Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) by Hamilton M.L

Author:Hamilton, M.L. [Hamilton, M.L.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2014-05-17T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

Peyton entered the house, tossing her keys on the sofa table and removing her gun to hang on the pegs by the door. Pickles scampered over to her and she scooped him up, then walked to the kitchen. Marco was dishing up take-out onto two plates. He glanced at her as she stepped into the entry, then he looked away.

“Hey.” She moved toward him, but he turned and went to a drawer, yanking it open and taking out two forks.

“Hey, I hope Italian’s okay. I picked it up on the way home.”

“It’s fine.” There was an edge to his voice and he hadn’t given her his usual kiss. She moved toward Pickle’s food bowl, glancing into the garbage as she did so. A bottle of Jack Daniels lay on the top of the recycle bin.

“I poured it down the sink.”

She turned toward him. “What?”

“If that’s what you were wondering. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

She pressed Pickles closer to her. “Is something wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong, Peyton?”

“I don’t know. You’re clearly angry about something. You want to clue me in.”

He lifted his chin and gave her a withering stare, then he reached for two napkins and held out a plate to her. “Everything’s fine. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

She didn’t take the plate. “I have to walk Pickles.”

“Done. And he’s been fed.” When she still didn’t take the plate, he set it on the counter and grabbed his own, going to the barstools and taking a seat. He started eating with violent intensity.

Peyton watched him a moment, confused, then she settled Pickles on the ground and walked toward the bedroom, removing her suit jacket. For some reason, tears burned in her eyes, but she fought them as she began changing out of her work clothes. She hung them up in the closet and went to the dresser, reaching for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

Suddenly he was there, turning her to face him. He pulled the shorts and tank top out of her hands and set them on the dresser, then he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

She pressed her hands to his chest. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, then he kissed her.

“Marco,” she protested, trying to push him away, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Shh,” he whispered, “everything’s okay. Please, sweetheart, just let it go.”

She wanted an explanation, but her thoughts scattered when he kissed her again, pressing her back into the dresser.

Many hours later, she woke and reached for him, but his side of the bed was empty. She pushed back the covers and grabbed the jersey she usually wore off the chair in the corner, pulling it over her head.

She found him in the kitchen, doing dishes. Pushing back her curls, she blinked sleepily at him. He wore only a pair of athletic shorts, the scar in his lower thigh visible, a large rope of knotted tissue.

“Why are you up?”

“Do you want something to eat? You didn’t eat earlier.

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