by Denise Wells
“Yes,” he forces out.
“Tell me.”
He opens his mouth to speak, splitting his lip open anew from the effort. “Three guys dressed in masks jumped me in the back room of the house before you guys could get to me. You rescued me and got me to the safe house.”
“Close enough,” Mack calls from the front seat. “Do not veer from the story. Don’t improvise, don’t embellish, and most of all don’t answer any questions. Got it?”
“Got it,” David confirms.
We are nearing his house, where we’ll be dropping him for the night. He’ll have twenty-four-hour surveillance for the next week—through the day of the wedding. I still plan to attend as his best man, after which Mack and I will tail him on his honeymoon. A romantic two-week trip to Maldives with my FBI partner is not exactly something I’m looking forward to. We still have to work out the logistics, so maybe it will end up being better than I think it will.
That’s a lie. I don’t believe that at all. Having Quinn go with me would be much nicer. Seeing Quinn in a bikini would make everything better. I think back to earlier tonight, when I had her in my arms and we almost kissed. How hard I was, how good she felt; her soft body pressed against me—
David slams into my side, I’m sure on purpose, as Mack makes the final turn onto the street in the affluent area where David lives. The house is Laurel’s; David moved in with her shortly after they were engaged. It’s much nicer than anywhere he’s ever lived before. Seeing it reminds me of a conversation I had earlier this week with Mack, who is convinced that David is using Laurel for her money and was not shy about telling me. He considers it a long con. Though, to me a con has a payoff and an end date. Which means, unless David has a plan that includes divorce and no prenup, this doesn’t really qualify. Because I’m certain Laurel’s family are the type of people to demand a prenuptial agreement, regardless.
We pull up in front of the house, Mack turns off the engine and pivots to face us.
“Don’t fuck this up, Tremblay.”
David nods in response.
“This is serious, David,” I tell him. “There is nothing I can do to help you if you don’t cooperate. Do you understand?”
He nods again and says, “I understand,” then moves to open the car door.
I place a hand on his forearm to stop him. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you this stays between the three of us. Under no circumstances can you tell Laurel what is going on.”
“Yep,” David clips.
I nod, releasing him to exit the car and head into the house.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says as he slams the truck door and limps slightly up the walkway. I wait until he’s inside the house before I exit the backseat and join Mack in the front.
“Will he cooperate?” Mack looks at me as he starts the engine.
“I think so. We’ve got time on our side; he’s not going anywhere before his wedding. No way he messes that up, not with everything he’s got on the line.”
“I agree,” Mack says.
We sit at the curb long after David goes inside, engine idling, waiting for the plain clothes officer who will be watching the house tonight to arrive. Once we’re accelerating on the freeway on-ramp I finally ask Mack what’s been on my mind the entire night.
“Want to tell me what Quinn and Daria were doing there tonight?”
“Nope.” His face stays impassive, but I see his jaw tighten.
“Do it anyway.”
“Excuse me?” Mack’s eyes widen as he turns to face me. “Care to take a step back and rephrase?”
“No, actually, I don’t.” I’m pissed off, feeling the ultimate betrayal from David, and part of me doesn’t give a fuck right now that I’ve offended Mack with my request. “We’re supposed to be partners, Mack, yet you’ve been off doing your own thing all week. Then you show up at the party tonight acting as security, which is a fucking joke. And Quinn is there as a guest with Daria as your goddamn getaway driver.”
“First of all”—Mack’s voice rises with each word—“me as security? Not a fucking joke. Second, you’ve had your head up your ass where David is concerned so I did what I needed to prove he’s guilty.”
“You could have fucking talked to me about it, you didn’t have to take it this far.”
“I did try to talk to you. You knew I thought he was guilty. Yet, I guaran-goddamn-tee you, you went into the party earlier tonight as the best man to your friend. Not as a federal agent gathering intel on a subject.” Mack is pissed.
And, he has a point.
Not that I’m willing to concede yet.
“Why was Quinn there?” I ask.
“I planted her.”
“Why?”
“As a distraction to cause chaos. So I could get Tremblay off on his own. Something you almost fucked up—I might add.”
“Which wouldn’t have been an issue had you just told me what was going on,” I argue.
Mack shrugs in response.
“Why not use an actual agent? Why put Quinn in danger like that? And what the hell was Daria doing as your driver of all people?”
“Quinn had no idea where she was going when I asked her. Only that it was a formal event and what she was supposed to do,” he says.
“Which was what?”
“Technically? To create a distraction.”
“Why did she have a gun?” I refuse to stop asking questions until he starts giving me straight answers.
“It had blanks in it, not a big deal.”
He’s holding something back. “What if she’d been hurt or killed? What if one of your security buddies had shot her? Did you even think it through beforehand?” I ask.
“Of course I did. I already knew security’s priority was getting the family to safety. Plus, you clearly had Quinn under control from the onset.”
“But you didn’t know I was going to see her.”
