Identify

by Denise Wells

  Daria joins us, taking the glass of champagne from me and drinking half of it before handing it back.

  “Hey.”

  “Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry at all. “I hate weddings.”

  “Is there anyone here that doesn’t?” I ask.

  “I love them.”

  I hear a voice from behind me that I swear sounds like Quinn, but I know can’t be because we told her not to come.

  And she wasn’t invited.

  I look to Daria who is facing me and can see who’s behind me, she shrugs in return.

  I turn to Mack. “Don’t look at me, I’ve got a date,” he says wrapping an arm around Daria’s waist. She steps into him and places her palm over his chest in a move that looks like they’ve practiced it for years.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, close my eyes, and turn around.

  “Before you yell at me, I figured you could use my help. You never know when you might need it. Don’t forget how helpful I was at the party. And since I’m here I can be your date because I can see that you don’t have one. And obviously, looking at Mack and D here, it helps to have one. You know, to blend in and stuff, so people don’t know who you actually are. And shouldn’t you really just be more impressed with the fact that I was able to get in? I mean, have you seen the security around here? Heavy duty.” Quinn runs all the sentences together, barely making sense.

  “How did you get in?” I ask, opening my eyes, even though it’s not really the first thing I want to say.

  “I asked the guy at the gate to let me in.”

  “You asked?”

  She nods.

  “And he did?”

  She nods again.

  I feel like I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone. How is it that the people in my life are doing such fucked up things and getting away with it? First Mack with Daria and the restaurant. Now Quinn at the wedding. If David sees her, he’s going to know she snuck in. And he’s going to wonder why. And that’s going to be a pain in the ass for me to deal with. Which, let’s be honest, is all I’m really concerned about right now. My ass and how many pains are not in it.

  “And, now, we’d like to welcome the wedding party to the dance floor, please,” the bandleader announces from the stage. “Everyone from the wedding party to the dance floor.” He ends every last word on an up note, sounding like an overly enthusiastic radio commercial.

  “Fuck. I’ll be back,” I say to Mack and Daria. “Don’t go anywhere,” I tell Quinn.

  I make my way to the dance floor and find my paired bridesmaid then go through the motions while the band performs a sultry rendition of “When a Man Loves a Woman.” At first, I worry that it’s not fair to the girl I’m dancing with that I’m not into this at all. But then I realize that the only thing that isn’t fair around here is that I’m at this fucking sham of a wedding, having to pretend I’m friends with the groom, who is a fucking douchebag cocksucker and even if I could skip being here, it’s now my job to do so.

  Fuck the bridesmaid.

  I wonder if she’s the one number three bet on.

  Just in case.

  “Hey, you know that guy over there, the groomsman dancing with the brunette?” I ask, nodding in his direction.

  “Connor? Yeah. Why?”

  “He made a bet earlier today with the other groomsmen that he could get any one of the bridesmaids to sleep with him today, either during the reception or in his hotel room after.”

  “Ohmigod, what a jerk.”

  “I know, right? Tell the other girls. No one fall for his cheesy lines, it’s just to win a hundred bucks.”

  I don’t tell her the real amount, because shit, I don’t know this girl or where her self-esteem is. Maybe to her it’s flattering to have a guy win five hundred bucks for sleeping with her.

  “We’re only worth one hundred dollars?” She’s pissed now. Making me fear that I might be a little right about the whole self-esteem-five-hundred-dollar thing.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “He’s a real prick. So, just watch out.” I squeeze her waist as a show of support and then step away from her as the song ends. By the time I’m back to where I left Mack and the girls, my bridesmaid already has her cohorts in a huddle and all are casting nasty glances in Connor’s direction.

  “Show me to the bar,” I say to no one in particular. “My work here is done.”

  37

  Daria

  There’s a part of me that knew all along agreeing to attend a wedding with Mack was a bad idea. For starters, weddings are all about romance. Which is primarily why I hate them. Second, weddings have dancing. Lots of dancing. And third, dancing with Mack is lethal.

  I’m not sure if it’s how his body moves or the way ours align, but it’s one hundred percent dangerous, and I should not be doing it. Again. For the third time. He has this way of making a standard ballroom dance stance intimate and near indecent. Pulling our joined hands into his chest, which makes my body go flush against his, he pins me against him with his other hand. Next thing I know his mouth is at my ear and he’s humming or singing, the tenor of his voice reverberating through my body and directly connecting with my libido.

  Apparently, I’m in the mood to torture myself.

  The bandleader announces they are going “old school Bono” and then starts singing a song with a chorus of “all I want is you.” And, of course, Mack knows the song.

  Kill me now.

  It doesn’t even matter what the rest of the words are in the song. And I’m not even sure if he’s singing all of them. The only part I hear is the chorus. My head is in a Mack-fog. The proximity to his body, the affect it has, his voice, the way he smells, how he moves, it all makes me dizzy. Before I met Mack, I would have told you there was no man alive who could have such an impact on me.

  I was wrong.

