by Beth Yarnall
He looked back down at his phone and made a “we’ll see” noise. The majority of his speech had been reduced to noncommittal grunts and long-suffering sighs. I wanted to say it was my charm, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t. Our forced confinement was getting to him too.
“I’ll call my boss to let her know to put me back on the schedule.” I pulled out my cell phone to make my call. “Next week we’re having a gift with purchase, and I can’t afford to miss the extra sales money.”
“You’ll have to explain me.”
“Hopefully you’ll be gone by then.”
He raised his eyebrows at me.
Jeez. Such a Sensitive Sally. “You know what I meant.”
He returned his attention to his phone, leaving me to stare at the top of his head. Conversation over. All morning he’d been texting and emailing his thumbs to bloody stumps. Something was afoot.
My phone rang, and a quick look at the display told me this was a call I needed to take in private. As I slipped off the barstool and padded down the hall, I could feel Super Agent’s gaze on me. I’d never taken a call out of his presence and I could almost hear his gears spinning out questions three at a time. Two could play the I’ve-Got-a-Secret-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na Game.
I closed the door to my bedroom and went into the closet. “Hey, Jonas.”
“Hey. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you.”
“No worries. Were you able to find anything out?”
“I posted the image you gave me on a couple of forums and I think I may have found your guy. There’s an artist out of Amsterdam who recognized the ink. I’ll text you the deets.”
“Thanks, Jonas. I owe you.”
“When are you going to come in so I can finish you?”
Jonas still needed to fill in the color on my newest tattoo. “Probably next week.”
“Text me and I’ll fit you in. You know, now that you’re not with the senator anymore, we could go out. Dinner or something. What do you say?”
“I say I’ll text you next week.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not serious?”
I cut my gaze to the wall where Super Agent sat on the other side, stewing like an overfilled crockpot. “’Cause I’m not. Thanks again, Jonas. Bye.”
I disconnected the call and sat down amongst my shoes, waiting for Jonas to text me “the deets”. A couple of days ago Super Agent had put me in front of a sketch artist to get an idea of what Trinh the Trollop and her tattoo looked like. When he wasn’t looking I snapped a pic of both sketches to do some sleuthing of my own. Why not? No one in this mess had more at stake than me.
A bing later I had the name and phone number of the shop that had possibly inked Tramparella’s tattoo. Now all I had to do was figure out how to dial overseas.
Suddenly the bedroom door burst open. “What in the hell do—” Whoa. Super Agent sounded scary when he was pissed. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of that. “Maggie! Where are you?” Oopsie. Too late.
I slid the closet door open. He didn’t sound half as scary as he looked. His chest was all puffed up, and his shoulders looked a mile wide. Now I knew why he wore such horribly baggy suits. It was like he’d grown two sizes, his anger filling in the gaps between the sags.
It took him a moment to find me amongst the dresses and skirts. “Why are you in there?”
I held up my phone.
He offered me a hand up. I took it, fighting my way out of the closet one-handed. By the time I escaped, he was shaking his head and battling a smile. “You are the oddest woman I’ve ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t.” Uh-oh. Angry Agent was back. “I didn’t see any harm in you sending that picture because I didn’t think anything would come of it. But now… Stay out of this investigation. You have no idea who you’re dealing with here.”
I did a double take. What now? “You’re listening in on my phone calls and reading my texts?”
“We thought it best in case Trin—”
I pointed my phone at him. “Say her name and you’ll be gargling your balls for weeks. And who in the name of all that is private is ‘we’?”
“You’re not going to go out with that Jonas guy, are you?”
“What? That’s the take-away from this cluster?”
“He’s been convicted of aggravated assault. You shouldn’t even have him as a friend, let alone go out with him.”
“You’re investigating my friends too?” My voice went supersonic, setting off car alarms and howling dogs.
“Well, yeah. It’s my job.”
“Your… You know what? You’re fired!”
“You can’t fire me.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I can kick your ass out of my house.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie.”
“Miss Castro to you.”
“We’re back to that?”
I shot my arm out and nearly flung my phone. “Get out.”
“Fine. I’ll be next door if you need me.”
What the…? I propped my hands on my hips. “What do you mean, next door?”
“We rented the apartment next door.”
“We again.”
“I don’t work alone. We set up a temporary command center.”
Well, that explained Mr. Hands-to-himself I’d been living with. The walls in these old apartments were as thin as my patience with him at the moment.
“How many people do you work with?”
“Two or three, depending on what’s happening.”
“And they’re doing what?”
“We’ve got eyes on every corner of this building. As well as tracking the latest info as it comes in.”
“Inside my apartment too?”
“No. That’s why I’m here.”
I nodded.
He eyed me as if I were a coiled rattler. “What’s going on inside your head?”
“Oohhh,” I moaned loud enough to be heard through the wall, then whispered, “Nothing.”
“Maggie…”
“Oohhh, yeessss!”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t stop!”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“Oohhh, yeessss. Harder!”
