Unless she considered a group punishment just desserts for the one Marine that had pissed her off . . .

He’d lose his mind heading down that path. This wasn’t his investigation to worry about.

Twenty minutes later, he sat with Graham at the back of the new bus, bumping out of the parking lot. Reagan had seated herself in the front, her phone permanently attached to her ear. He’d mock her for working nonstop, but thanks to this new problem, she was pulling double duty. And there was nothing he could do to help her or bear some of the burden.

“So who was it?” Graham asked, keeping his voice low. There was no way even Brad, sitting in front of them, could have heard. “Any of your guys seem likely?”

“Not really, no. But why would any of them want to punish the team? They made the team.”

“So maybe someone who got cut.” Graham nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay, I could see that. But it started so early, before the team was finalized . . .”

“People were cut on the first or second day. Injuries and junk. If someone is willing to roll up a paint balloon in a banner, or slash tires, then he’s not thinking straight. Plus, think about it.” Warming to the idea now, Greg turned. “Whoever this is knew everyone’s car who was at the barracks. They obviously know how to get into the gym, maybe because they’ve been in it recently. Maybe they know some door that gets left unlocked a lot. They know our schedule of travel because we were given all that info from the start. And the reason itself is clear. They didn’t make the team; they’re willing to punish those who did.”

“Maybe.” Unconvinced, Graham sighed and let his head fall against the window. “It’s gonna be a long-ass ride home.”

“No kidding.”

“At least you have something worth coming back home to,” Graham said with a snap, then sighed again. “Sorry. Getting tired of being the fifth wheel these days.”

“So ask her out.”

“She’s not ready.” Graham grumbled, “She might never be ready.”

“A woman like Kara’s gonna be ready. You might just have to nudge a little.”

“Nudge,” Graham said in a low voice. “Something tells me she’s going to appreciate that.”

“All the more reason.” Greg grinned as he thought back to his own nudging with Reagan. “Sometimes the ones that need a nudge are the ones that are the most ready to jump. They just don’t know it.”

“Speaking from experience, grasshopper?” Brad popped his head over the seat with a smug smile.

Apparently they’d been louder than he’d realized. Greg attempted to shove his roommate’s head back down, Whac-A-Mole style. But he was stuck with the grumpy guy.

“Yeah, how are things anyway, on the Love Boat?” Graham crooned, making Brad snicker and causing Greg to punch him in the shoulder. “What? It was appropriate.”

“Hardly. And things are . . .” Fantastic. Amazing. Better than I’ve ever hoped for. “Good. Things are good.”

“Somebody’s in looooove,” Graham sang again, which made Greg honor-bound to do his best to kick his ass without anyone on the coaching staff noticing. Rough work, but he gave it his best. After a few minutes of grappling and playing around, Brad reached in and thrust an arm between them.

“Knock it off, you two. People are looking back here. You want the coach to assign seats like we’re in freaking kindergarten?”

“Might not be a bad idea,” said a new voice.

All three jerked their heads to the other side of the bus, where Tressler sat, earbuds in, eyes shut, head back as if asleep or zoned out to the music. But apparently he’d been listening the whole time.

“Butt out, Tressler,” Brad said easily. The younger Marine had been in Brad’s imaginary platoon during tryouts, and though those had naturally dissolved as the final team had been announced, each of them had felt a little more responsible for those who they’d been in charge of. Greg had breathed a serious sigh of relief when he’d missed the Tressler trap.

“Just saying,” the younger man said, ignoring the warning. He never opened his eyes, just swayed slightly with the bus. “The odds are, someone on here slashed the seats of the old bus. Maybe they weren’t alone. Maybe it’s a duo, or a trio.”

The three looked at each other. He saw surprise register in his friends’ faces as well. None of them had considered that.

“Maybe breaking up cliques would be for the best.” Opened his eyes now, he turned and shot them a shit-eating smile. “Starting with you three.”

Graham vibrated beside him, but Greg knew guys like Tressler. They lived to stir the shit pot, and were usually well out of range when the entire thing exploded. Annoying little gnats who were irritating to listen to, but harmless in the grand scheme of things. And definitely not worth blowing up over.

Greg smiled back. “You know, quality attracts quality. Might be why you’re sitting alone.”

Tressler flushed. Brad thumped back down into his seat, but Greg could hear the man swallowing a laugh. Graham coughed and turned to the window, his shoulders shaking.

And Greg settled back in his own seat, satisfied when Tressler turned his back to them to look out his own window in a childish pout.

Greg leaned into the aisle to watch Reagan again as she walked down the rows doing another headcount like an RA on a dorm floor. When her eyes met his, he winked. She didn’t acknowledge his wink, except to flush and turn her head back around. She wobbled a little on those damn impractical heels of hers when the bus listed to the left. Someone—he couldn’t see his face—reached up to steady her by gripping her elbow. And when she bestowed a grateful smile on them, Greg’s hands fisted so hard the knuckles cracked.

“The Love Boat,” Graham sang under his breath. “Soon will be making another run . . .”

“Eat me.”

*   *   *

“OKAY.” Reagan took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car and met Greg on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. Her palms were sweating. “So, don’t judge the outside. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Greg glanced down at what appeared to be an ashtray full of blunts dumped on the small, patchy lawn leading up to the main door, and raised his brow.

“Fine, it sucks. Just don’t judge it until you get inside.” She opened the door, walked up to the second story, and unlocked her three locks.

“Three?”

“There were only two, but I added one after getting approval.” The door stuck, swollen by the heat, and she muscled her way in.

“You know how to add a deadbolt to a door?”

“I’ve got brothers. They like tools. I paid attention.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Home sweet home.”

He did a quick circle—that’s all it took, really, to see her entire apartment—and stayed quiet. She swallowed back the “what do you think?” question because it was just too damn needy for her to even admit thinking, let alone actually ask. It sucked, but it was hers. And embarrassing as it was for her to bring a man back to her place, she knew going forward they needed privacy to keep connecting. They wouldn’t get it at the BOQ. So, here they were.

“Well, you’re clean,” he said finally.

How did one admit that she was scared if she didn’t bleach everything twice a day, there would be roaches? Not that she’d seen one . . . yet. Or at least, not the crawling kind.

“I can see you in here.” He sat on the small, secondhand couch she’d searched for for a week before picking out. She could have settled for something ugly and blah-brown immediately and been fine, but she was holding out for pretty. She’d found it. The charcoal gray didn’t look like much at first, but the piping of bright, cheerful yellow around the edges had sold her. And the gray-and-yellow throw pillows were fantastic. She’d found a coordinating throw blanket to drape along the back, and two end tables she’d stenciled the tops of to coordinate.

“It’s not much,” she started, hating her defensive tone.