Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

I meant, if I was pregnant and it was a total accident, the pill failed as it can do, Striker would be a thousand percent supportive of me,

But this wasn’t a mistake.

This was me failing to live up to our agreement that I would take the pill, and we would stay baby-free for the first five years of our marriage.

Of course, at the time, we thought that our wedding was taking place last month.

It was all called off because the CIA failed me.

Yup, now that I thought about it, our wedding date was the time when I stopped taking the pill.

Self-sabotage?

I was about to find out.

***

“Hey there, what did you get?” I asked.

Striker set a bag of groceries on my kitchen counter, where I was mixing up a bowl of sugar cookie batter for the kids to decorate.

I’d cleaned up the art supplies after yesterday’s fun.

It would be weird to watch the kids' finger painting after the whole me as a canvas sex thing.

Glancing over my shoulder, I watched as Striker pulled out a jug of milk. A poem my mom loved pressed forward, grabbing my attention. Pay attention.

“...tomorrow before brunch?” Striker paused.

“What?” I sent him a knitted brow. “I’m sorry, I was somewhere else and missed that. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you have to go in to work in the morning before the neighborhood parents come over for brunch.”

“Oh. No. No, I have the afternoon shift. Then I’ll spend tomorrow night over at Destiny’s apartment. We’re going to be roommates.”

“Good job. How are you explaining that you aren’t sleeping there tonight?”

“I told Destiny that I wanted to see the ocean. I’ve never put my foot in salt water before. I’m heading to the beach to sleep in my car at a campsite. I asked her if she wanted to come, but I knew she was on the schedule for the breakfast run.”

“How’d she respond to your plans? Any sign of distrust?”

“She asked me if it was a good idea to sleep in my car. Other than that, she seemed happy for me that I was going to get to cross something off my bucket list.”

“I prefer it when you’re sleeping in my arms rather than the floor in some low-rent apartment.”

“Duty calls.”

“What were you thinking about just then?”

“When?”

“When you didn’t hear me talking to you.”

“Oh. You know, just before Spyder called to let me know that the FBI would reach out, I was having a very long, very physically strenuous dream about rowing a boat.”

“I remember.”

“It reminded me of one of the poems that Mom took comfort in. It’s by Kahlil Gibran. Mom and I both found richness in his poems.”

“Yes…”

“This one—I think I’m remembering it because of the water theme of that dream. It’s called “Fear,” and part of it goes: ‘It is said that before entering the sea/a river trembles with fear./She looks back at the path she has traveled,/from the peaks of the mountains,/the long winding road crossing forests and villages./And in front of her,/she sees an ocean so vast,/that to enter there seems nothing more than to disappear forever./But there is no other way./The river cannot go back./Nobody can go back./To go back is impossible in existence.’”

“As Spyder would say, ‘Now apply that to your present situation.’”

I snorted and put my wrist to my mouth. “Oh my god, he would say exactly that, wouldn’t he? Uhm, let’s see. I told you that I felt my parents.” I waggled my hand over my right shoulder.

“Still?”

“Yes. And when I think about them, memories bubble up. Most all of the things I’m remembering are from the time when my dad died, not my mom. With this being her birthday week, I would think I’d have more Mom memories. It’s a bit surprising… Curious.”

Striker crossed his arms over his chest and leaned into the counter, focused intently.

“Perhaps because around my dad’s death, I have a lot of self-recriminations.”

“But why?”

“Like, did my actions or inactions at my father’s death—did I cause his death? I think that was one of the reasons I was so gung-ho to join the rescue squad and learn everything I could to protect my mom. And not make any mistakes. I lost one parent by my not having the advanced knowledge that I needed.”

“Wait. You think you were part of the reason your dad died?”

“I bet every loved one has similar thoughts, even if they flit in and flit out—did I do enough? Did I do too much? Did I add to their suffering?”

“Survivor’s guilt. I experienced that when missions went sideways when I was still with the Navy.”

“You know, I once heard a woman speaking about being in a car accident with her husband. He died on the scene, and she emerged without a scratch or a bruise. And she could not let go of the guilt. Before the accident, she had just reached for his hand and had laced their fingers. Had she not reached for him, would both hands on the steering wheel have made a difference? Who knows? This woman was absorbed by the fact that she must have been left alive for a specific purpose. It was driving her nuts.”

“Was she able to get psychological help?”

“Medical help. She donated a kidney and saved a young girl’s life. Saved that child’s family from grief. As soon as her kidney was gone, the survivor thought, ‘Okay, good. That’s why they needed me here.’”

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t even whisper this, but organ donation is a thing. Had she died in the accident, they could have harvested a lot more from her body and saved a great deal more people.”

My mouth hung open.

“I know, gruesome.”

“Totally. And yet, you’re right. It hadn’t