He covered my mouth with his, and suddenly I was back to the wall, his knee wedged between my legs. I gripped his shoulders and met him kiss for kiss. I didn’t remember wanting anyone or anything as badly as I wanted him. He broke the kiss long enough to pull my shirt over my head, then took a half step back and sucked in a breath. Exactly the reaction I’d hoped for when I’d put the purple lace bra on that morning on the off chance he’d finally break his vow of chastity.
“If you stop now,” I warned, “I’ll make good on my earlier threat.”
“Not a chance.”
He took me hard and fast, right there up against the wall after we’d cranked up the TV and radio as cover. Thankfully it was an outside wall, or his friends next door might have thought we were having an earthquake. Angels sang. Fireworks went off. I might have even died briefly. All that pent-up sexual frustration was ten tons of dynamite packed tighter than a starlet in designer jeans.
One thing about Super Agent, he was incredibly thorough in his investigation techniques, leaving no spot on my body unexplored. The second time on the bed was where Super Agent really lived up to his nickname. I was pretty sure I saw God that time, and he whispered, “You’re welcome.”
We lay in the aftermath, sheets and clothes strewn all around. A fine sheen of sweat coated his body, highlighting the hills and lowlighting the valleys. He looked as though he’d been sculpted from fine stone. Whereas I looked like I’d been molded out of Play-Doh by an art-challenged toddler. My hair, unruly on most days, now lay in tangled ropes around us, but I hardly cared about any of that with the zing of multiple orgasms still jolting my system.
“You’re not going out with that Jonas guy,” Super Agent decreed, ba
rely out of breath. I might have hated him a little for that except I couldn’t muster the energy for it. Or anything else.
I rolled my head to the side to look at him. “Who?”
“Damn right.”
I snorted a laugh.
“That was a good lead he gave you.” He sounded reluctant to admit it.
“You think?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“How long have you had me under surveillance?”
He answered without hesitation. “Almost a year.”
I hadn’t expected that answer. It was much longer than I’d ever imagined. He’d seen me at my best and my worst. I considered all the things people did when they thought no one was watching. Except in my case someone had been watching and that someone was now lying gloriously naked beside me. Alarm bells jangled at the back of my brain. Unease crept cold over me, obliterating my warm afterglow.
He must have sensed my agitation. Rolling toward me, he studied my expression. “I hated seeing you with him. I knew what he was into, what he would drag you into. There were times…”
I waited him out. Not because I was anxious to hear what he had to say, but because I was just so stunned. I pulled the sheet up to cover myself, needing that barrier. I was overexposed. He knew everything about me, every detail of my life. I hadn’t thought about that until this moment, not all the way.
He reached out to touch my cheek and I flinched. He frowned. “Maggie…I’m sorry. I wish we’d met the normal way.”
“Normal. I don’t think I’d recognize normal if it walked up and introduced itself.”
He reached for me again, slower this time. I stayed still, but his touch felt different somehow. “When this is all over I want to take you out on a real date.”
I sat up, easing out of his reach, and fashioned the sheet so that only my head was uncovered. “Yeah, I think we might have jumped the shark here.”
He leaned up on an elbow. “What exactly are you saying?”
I tried to look at him, but all I saw was how stupid and impulsive I’d been. I knew nothing about this guy, and he knew everything about me. If I lived a thousand years I’d never learn all of the things about him that he’d known about me for months now. I didn’t have the staff, resources or access the FBI did.
I rose from the bed, gathering the sheet tight. “I think you should leave.”
Alone in my apartment, I tried to watch a movie, then read a book, then twelve other things that didn’t take my mind off Super Agent. In the end, I gathered up the spent condom wrappers, stripped the sheets from the bed, stuffed them in the hamper and had myself a good long cry in the shower.
Some people might have wondered why I’d stayed so long in my unusual relationship with Chuck Puckett. The thing was, it was easy. He was easy, predicable as sunrise. I was happy. Mostly. He treated me well, took me places, made me feel special. He was my best friend. I could tell him anything, and I never doubted myself with him. Well, not until that night anyway. The illusions it had shattered still dotted my life, like shards of broken glass.
Had I jumped so quickly into bed with Super Agent to make myself feel sexy and desirable again, or were my feelings for him real? I couldn’t be sure. It was all so tangled and twisted.
A knock at my door startled me. I tossed the magazine I wasn’t reading aside and went to the door. Super Agent looked small and ordinary through the peephole, nothing like he was in reality.
He knocked again. “Maggie. Let me in. I need to talk to you about something.”
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the knob.
“Maggie, please. It’s important.”
I pulled open the door, and we stared at each other for a moment, neither really sure of where we stood or what effort to put forth.
“Can I come in?”
I stepped back and he slid past me into the room, giving me a wide berth. I closed the door but kept my hand on the doorknob.
“That tip from your friend paid off. We think we’ve found the real identity of the senator’s killer.”
He didn’t say her name. I gave him points for that.
