Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  Can I get rid of Campbell, especially if they’re dating? “Hey —”

  Before I get his name out, Talia’s phone rings. She takes another bite, then pulls her cell out. She looks at the screen, and I swear she pales for a second. As effectively as if she’d pushed a button, shields go up. “I have to go.” She beelines for the door.

  Whatever that call is, it’s not good. I barely make it in time to open the door for her. “You okay?”

  She nods, but I can’t tell if that’s a yes or a goodbye before she slips out, shutting the door behind her.

  I file a mental note to check on her in an hour or two, then turn to Campbell, still standing in the kitchen, chowing down. The guy who didn’t notice her freaking out and running away. Who can’t tell when her shields are up.

  “How are things with Talia?” I ask.

  “Things with Talia?” He stuffs another bite of pork chop into his mouth. “I dunno.”

  I can barely keep my jaw from dropping. “You don’t know? I thought you said you wanted to date her.”

  “I did. And I did.”

  “You went on one date.”

  Campbell takes another bite and holds out a hand as if to say duh.

  “You asked my permission to go on one date?”

  “‘Permission’?” he says around his food. “Are you her dad?”

  I fold my arms — which would be an appropriate response if I were her dad.

  “Not permission, man,” Campbell says. “I wasn’t sure if you were into her. Better safe than sorry, right?”

  “For one date?”

  He laughs. “I have a whole year to settle down before I’ll be a menace to society.”

  “Trust me, you already are.” I can’t believe I’ve been torturing myself so he could go on one casual date with her. “If you didn’t care,” I ask, “why were you mad about me kissing her?”

  He stops cutting his pork chop. “So something did happen?”

  “No, but you were angry enough anyway.”

  “Since when is it okay to kiss another guy’s date, even if they’re going out for fun?”

  “Since I want to date her.”

  Campbell waggles his eyebrows, like he’d be just as happy for me to date Talia — go on more than one date with her — as he would to date her himself. “Go for it, man.”

  “I will,” I say as decisively as possible.

  He grins like an animated Cheshire cat.

  It’s as hard to hate the guy as it is to hate a cartoon character. Yeah, they might get annoying sometimes, and you have no idea how anyone could act that way all the time, but . . . at least he’s entertaining.

  “Took you long enough.” He starts sawing at his pork chop again. “I think she likes you.”

  I don’t answer, especially not to mention tonight’s the first time I’ve seen or spoken to her in three weeks. And I’ve missed her. A lot.

  Now I don’t care if I’m “ready” or not. I’m asking her out before she runs away again.

  When Danny called, I should’ve said no. But I didn’t — I couldn’t — for the same reason I’ve said yes to him every other time: I want to. I haven’t seen him in three weeks, and honestly, that hasn’t helped. I think about him all the time, want to text him every day (why must there be so many cute kitten pictures on the Internet?), search for any excuse to see him.

  For a minute there, being around him again, I almost forgot why I ran away from Danny in the first place. Which might make Mom calling a good thing.

  After our last conversation, I should know better than to answer — but that little part of me that will never, ever grow up, that still wishes my own mother would just love me forces me to take her call. I duck into the stairwell. “Mom?”

  “Talia, what took you so long?”

  I have no reply. Guess it doesn’t matter how self-centered I am anymore.

  “I’m sure you don’t care, but we’re having a very rough time, and you could be a little more sympathetic.”

  Hard to be sympathetic to something you know nothing about, so I still have no response. Not like it’s safe to say anything anyway. I sink down on the top stair.

  “Tyler’s losing the custody battle. Do you know what that means? Bianca will keep my granddaughter from me!”

  Lucky girl.

  “I have half a mind to sue for custody myself,” she says. “Grandparents have rights, you know.”

  I’m a freaking lawyer. “Mom, if you wanted to do that, I would fly down and represent Bianca myself.”

  She scoffs, still trying to maintain her superior attitude. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about the law, Talia. Custody battles are ugly — I know what I’m doing.”