  It’s the only way to explain why I kissed him the first night we met at Turgenev’s party. Or anything I let happen between us thereafter. I’ve been with men before, as a means for sexual release, never as a girlfriend or partner. I didn’t feel the need. But something about Mack made me want to crawl inside him just to get closer.

  The singer changes to a woman and she starts singing the song from the latest remake of the movie A Star is Born, both of which I love. The song is one I clung to when I broke up with Mack. Playing it over and over again until I cried. The one totally girly thing I did after that night. The feelings it evokes have me trying to step even closer to Mack to circumvent the meaning and what it stands for: our breakup.

  Which is how I find myself dancing to a fourth song with Mack. Not wanting to leave his arms if I don’t have to.

  It’s such a foolish way for me to think or feel. There’s nothing that can turn back time, just like there’s nothing that can change the events in our lives that prevent us from being together. But there is that tiny piece of my heart that is a die-hard romantic, always holding out for a miracle. Lucky for it, the rest of my heart, as well as my brain, knows there’s no such thing as a miracle.

  Mack must pick up on the slight change in my mood because he turns his head and presses his lips to my temple. An innocent enough gesture, but one that’s packed full of meaning and inappropriate given what we are supposed to be doing here. Sadly, it’s also exactly what I need to help me through the funk the song immediately puts me in. He reads me so easily.

  But he also takes advantage by moving his hand an inch lower on my back from where it was resting. Said hand is large enough that even though his palm is technically at the small of my back, his pinky finger stretches down to my ass. Which wouldn’t be a problem except my dress is backless and dips low. So that his entire hand lies directly on my bare skin and that pinky finger is toying with the T-strap of my thong underwear. It’s distracting to say the least.

  The music morphs from the angsty rock song into something a bit jazzier, but still slow. Which helps me to relax a bit, but Mack does little to change our body positions or proximity. Leaving it up t
o me to stop his antics before things get out of hand.

  “Move your hand,” I hiss.

  He wiggles the fingers on the hand that is holding mine to his chest.

  “The other hand.”

  “No way.” He dips his hand lower, two fingers now inside the lower back of my dress. One softly caressing the top of my booty cleavage, making me squirm.

  I shimmy my hips against him, which only serves to move his hand lower and make his dick harder. “You have no shame.”

  “Says the woman with the wicked shimmy,” he returns.

  “Fine. Whatever. It’s not like we don’t know we’re attracted to one another. No reason to pretend otherwise. Doesn’t mean anything will ever come of it again.”

  “What if we teamed up?” Mack asks.

  “What do you mean ‘teamed up’?”

  Mack moves us through the other couples to the edge of the dance floor, and then off to the side of the stage where there aren’t any tables and very few guests.

  “You know, like help each other with things we are working on.” His eyes light up. He’s excited about this idea.

  “Meaning your cases at work?” I don’t like to say who he works for aloud. For many reasons. One, no one here needs to accidentally overhear me and make him as an agent. Two, it acts as a constant reminder of why we can’t be together. In my own weird little way, just using the word “work” to refer to his career, allows me to stay in denial about what he really does and how much power he has over me. And I suppose, me over him as well.

  While I think my father could easily get me out of jail were I to be arrested, I don’t think there is anything my father, or anyone, could do for Mack if he’s found out to be aiding and abetting a criminal, even if it is by omission of fact.

  It would be so much easier if he would just leave his job. He could open his own security firm and do whatever he wants. Plus, he’d have FBI contacts to work with. It’s not something I would ever suggest to him though. Mostly because I can’t be the reason he leaves his career. If he thinks of it on his own, sure. But not if it comes from me.

  And since it’s not something he’s brought up before, and he’s far from stupid, I assume it’s not a possibility.

  “Yes, like my work. We can hire you on as a consultant. You could assist me with apprehending the guys that you usually . . . you know . . . now.” He looks around to make sure no one else is near. “And then instead of doing that, we arrest them.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Before you jump in and say no, let me give you a few things to consider.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “To be honest, the pay is shit, the benefits mediocre, and the hours hell. BUT, how did it feel when we were out there dancing just now?” He points back to the area of the dance floor we just left.

  “What do you mean, how did it feel? Like, did I like it?”

  “Yes. Was it enjoyable? Are you turned on?”

  “Of course it was. And none of your business.”

  He smiles. “Tells me everything I need to know.” He takes my hand in his and holds it between us loosely. “Think about if we could do that all the time. Then go and replicate it horizontally, on a bed, while we’re naked.”

  My face heats as I remember how great sex was between us.

  “I want to say yes, Mack. I really do. But you and I both know it’s just not fleeceable.”

  “Fleeceable?”

  “Yes. You know, possible, a good idea, fleeceable.”

  “Feasible.”

  I roll my eyes. “Feasible. Fleeceable. You do remember that English is my third language, right? You and Quinn think it’s so funny to correct my grammar and my word choice. It’s annoying.”

