another agent, in a similar situation, she might come to the same conclusions.

  She would. No maybe about it. It kicked up a healthy dose of annoyance in her blood stream. Truth didn’t always make things easier.

  Not today.

  Today, the grip of her service revolver and weight of her badge, would be welcoming instead of anxiety riddled. For the first time in all those months, she really wanted her life back. It wasn’t a sentence she fed a psychologist and prayed she could embody sometime in the next fifty years.

  Her hands shook as she squeezed herself between a group of people on the sidewalk. The more distance she put between herself and this unknown threat, the better. She shook off their grunts of disapproval and kept going, almost at a full jog now.

  Two more blocks. Then she'd be at CMPD’s third precinct. It wasn't her original destination, but would have to do. Amanda Nettles should be inside, on duty, and able to help her.

  Amanda would probably call Jordan. McKenna stopped. A young man wearing baggy jeans and an even baggier shirt, bumped into her. He righted himself, then glared at her as he passed. She thought she heard him mumble, “Idiot.”

  Jordan would come running, because that's what husbands did for wives who seemed unstable. For wives who’d been taken captive and lived to tell about it. And had watched said husband nearly die.

  Those days at his bedside had changed something integral inside her. No matter what some federally paid psychologist said, it didn’t have anything to with an overused medical term. And everything to do with her heart, her values and what she found important in life.

  So, for the time being, she’d given up working for the FBI. It didn’t mean she’d put aside her independent ways. Or that she wanted Jordan to drop everything to rescue her from nothing. She turned left on Broadway, following a large crowd of people as they entered the crosswalk, going away from the third precinct.

  Whether Jordan would admit it or not, he was waiting for her to crack. If it happened, he would pick up the pieces, like the loving husband he was.

  Would they go back together again?

  She passed a man in a cowboy hat, leaning near the entrance to a dress shop, a newspaper in hand. He lowered the paper and turned the page, his dark eyes meeting hers above it. They held for a second, as she p
assed, then he resumed his reading.

  A spiral of panic settled in her stomach. Okay, no big deal.

  He’s probably waiting while his wife shops.

  She walked ten steps. Moved to the side of the walkway. Then she bent down, as if to tie an unlaced shoe. The bulge of her stomach didn’t let her get as close to the ground as she would have liked.

  A peak backward told her what she feared. The cowboy no longer perched against the shop. She stood so fast, she nearly knocked an elderly couple across the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me.” Was that her voice? It sounded wobbly and short of breath. Shame climbed her throat. She was better than this. Last year, Quantico had wanted her to be a part of the Hostage Rescue Team, where keeping your cool came first.

  A slight vibration filled her body. Her muscles shook as if she stood in front of the citizens of Charlotte. Naked. Yeah, she was far from cool.

  “You alright, miss?” The elderly gentleman asked. Sympathy covered his wrinkled face. Worry crowded clear blue eyes, enhanced by wire-rimmed glasses.

  McKenna spotted the hat in a throng of people headed her way. “I'm f-fine.” Of their own volition, her feet sped up again, her heart matching the tempo. The gentleman called out to her. She didn’t stop.

  A disheveled reflection flitted around the windows as she sped past. Her hair had come out of the half knot she put it in this morning and she looked like a blob running through downtown Charlotte.

  If FBI Director Stotts could see this now…

  HRT offer rescinded. For all of time.

  She caught sight of the cowboy hat in a row of windows housed by Gamegon Incorporated's tall business structure, to her left. He was a few people behind her and gaining. McKenna ducked through the gaming conglomerates revolving door and came to a stop inside a busy reception area.

  What floor was Rupert on? Two? Three? She rubbed her head. She should have gone to Amanda. Sucked up her pride and called Jordan. Short puffs of breath left her mouth, but nothing went in.