  “Which is why you lost custody and visitation of us?”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting that information from, but it’s definitely not what happened.”

  “My father, my stepmother, my own memory?” My voice echoes in the stairwell.

  “Oh, sweetie.” She turns on that saccharine condescending pitch she only uses when she knows she’s lost and she’s going for emotional blackmail. “You know how unreliable all of those things are.”

  I can’t listen to this anymore. “Look, Mom, I’d love to talk, but I’m busy. And I’ll probably be busy for a few weeks.”

  “What? I need you now.”

  “I can’t.” And that’s the truth.

  “If that’s how it’ll be, don’t expect anything from me again. Ever.”

  I keep my tone totally even. “That’s fine. Bye, Mom.” I tap to end the call.

  I draw a deep breath. It feels so good to walk away from her. Yet I can’t deny the sinking, bitter feeling in my gut. It’s been too long since I lived with her, because for a few weeks there I almost thought . . . I don’t know, she cared? Or had some idea who I was?

  Of course not. My own mother doesn’t have a clue who I am, even on the outside. Who does? Elliott, who normally I’d say was my best friend, proved he can’t fathom my faith and couldn’t handle my family secrets. Elliott knows what I’m doing in Canada (CANADA, Mother, CANADA!), but that’s as superficial as he pretends to be.

  I may be keeping one big secret from Danny — maybe more than one — but deep down, he knows me better than anyone on the planet.

  No avoiding it anymore: I love him. Seeing him again, I almost had to tell him.

  I’m not traipsing back into Danny’s to confess my love and my complete and utter inability to have a lasting relationship in front of Campbell.

  I’d be Danny’s worst nightmare. I can’t take him away from real prospects, actual chances of happiness.

  As with every conversation with my mother, I need to talk to someone. But I can’t turn to Danny, though I want to — I need to.

  No, I need to keep my distance. Tonight was a mistake.

  I finish my surveillance detection run and reach my tiny little apartment. Nondescript furniture. No family photos. Meaningless pictures on the walls. Even my freaking fridge is empty.

  I drop on my so-not-me bedspread and scroll through my contacts for the person I should actually talk to. Hope this number’s still current. The phone rings, and a familiar voice answers.

  “Hey, Tyler,” I say. “It’s Talia. How’re you holding up?”

  I manage to get out of Terfort & Sutter early after one of those stupid team-building exercises Friday afternoon. Rather than jump-starting my weekend, I’m at Keeler Tate, jump-starting my other full-time job.

  Jealous, aren’t you?

  I finish my last report and send it off, leaving my fingers rapid-fire drumming on the edge of my keyboard. Three weeks of a high-tension holding pattern with Vasily are wearing on my nerves, even if it’s let me catch up on my other cases. We’ve fallen into a schedule: dance rehearsal, negotiating with Marcel, intercepting Vasily’s drops, following the pickup courier (dead end), finding gaps and fabrications in his data. But I’m ready to make progress.

  Elliott tosses me a
report in a file folder. (One of these days — i.e., when I work in the morning — I’ll have a chance to get my own reports first.) “USB analysis. Asking his handler for more money.”

  “Looking to settle up with his loan shark?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  I nod, though we’d all like to believe we’re smart enough not to get tangled up in a stupid scheme like this. (No, I pick different stupid things to ensnare myself. Guys, for example.)

  “Could be a prime opportunity for us,” Elliott points out. “He needs money.”

  That’s one thing we have a lot of. Money is a top incentive for agents — mostly because it’s such a universal motivator. I flip open the folder. We need more to get to him. “Anything to up our leverage?”

  “No.”

  I twist my lips in a sort-of frown. “Tracked down the name of the loan shark?”

  “Nick Sabatini.”

  Never heard of him. But we’re not law enforcement, and this isn’t our country (and most Canadian criminals don’t run with terrorists), so that’s doubly not our department. I scan the office, like staring at the same half-dozen guys will help me figure something out.

