by Amy Waeschle
Cassidy mentally downloaded her to-do list. “Yes,” she groaned.
Once inside the apartment, she and Quinn went to their corners. Cassidy turned off her phone and hid the clock on her screen so it wouldn’t trigger the building anxiety about their meeting with Bo.
Her mind tried to process Bruce’s comment, and his reaction to her new role as Bo’s romantic interest. Did he think she’d brought this on? The thought made her feel off-balance. Bruce had always been her ally. Was he turning against her now?
At some point, Quinn went out for a run. Cassidy half-heartedly considered joining him but decided to spare him her turtle-like pace. Instead, she took a shower, standing under the water so long that it ran cold.
Afterward, she peeked into the fridge, but its sparse contents did nothing to stimulate her appetite. Quinn returned from his run, and after his shower they ordered takeout from the Pho place and ate while watching TV, the slurp of noodles echoing through the quiet space.
And then it was time.
Bruce sent a text, saying he’d called them a rideshare. A sense of unease prickled her skin. Am I no longer his job anymore?
She had the idea to dress in a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants to make the statement that this was in no way a date, but knew that would never fly with Special Agent Harris. Instead, she dressed casually in black shorts and a camo print t-shirt, added a pair of earrings and her four-leaf clover necklace.
Once at the FBI’s task force HQ building, Bruce ushered them into what appeared to have once been a classroom, the desks gone and the blackboard dusty.
“Where are the other agents?” she asked.
“Setting up the surveillance.”
Cassidy realized that the two agents had likely been preparing for tonight all afternoon. To her left, a table held up a collection of small wires and equipment.
“I’ll do Quinn first,” Bruce said.
Quinn tugged up his shirt, then Bruce mapped out the placement of a small black box and a thin wire to his skin, weaving it under the fabric to his chest, then placing the box at his lower back. Once Quinn lowered his shirt, Bruce double-checked the placement, making micro adjustments. To Cassidy, it looked completely invisible.
He nodded at Cassidy. “If you’re not comfortable, I can get a female agent to do this,” he said, watching her carefully.
“No, it’s okay,” she said as a flutter of nerves erupted in her stomach.
Bruce nodded, then picked up the wire.
She rolled her t-shirt up to the base of her bra—black, to blend in with the pattern of her shirt—and tried not to jump when she felt Bruce’s fingertips on her skin. He threaded the wire from her back beneath her armpit, then reached just inside the collar of her shirt to grasp the end.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding flustered.
“It’s okay,” she said, her heart thudding. He stood close enough that she could detect the scent of his aftershave, though from the fine scruff on his jaw he likely hadn’t shaved since that morning. He attached the wire to the strap of her bra, his fingers moving quickly.
Then he stepped back, inspecting his work, his face locked in concentration while Cassidy stood, feeling exposed. Seemingly satisfied, he moved behind her and affixed the transmitter to a location just off of her right flank.
“In case he puts his hand back here,” Bruce said, his warm hand pressing on her lower back. Another flock of butterflies swooped into her belly. “Try to keep him on your left.”
Cassidy clenched her fists. “Got it,” she said, forcing a breath.
Bruce must have heard it because he came around to look her in the eye. “Hey, it’s all right. I won’t let anything happen to you.” His gaze darted to Quinn, who was standing near the wall, his arms crossed. “Either of you.”
Cassidy reeled in her fear. “Okay,” she said, though Bruce’s words felt thin.
“You got this,” he said, his eyes brightening with the first dose of warmth since their surf session together.
Bruce briefed them on what he called the rules of engagement: let Bo take the lead on the offer. Quinn should show interest but act guarded. If any illegal activity is proposed, he should be skeptical, ask questions, then leave it open. “Say you need to think about it,” Bruce explained. “If he works for it, it’ll feel more genuine.”
He turned to Cassidy. “He wants you there, so just try to read him. He’s kind of a macho guy, so might act somewhat possessive.”
Cassidy frowned. “What do you mean?”