“I have a photo I want you to look at.” That was when I noticed the manila envelope he was holding. “It’s a little grainy.” He slid out an eight-by-ten photo and extended it to me.
Hesitant and uncertain, I stepped closer and took the picture from him. Our gazes locked. I could tell he wanted to tell me something. He looked pointedly at the photo. Whatever he had to say would wait.
The image in the photograph was as confusing and unexpected as everything else that had happened to me over the past few weeks. “It’s a man.”
“Look closely.”
I studied the features, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the mole under his right eye. The mole. Bringing it closer, my nose nearly touching it, I went over the features again.
“Oh my god. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.” I dropped the photo and backed away from it, wrapping my arms tightly around myself.
Super Agent picked it up and slid it back into the envelope out of my sight. “His name is Thai Dinh, a Vietnamese national. He’s been on our watch list for a couple of years. Professional hits, terrorist activities—you name it, he’s had his hands in it.”
“He had boobs.”
“Those can be faked.”
“They didn’t look strapped on.”
“Were you really studying his boobs that closely?”
He had a point. I’d been more focused on the fact that she…he…whatever had been riding Chuck Puckett than I’d been on whether or not all his parts had been real. A few of the puzzle pieces slid into place, forcing me to look at my life with Chuck Puckett as a whole. I’d been his beard. I’d been arm candy he could parade before voters saying: Accept me. I’m just like you—white, straight, and electable.
I was such an idiot.
“Maggie, look at me.”
I tried, but he was all swimmy, blurring in and out.
Next thing I knew he had his arms around me, gathering me against him. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. He was an asshole to do this to you.”
“No, he wasn’t. He just couldn’t be who he really was.”
And that was the thing. I didn’t blame Chuck Puckett. I didn’t hate him. I couldn’t even muster a fraction of the anger I’d felt for him. He was the tragic figure here, not me. I felt sorry for him. Society had made him who he was. We’d dictated his life for him. He could have the only thing he ever wanted if he broke off a chunk of himself and lived with that gaping wound. He’d only ever wanted to serve. To do right. But he’d gone about it all wrong.
And I had to look at my part in all this. I’d wanted the illusion. I’d helped perpetuate it, ignoring the small voice at the back of my brain that told me something was rotten in Boyfriendville. All the parties, the glamour and status of being a senator’s girlfriend, I’d wanted it, encouraged it. I was just as culpable as anyone else.
I wasn’t crying for myself. I was crying for him. Finally grieving the loss of the man I knew and the man I wished I’d known.
“Do you think I could see his grave?” I asked.
“If you want.”
I nodded. I’d missed his funeral and my chance to say goodbye to one of the best friends I’d ever had. I couldn’t let him rest until I told him how very much I’d loved him. And how very, very sorry I was.
We stood before the Puckett family vault in a half-walled courtyard lightly landscaped with shrubs and bushes. Elaborate wreaths flanked Chuck Puckett’s temporary grave marker. He rested beside a cousin, an aunt, four uncles, three out of four of his grandparents and his sister. His parents would have been at his funeral along with his remaining brother. The Puckett family had known more than its share of heartache.
I traced a finger over his name and dates of birth and death. He wouldn’t see his thirty-sixth birthday next month. I’d already started
to plan a party for him when the whole thing had gone down. He liked German chocolate cake. Funny I should think of that now.
Super Agent stood off to the side, scanning the flat rows of graves dotted with mementoes and flowers. I wished I’d thought to bring something. Flowers or some kind of token to show that I’d been here, that he’d mattered to me. And then I remembered the keychain he’d gotten me on our trip to New York. It was a cheap thing from a souvenir shop with a picture of the Statue of Liberty. I pulled my keys out of my purse and worked on freeing it from the tangle.
With one last slide around, it finally popped free and flew out of my grasp. I shot forward to grab at it. Above my head, a chuck of stone exploded into pieces, pelting me. Suddenly, I was flat on the ground, a two-ton Super Agent on top of me.
“Stay down!” he ordered.
Like I had a choice with him crushing me. He barked out instructions to someone somewhere about a shooter. Our harsh breathing filled the silence that followed. I could feel the pounding of his heart on my back. It matched my own erratic rhythm. Shooter. Someone had tried to take a shot at me.
No more shots came. Super Agent asked for a status update. He must have gotten good news because he blew out a breath of relief.
“Jesus, God. Are you hit?”
I tried to take mental stock of my state, but my mind got stuck on Shooter. Gun. Kill.
“Maggie?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
He eased off and rolled me over, pushing at my clothes to check for bullet holes. He stopped and stared at the top of my head. “Your forehead.”
I reached up to feel and my hand came away red. “I’m bleeding.”
He examined the wound. “Do you have a tissue or something?”
“In my purse.” I looked around and spied it up against the mausoleum. “Over there.”
He got up to retrieve it and that’s when I saw the keychain in the dirt next to me. Broken. I sat up and picked up the pieces.
“Here.” He crouched down next to me and handed me my purse. “What’s that?”
“What’s left of my tribute.”