  Then I see Rashad, talking on the phone. Tall and broad-shouldered, he loves to joke about how edgy white people act around a physically imposing Black man (when, of course, his job is protecting them, albeit indirectly). A short loan deadline would increase the pressure on Vasily — and make him more susceptible to our pitch.

  “What if a new enforcer tightened the deadline?” I say. “And increased the interest rate?”

  Elliott tracks my line of sight, then we smile at one another. “Liking where you’re going.”

  He heads to his desk, pointing at me to make it clear I’m supposed to recruit Rashad. (We do have that “token” camaraderie.) I’ll have to wait until he’s done on the phone, so I turn back to my work, too.

  “Hey, T?” Elliott ventures a minute later.

  I look up, and Elliott’s right there again. Maybe I was too into researching Sabatini, but I didn’t hear him come back over. “Yeah?”

  “You seem kind of . . . off lately. With me.”

  I shrug away the way-too-close-to-home observation.

  “Just . . . if it’s what I said about your church and everything, I didn’t mean anything.”

  Can we not talk about this, especially here? “Okay. We’re good. Don’t worry.”

  “What, me worry?” He slaps on an obnoxious imitation of the even more obnoxious Mad magazine mascot. But the stupid grin fades. “It’s your personal life, so — I mean, if it works for you, great. Ignore me.”

  “Like with everything else?” We don’t do serious talks, so we’ll both pull humor hits as often as possible.

  He rolls his eyes and actually continues to be serious. “And — when I mentioned mommy issues — I was going to say Shanna’s mom is becoming our bridezilla. Total control freak.”

  He was trying to commiserate?

  But something about his words nags at a corner of my brain. As he turns away, it hits me. Maybe he doesn’t care whether I’m cheering his wedding plans along, but scoffing whenever he mentions them isn’t better than him slighting my religion. “Hey, E?”

  He looks back. “Yeah?”

  “Did you get Shanna’s venue?”

  “Crystal Gardens? No; she lined up some mansion. Her second choice.”

  I offer an encouraging smile. “I bet it’ll be great. Mother of Bridezilla or not.”

  “Yeah.” Elliott grins back. “Oh, almost forgot. Sabatini’s traces — with profiles of his known thugs.” He hands me another manila folder.

  “Thanks.”

  Elliott returns to his desk, and I put away the first folder he gave me, sliding the report on the latest USB drive into my desk drawer.

  On top of a file labeled “Fluker, Danny.”

  It’s been, what, months since Elliott gave this to me? I still haven’t opened it. I don’t need to know any of this to know Danny. And yet some sad, sick part of me has to see exactly what I’m giving up.

  I take out the folder and page past his photo. Transcript from University of Michigan: Flight and Trajectory Optimization; Control of Structures and Fluids; Avionics, Navigation and Guidance of Aerospace Vehicles — A, A, A. Accepted into an accelerated Master’s program. I knew he was smart, but I didn’t realize he was a freaking genius. There’s a short-but-spotless credit history, a CSIS background check from getting his job with National Research Council Canada complete with interviews from old roommates and mission companions, and his Eagle Scout certificate.

  The guy is way too perfect. He’d make a terrible target. I’m used to poring over traces like these to find potential vulnerabilities, and on paper, Danny has none.

  I know him well enough to know his real weaknesses. And I’ve only told him about half of mine.

  I snap the folder shut and stuff it back in my desk. Why did Elliott give me this file, anyway? What am I supposed to do, target Danny? Trick him into dating me though I’m the exact opposite of what he needs?

  This is stupid. I . . . I can’t run away from this anymore.

  I sigh. The reason — one of the reasons — the #1 reason I love Danny is because we’re friends. Best friends. He’s told me everything, and I’ve held back the most important thing. He knows about my messed up family, but he doesn’t know that I will never, never be the one to help him move forward like he needs. Like he deserves.

  He deserves to be happy. To get married. To have a life. And marriage — a happy marriage — is not going to happen for me.

  I need to tell him the truth. As soon as he’s started to heal from Kendra and take charge of his life, I have to go and kick his teeth in. But it’d give him more closure than ignoring him.