“Sure I did.”
I don’t believe him. But I also don’t say anything else. I need to collect my thoughts first before I decide whether my partner, who is supposed to have my back in all situations, is purposefully deceiving me. And if so, why.
What would Mack gain from not including me in his plan? Regardless of my relationship with David, Mack and I are on the same side of the law. Partners. Had he come to me with concrete evidence, I would have gone along with any plan he had.
Which means any evidence he had wasn’t solid enough to approach me with.
“What grounds did you have to perpetuate this plan tonight?”
“What do you mean what grounds? I knew he was guilty.” Mack narrows his eyes, his gaze hard.
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter how. We have a confession.”
“A confession not legally obtained,” I point out.
“How so?”
“You weren’t acting in an FBI capacity when you got it.”
“Yes, I was,” Mack argues.
“You just said you were there working security,” I counter.
“I was. But once I had him in the car and he started to confess, I told him I was FBI.”
“Why would he just start to confess to you, Mack? Come on, do you really expect me to believe this?”
“Yes, Reed, I do. I’m your partner. I wouldn’t lie to you. I expect you to believe me.”
He doesn’t look at me while he talks. I turn to gaze out the window. Not being able to stomach looking at Mack any longer either. At this rate, I’ll be sick of my entire friend list before Christmas is even over. Something isn’t adding up, I’m just not sure what.
We travel in silence for a good ten minutes before Mack finally breaks down. “Fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you. A friend of a friend got some information proving David is guilty.”
“How’d they get it?”
“Hacked into his email.”
“Jesus Christ, Mack. You can’t use that.”
“I don’t need to. Tremblay confessed.”
“Which you apparently coerced.”
“Not on tape.”
“You can’t do shit like that, Mack. You know better.”
“We got the guy, Reed. Once we have his phone records, the backup files from the dating sites, and his emails in hand, we’ll have the proof we need. In the meantime, let it go.”
“I hate it when you do this,” I tell him.
“What? Secure a confession?”
“When you go about it ass-backward.”
“Well, I hate that you always want to follow the rules and proceed in an orderly manner,” he returns.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to rein in my anger and see this from a different perspective. One that will allow me to be more accepting of Mack’s wild card ways.
“Will it stick?” I ask.
“What? The confession or the evidence?”
“Both.”
“Yeah. It’ll stick.”
“Okay.”
We stay silent the rest of the trip. Neither of us mentioning the fact tomorrow is Christmas or how we plan to continue working on the case during the days leading up to the wedding. It’s not until I’m back in my own car and on my way home that I realize he still didn’t tell me why Daria was there as his driver. Or exactly what sort of distraction Quinn was supposed to be making.
This is turning into a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
23
Quinn
“I’m pretty sure it means he likes me too. A guy doesn’t get a hard on for just any old reason, right?”
I phrase it like a rhetorical question, but I actually really want to know what Daria thinks. She’s got a lot more experience with men than I do.
“Of course he likes you too,” she says, glancing at me as she slows the car at a red light.
“Are you just saying that because you’re my best friend which makes you required to say that? Or do you really mean it?”
“I really mean it. Plus, you look so beautiful tonight, what man wouldn’t want you?”
“Ha, I was going to say the same thing about you. Do you think I can wear a wig next time?”
“There won’t be a next time,” she says firmly.
“Why not? You said I did a good job.”
“Quinn, you were there as a distraction, not an operative. To get you up to speed—to the point where my girls and I are—would take years of training.” She pats me on the knee, as though that’s supposed to make me feel better about the badass, alter ego vigilante side of her that is totally rejecting me. And it doesn’t.
I pat her on the knee back. “I’ll just continue to be the distraction person. No big deal. I didn’t really like firing the gun anyway. Plus, I wasn’t very good at it, so I’ll just be the person who doesn’t use any kind of physical exertion or skill to get things done.”
She glances my way, then back at the road, and quickly back at me again. “That might actually work.”
“I know it will.”
“Not all the time or anything, but that’s not a bad plan for when it’s required. The only thing is, Quinn, I need to make sure your life isn’t in danger at any time and that’s not always easy to do.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m sure my sister, Katya, thought the same thing.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” She knows I can’t compete with that. “I wonder what normal people who don’t have vigilante badasses as their best friends do?”
“They don’t get into situations like this.”
“What are you going to do about Mack?” I change the subject.
“What do you mean what am I going to do?”
“Well, you’ve been working together again, and tonight he gave you that look.”
“There was no look.”
“There was most definitely a look.”
“Even if there was a look, I can’t do anything. You know that. It’s an impossible situation. I have bumped against the wall.”
“What wall?”
“You know, the wall. I’m bumped against the wall.”
“Your back is against the wall.”
“Fine. Whatever. Still means the same thing. There is no future for Mack and me.”
“So, if I help you, does that mean there’s no future for Reed and me?”