Bruce’s expression tightened. “Making physical contact, like touching your arm, or shoulder. Ordering for you.”
Cassidy’s hackles jumped to life. “I can order for myself.”
“You can play it that way if you want. Actually, scratch that. Go with the flow. He might get off on you resisting his control tactics.”
She watched a look of extreme discomfort pass over his face. He cursed softly, then exhaled hard, as if to clear something upsetting from his mind. “Make conversation if it stalls. You can ask him about his work but if he’s evasive, don’t press.” His eyes darkened. “Cassidy, I need to say this,” he said, grasping her shoulders. “You are under no obligation to return physical advances, okay?”
Cassidy’s lungs tightened, squeezing a lump of hard air against her diaphragm. “Okay,” she managed.
A look of relief flooded Bruce’s face. He turned to Quinn. “If this goes the way we think it will, he’ll make the next move. Maybe it’ll be another meeting. Maybe he’ll want to offer to bring you a sample. Whatever it is, be cagey. Tell him you’ll call him if you’re interested.”
Quinn nodded.
“Unless we think you’re in danger, we’ll stay in hiding,” Bruce continued. “What we’ll need is to catch him in the act, which likely won’t happen tonight. We’ll wait for him to actually commit a crime to step in.”
“Tonight isn’t the end?” Cassidy asked as her stomach tightened.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I can play the long game,” Quinn said, sending Cassidy a fierce look. She tried to draw strength from it.
Bruce gave each of them a measured glance. “All right then, let’s go.”
They left the now-quiet building and walked to Bruce’s SUV, the streetlights casting a dull glow over the pale concrete. “I’m going to drop you at a restaurant in the Fillmore, then you’ll call a ride so it looks legit.”
Suppressing a shiver, Cassidy climbed into the front seat. “The other agents are listening right now?” she asked.
“Yes.” Bruce pulled out of the parking lot.
“So, I can talk to them?”
Bruce frowned at her.
“Say I needed to get them a message. I could go to the restroom and talk to them, right?”
“Technically, yes, but you probably only get one trip before he suspects something.”
“Right,” Cassidy replied, coaxing a long breath into her lungs.
“It’s a busy bar.” Bruce turned onto a busy thoroughfare. “I don’t expect this to be any more than Bo’s way of assessing Quinn’s willingness to play ball.”
“But if he suspects we’re setting him up, what will he do?”
Bruce’s jaw flexed. “He’ll end it quietly. There’s nothing in it for him to cause a scene.”
Cassidy tried to use this information to calm her galloping heart, but it was thumping so hard into her ears that she couldn’t think. “Where will you be?”
“Nearby.”
She tucked her hands between her bare knees. Was he purposefully not telling her because he couldn’t? Or in case something happened to her, she wouldn’t compromise his safety?
From the back seat, Quinn’s phone chirped. The car filled with his short responses, then he hung up. “Sorry, that was my manager. Should I turn my phone off?” he asked.
“As soon as you get to the bar, yeah, that’s a good idea,” Bruce said.
“Got it,” he said, followed by the sound of keys being tex
ted.
They passed through several lights, the buildings changing from industrial to residential, to a mix of businesses and apartments, and then Bruce was pulling up on a side street.
Cassidy’s gut did a nauseating down-up bounce into her knees.
“After, call a ride and go to Quinn’s. I’ll meet you there.” He pointed to a glass-fronted restaurant with the name “Salvo’s” written in gold on the door. “It’s actually decent Italian,” he said, as if the three of them were about to grab a late-night meal together. Cassidy wished it were true and imagined the scent of garlic and the steam of noodles cooking, the intimate table where the three of them could relax and listen to Quinn tell stories that made them laugh.
The sound of Quinn’s door opening startled her from her reverie, and then she felt Bruce’s hand slide over hers.
She watched his face, trying to soak up every last bit of strength from him, but her throat shut down and her legs turned to jelly.
“You’re going to do great.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you after at Quinn’s.”