  “You really should be thanking us. I mean, if it weren’t for Cutie and me, you’d still be running around telling people they hit the nail on the bed and kissed the boat.”

  He’s right.

  Not that I care.

  “Your point?”

  “My point is we’re good for you, woman.”

  “I’m not arguing that,” I admit.

  His face softens. “Dar—”

  “Don’t.” I hold my finger up to his lips.

  “You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he argues from under my finger.

  “I know that look.” I try to take a step back from him, but he holds fast to my hip.

  “Not this time, beautiful. I’m giving you two options.”

  “You don’t set the rules, Mack.”

  “Option one, we talk this out and reach a compromise that I like better than what’s going on now.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting it; you don’t tell me—”

  “Option two, we kiss and make up.”

  “Kiss?”

  “Kiss.”

  Fuck.

  38

  Mack

  She looks at me like I’m not serious. But I’ve never been more fucking serious. This is the longest amount of uninterrupted time I’ve spent with her in almost a year. We danced for five slow songs. I’ve had my hands all over her the entire time. My cock is as hard as a fucking brick. I miss her like crazy.

  “What’s it gonna be, beautiful?”

  She blinks her big gorgeous brown eyes at me. And it’s as if time stands still. I don’t care about anything else except this moment right now with her and the anticipation of her answer. I know that I should be studying the guests in attendance to see if I notice anything that might lead us to whoever David is working with.

  But all I’m looking at right now is how her chest rises and falls with the quickening of her breath. Daria’s tongue peeks out to wet her lips. I stifle a groan. I want that tongue.

  “Dar—”

  “Wait, just one second,” she says. “Tell me, is the compromise with the partnership for your work? Or for us?”

  Both.

  Instead of answering right away, I take a second to think about it. “Does your answer depend on what I say?”

  “Of course.”

  I place my hands on her upper arms just so I can be touching her again while trying to figure out what the right answer is to get her to agree. I don’t think the right answer is both or she wouldn’t be asking the question in the first place. Which means I need to think like Daria. And fast.

  Reed chooses that moment to stumble up to us, Quinn following right behind him. “Someone just tried to take out the groom in the bathroom,” he slurs. I drop my hands to my sides and turn to him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ohmigod, it was crazy! He came up to us at the bar, gripping his neck like he was going to bleed to death, and there wasn’t even any blood at all. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if—”

  I put my hand over Quinn’s mouth to silence her. And repeat my question to Reed.

  “Groom. Douchebag. David. Someone tried to kill him just now in the bathroom. He’s waiting in the hall with Andrews. You handle it. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  I open my mouth to lash out at him but change my mind. This is the second time that he’s challenged me in the last few days. Technically, I’m not his superior but I know a lot more than he does, and I don’t appreciate his attitude. But this must be more difficult for him given that it’s his best friend from childhood that we’re taking down, someone who has betrayed him by ending up being a slimy prick. So, I’m going to give Reed a break. Again.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “I got this, buddy. You just keep drinking.” I make my voice as sincere as possible, since my words can be perceived as sarcastic. If I were in a similar situation, I would expect Reed to pick up the slack so I could wallow for a bit. If he keeps this up though, I’m gonna kick his ass.

  I head out to the hallway to relieve Andrews and talk to Tremblay. Regretting the decision the second I step into David’s line of sight.

  “Finally. Thank god they didn’t hit skin, by the time you get around to paying me any attention, I’m pretty
much dead. I told you I needed a bodyguard. Shit, I almost died in there. And look at this, they cut right through my bow tie. This is an Armani tuxedo; do you know how much just the bow tie costs? Now I won’t even have it as a memento of the day. And what about pictures for the rest of the night? How am I going to explain this to Laurel?”

  I wait for him to continue. Surprisingly, he doesn’t.

  “You done?” I ask after a moment, pinning him in place with my glare. His eyes widen and he nods.

  “You seem to have confused your role, Tremblay. You aren’t the victim here. We don’t owe you shit. You are the criminal. The bad guy. The one we’re taking down unless you provide us with someone more valuable. I don’t give a fuck about your bow tie or your tuxedo. As far as I’m concerned, the world would be a better place without you in it. Lucky for you, my boss doesn’t see it that way. But make no mistake, shit-for-brains, there’s not an agent here who gives a fuck about your pictures or what you tell your wife, or if you have a mother fucking memento of the day. Got it?”

  He nods again.

  “Who tried to kill you?”

  “I don’t know who it was.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man,” he scoffs. “If it were a woman, I’d hardly be in danger.”

  I refrain from informing him Daria could take him down with one hand tied behind her back. Sexist fucking jerk.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him?” I ask.

  “No, he was wearing a mask.”

  “You could have mentioned that before. What kind of mask?”

  “Like a ski mask.”

  “Like a ski mask? Or an actual ski mask?”

  “An actual ski mask.”

  “Okay, what about his clothes?”

  “What he was wearing? A tuxedo, just like everyone else.”

  “Well, obviously it wasn’t a pro, since he cut your fucking bow tie instead of your neck.”