  Closure? Yeah, right. I want to do more for him than talk and run. I want to do something, I want to show him that these months have meant a lot to me. But how do you show someone you love them?

  The saddest part: I don’t even know.

  On the elevator to my apartment for one of the last times ever, I slide my newest key onto my key ring. I’m a homeowner. Well, the wire transfer has to go through, but I have the keys, I have the paperwork, and in a few short hours, I’ll have the mortgage to match. I get off at my floor and walk in my apartment. Campbell calls out a greeting over his music, his phone plugged into the speakers on the counter as always, blasting “Wonderwall.”

  I toss him an extra key. “Doing anything tomorrow?”

  “Moving, apparently. I’ll get some guys. Not against your religion if I post it on Facebook, is it?”

  Yep, his first thought’s making this a social event. But we could use help. “Sounds good.”

  “Brought home boxes.” He points to a stack of cardboard in the corner, complete with rolls of packing tape.

  Okay, he comes in handy sometimes. “Thanks. I’m going to get started.”

  After an hour of filling boxes with books and clothes, I’m ready for a break. I venture out, passing Campbell packing up his room. “Want dinner? Pizza?” I call from the kitchen. Yeah, I can cook, but we’re busy, and it’s pizza.

  “Got plans later.”

  Yep, that’s Campbell on a Friday night. A whumpf sound effect carries through his door, like he dumped an entire drawer in one box. Something tumbles and crashes in his room, and I wince. Don’t know how he’ll be ready to move tomorrow if he’s got plans tonight. I’ll barely make it as it is.

  Amid the cacophony of chaos, Campbell’s phone vibrates and pauses in its playlist to announce an incoming text. I lean over to see who it’s from before I interrupt his packing.

  Talia.

  I hold back the conclusions and swipe to read the text without stopping Eric Clapton’s guitar solo. You bring the pizza, says the top message on the screen. From Talia.

  K, Campbell replied twenty minutes ago. His plans for tonight. Then he texted again a minute later. Wait, are we telling Danny?

  No
. Duh.

  My chest tightens. It’s been, what, a day since the guy said I should go for her and he only wanted to take her out once?

  The last message from her says, Get drinks too. Leaving now.

  I’ll kill him.

  Maybe there’s more context, something that could save this. But the most recent texts before that are weeks old. I press the button to turn off the screen again and back away. I can’t believe this — both of them, but especially Campbell.

  He emerges from his room, closing the door and setting off another crash. “Gotta go. See you later.”

  I don’t dare look at him. Because then I really will kill him.

  Campbell pulls on his jacket, grabs his phone from where it’s plugged in and leaves.

  I wait until I’m sure he’s on the elevator before I snag my jacket and keys and follow. I have to wait until he pulls out of his parking space and stay back in the garage, but I’m on his tail once we’re on the street. He stops at a pizza place and picks up two boxes and two bottles of soda. Could be a party, but with the way that guy eats, it’d have to be a pretty small one.

  Like a party for two.

  I’m not normally a jealous person, but seriously? This isn’t me getting mad over something stupid. This is betrayal.

  No idea what to do when we get to their little rendezvous, I tail Campbell across the bridge into Québec. Within a couple minutes, it’s obvious where he’s going: our new house. My new house. That I just gave him a key to.

  Having a hard time coming up with a reasonable explanation for Campbell meeting the girl he just gave me a green light with, at my house, alone.

  Campbell takes a right onto the street. To be less conspicuous, I turn off my headlights before I turn after him. He parks in my driveway. I park down the street, close enough to watch him carry the pizza and sodas in. A faint light glows in the front windows, like the kitchen light or something else in the back of the house is on.

  I spend a minute sitting there, trying to keep the anger simmering low enough for me to process this. Talia — well, I had my chance with her, told her about all my problems. What can I say? She made the smart choice, and I’ve barely seen her in weeks. Although everything seemed okay last night, we only had a few minutes together.