Cassidy willed her furiously beating heart to settle, but the butterflies ran off with it to hide and she had to try again. Breathe. In, out. She held Bruce’s hand tight as her emotions and fears swirled inside her.
Bruce let go and flashed a smile, but Cassidy could already feel her walls going up. She slipped from the car and shut the door, then followed Quinn across the street. Behind her, Bruce’s SUV rolled from the curb, accelerating into the night.
Quinn was already tapping away on his phone for a rideshare. Beneath her t-shirt, the transmitter itched against her skin. She could not feel the wire and resisted the urge to check that it was still there.
“Three minutes,” Quinn said. “Hey, you’re going to have to quit looking like someone killed your cat.”
She shot him a look.
“How about a joke?”
“How can you even think about joking right now?” she asked.
He gave her a sympathetic glance. “Well, we need to do something.” His face lit up. “I know, tell me about your next project. Aren’t you going to New Zealand?”
Cassidy felt the tug of the familiar and grabbed it willingly. By the time she had given him the details of an upcoming research trip to Whakaari Island, their rideshare was pulling up to the curb.
Quinn didn’t let up once they were inside the car, asking her questions about the recent volcanic activity there and what her work planned to contribute, and before she had fully grasped what was happening, the car stopped at a corner and she was stepping into the warm night air.
“Right on time,” Quinn said, checking his watch. In the lamplight, his handsome face flashed her a look of kindness, of confidence. “Let’s do this,” he said.
Cassidy tried to banish her fear, to rearrange her face so that it looked more like Quinn’s.
Inside the narrow bar, Cassidy sighted down the length of stools but didn’t see Bo. He wasn’t at the half-booths lining the opposite wall, either.
“Let’s get a drink,” Quinn said, leading her to the one open stool in the center of the bar. Cassidy perched on it, taking in the hundreds of bottles stacked on the back bar, lit by a red glow.
The bartender swooped in with a damp cloth, then took their order.
“Have you been here before?” Cassidy asked, taking in more of the décor. Two rows of small, white lights lined the seams of the ceiling, two fans whirring ineffectively between them. Mirrors adorned with beer company logos and framed beverage company memorabilia covered the walls above the booths along the opposite wall.
“Yeah, a few times,” he replied, watching the bartender with interest.
As the bartender slid their pints across the bar, his gaze lifted to something behind them.
Cassidy turned to see Bo in a black t-shirt and jeans, his mischievous eyes dancing. “Damn. You guys starting without me?”
“We were thirsty,” Quinn joked.
Bo’s hand clapped Quinn on the shoulder. “Fighting Cock on the rocks,” he said to the bartender, who nodded and spun away.
Bo winked at her, then nodded at a vacant booth. “Let’s snag that, shall we?”
In the next moment, time slowed to a crawl: Quinn walked ahead with his beer, Cassidy stood with hers, and Bo fell in next to her, his hand pressing firmly into her lower back.
Fourteen
Steady, Cassidy told herself while forcing her muscles not to tense up at the same time she remembered Bruce’s try to keep him on your left. To her panic, once they reached the booth, Bo ushered her into the seat across from Quinn then slid in next to her. She caught the scent of his spicy cologne mixed with the sharp odor of his whiskey.
“Your sister here tells me you’re too chicken to surf Fort Point,” Bo said, extending his muscular arm across the back of the booth behind her. If Quinn caught her startled expression, he hid it well. Would Bo try to slide his hand around her waist? He would feel the transmitter if he did. Should she try to twist away? Go with the flow. He might get off on you resisting his control tactics, she remembered Bruce saying.
Cassidy cringed and sent an “I’m sorry” look to Quinn but he looked completely unfazed.
“She’s one hundred percent correct,” Quinn said, sipping his beer.
Cassidy focused on Quinn’s face, trying to draw off his air of total calm.
“Getting in and out is the only real tricky part,” Bo said. “The wave is actually not all that spectacular. Deadman’s is way gnarlier, and a better ride.”