“Probably.” She shrugs, as though it’s no big deal. As though that simple statement hasn’t just rocked my world in the worst way possible. I can barely remember a time that I haven’t loved Reed Roberts. Yes, technically, I’ve only known him a year or so, but the love I have for him is deep-rooted. And in that twelve-month time, it has become more real than anything I’ve ever felt before.
“No offense,” Daria says as she turns onto my street.
“None taken.” My little place looms ahead. I smile to myself when it comes into view. One of my favorite things about it is the holiday lights the owners put up every year—draped ones that look like icicles floating down from beneath all the street facing windows as well as colored twinkling lights around the main entryway and the stairwell leading to my apartment. It’s not going to win any awards for best on the block, but its eye catching and festive, two things that always make me happy.
Daria pulls up in front of the house and shifts the SUV into park. The engine idles.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask her even though I know she’ll say no. “We can salvage Christmas Eve. I’ve got holiday movies and popcorn just waiting for us.”
“No.” She smiles sadly. “It’s been a rough night and I really just want to get this makeup off my face, curl up with a blanket, and forget this whole thing ever happened.”
“You can’t do that,” I tell her. “Otherwise, how will you catch the bad guy?” I’d mostly meant it as a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. So, I leave it be. “See you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Her tone has that fake assuredness to it. I wonder what has her so down and upset. Whether it’s Mack and the impossible situation they are in, or that they had to take a step back tonight and let the bad guy go. Not something that Daria is used to.
I blow her a kiss and exit the SUV. She waits by the curb until I’m up the stairs and have unlocked my front door before driving away. My apartment looks the same as it did when I left earlier tonight. I’m not sure why I expect anything different; except that everything else in my life has changed over the last seven hours so why should this stay the same.
Tonight was exhilarating, no doubt about it. Like all the best parts of all my favorite movies dissected and spliced back together to make one extra-long cinematic adrenaline rush with no intermission. I see the appeal of what Daria and her girls do on a regular basis. Hell, I feel the appeal. The vindication in righting a wrong. The satisfaction of a much-needed job well done.
She said that I don’t get to do it again, go out on a job for her as an operative. But I nailed it tonight—for the most part. And I think I make a good asset to her team. Even if it is as a diversion. Something about being part of her vigilante collective is intensely rewarding and I don’t even have the intimate connection with trafficking that she and the other girls do.
After donning my sweats and making a large mug of hot chocolate, I curl up on my couch with a blanket and make a list of the ways I’m a missing piece in the puzzle that is Daria’s quest for justice.
Quinn’s Value to the Team
1. Rocked it as a diversion.
2.
I take a sip of my cocoa, tapping my smell-tastic glitter pen against my lips, waiting for some blend of memory and inspiration to strike, reminding me of my intrinsic value to the cause. I doodle a bit in the margins of the page: hearts, smiley faces, flower petals. I’m not much of an artist, but I have a real knack for drawing a flower petal. The long and narrow type like on a daisy. Nothing crazy like marigolds or orchids. Just the pretty phallic shaped designs.
Mmmm, phallic.
Reed is packing where it counts,
for sure. It wasn’t just once tonight that I felt his desire for me. His hard, throbbing, pulsating love rod coming to life. I giggle as I write that in the margins next to one of my sappier looking hearts.
Maybe I have an inner romance writer waiting to emerge. I’m pretty sure that hard, throbbing, pulsating love rod is a damn decent universally appealing description of a dick. Betcha I can doodle a picture of what I think Reed’s manhood looks like to scale. I flip to a blank page in my notebook and sigh as I take another sip of my cocoa, only to realize the mug is empty.
Shit, when did that happen?
I guess it has been twenty minutes since I began my list. Bringing the notebook with me, I head into my kitchen to make another cup, flipping the pages back to review my list as I wait for the water to heat.
Quinn’s Value to the Team
1. Rocked it as a diversion.
2.
Huh. I really thought I’d come up with more than that. Oh, I know, I treated the cuts and scrapes on Reed’s hands after he hit David. Surely that counts for something.
Quinn’s Value to the Team
1. Rocked it as a diversion.
2. Didn’t pass out at sight of blood. Good at basic first aid.
3.
And I’m sure there’s something else of value I did or provided that I just haven’t thought of yet. Because I know there has to be more than two reasons why Daria needs me in on this, even if I haven’t been able to come up with it over the last twenty minutes.
Maybe I’m better served by drafting this list while I’m with Daria since she knows better what is needed on a job and all the roles to be filled. Except, I think sometimes the girls work solo. But maybe that’s out of necessity because they don’t have the manpower for any more than one per job. Definitely something to ask Daria about if I’m going to be one of the Darlings.
The paper list now forgotten; I begin to make a mental list of all the clothes I currently have that would work on a mission. Clothes like what Daria wore this evening, which were functional but still sexy as fuck. And, regardless of what Daria says, I’m getting a wig like the one she wore tonight. If for some reason I can’t wear it on an op then I’ll just have it around for fun.