Cassidy had never known anyone to surf Deadman’s—a point located outside of the bridge, with even more current than Fort Point.
They chatted about surfing while Cassidy sat there, mute.
“How’s business?” Bo asked Quinn after the bartender brought him another drink.
“Good, thank goodness. Labor costs are killing me right now.”
Cassidy felt it—the slightest shift in Bo’s posture. “I heard about that new law upping the minimum wage. That must suck for you.”
“I mean, yeah, people should make a living wage and all that, but waitstaff should be exempt,” Quinn said, nodding. “A couple of bars have already closed. They can’t afford to stay in business. I hope I’m not next.”
Cassidy was amazed that Quinn seemed so composed, playing into Bo’s hands like this.
Bo nodded, his face pinched in concentration. “I might have a way you can save a little cash.”
“How?” Quinn asked, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve researched every way to save money. I switched to a cheaper garbage bag liner, added energy-saving lightbulbs, even begged my landlord for a break.”
Bo sipped his drink and sized Quinn up with his gaze. “I’ve got a good friend who does linens, and another in wholesale produce. I can get you a deal.”
Quinn shrugged. “My linen supplier just raised his rates.” He sipped his beer. “But my linen bill isn’t a huge burden, so I’m not sure it’ll help all that much.”
Bo’s arm had inched closer to her shoulders. Cassidy realized that she had not been this close to another man besides Quinn since Mel. Stay calm, she told herself. He’s only touching my shoulder. But the stuffy air and Bo’s warmth were making her feel caged, and the last thing she wanted to do was freak out. “Um, can I get out?” she asked, her voice way too high. “I need to use the restroom.”
Bo slid from the booth, still talking animatedly with Quinn about their joint venture. As Cassidy slipped past him, she expected him to glance her way, but he stayed focused on Quinn.
By the time she stepped into the tiny bathroom stall, breathing fast, her face felt hot. She splashed cold water on her cheeks, concentrating on slowing her breaths. She knew the agents could hear her do these things. Her pocket vibrated, startling her.
It was a text from Bruce: You okay?
Yeah. Just taking a break, she typed.
Bruce: It’s going well. Quinn missed his calling.
Cassidy had to smil
e, which flooded renewed strength into her bloodstream. She erased the text then placed her phone back in her pocket and left the restroom.
Back at the table, Bo slid to the right, exposing her right side to him. A wave of hot nerves pricked down her arms—now the bulky transmitter would be against him if he got too close.
Trying to read the look on Quinn’s face, Cassidy wondered what had happened while she was gone, but he was focused on Bo. They had moved on to discussing Kelly Slater’s new wave pool.
“We have so many lakes like that in Southern California,” Bo said while extending his left arm across Cassidy’s shoulders. “He could totally build one of those here.”
“Except only him and his buddies would be allowed to surf there,” Quinn said. Cassidy noticed that his beer was almost empty and wondered how much longer they planned to stay. Should she order another beer? “So, what’s the point?”
“Maybe it’s just a matter of money,” Bo said, sipping his drink. “I’ll bet he’d bend the rules for the right amount.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said. He swallowed the last of his beer, then nodded at Bo’s near-empty glass. “You want another?”
“Nah, thanks, bro, I better bounce.”
Quinn slid from the booth to pay the tab.
“Here,” Bo said, flipping open his wallet and removing two twenties. “It’s on me.”
Quinn seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second, and she saw what flashed through his mind: I’m taking his dirty money. But the moment passed, and Quinn stepped to the bar.
Bo shifted slightly to look at her. “Tell me your hopes and dreams, Cassidy.”
Cassidy froze. “Wow, that’s quite a question.”
He grinned. “All this boring talk about business.” He did a slow scan of her body. “I’d rather know more about you.”
Cassidy watched Quinn hand over the bills to the bartender. “What do you want to know?”
Bo swirled his drink. “I’d like to know a lot of things.”
Cassidy’s heart leapt into her throat. She wanted to slide from the booth but with his arm positioned as it was, the motion would be awkward.