Rockwell Agency: Boxset

by Dee Bridgnorth

  “The second half has barely started,” Wes said, rolling his eyes at his friend. “Hey—Jake.” He lifted his empty beer in the direction of one of their friends. “Grab me another one, will ya?”

  Jake was closer to where the bartender was chatting up a few pretty girls who had wandered into flirt and get complimented while the other patrons enjoyed their game. Wes didn’t mind the girls being there, but he also wasn’t interested in them. He had just broken up with a long-term girlfriend, and it had left him feeling burned. It was clear to him now, after the fact, that Alana hadn’t been the right person for him, but that didn’t make him any less gun-shy about relationships [and women, in general]. He was happy enough, spending his evenings hanging out with the guys from the landscaping company he worked for.

  Jake brought him over another beer, and Wes clinked the neck of it against Jake’s. “Thanks. What the hell is Pacer doing out there, man? Goddamn. I have money on this game.”

  “Yeah, not a good night for our team,” Jake said, grabbing a wing from the basket and biting into it enthusiastically. “But, hey, there are some cute girls here, aren’t there? You’re the single one. You need to be getting in on that action.”

  Wes shook his head. “Nah, man. Early morning. I’m starting a new project tomorrow—some rich family up on the north side of town. They want their whole front yard redone before their big Christmas party in a few weeks.”

  “Oh, to have their problems,” Garland said. “At least you have work right now. Slow season is hitting me hard this year. I haven’t been assigned much steady work for the past month.”

  Adam, another one of their coworkers, walked over to rejoin them after stopping to talk to another friend across the bar. “That’s because you show up late to everything, Garland. How’s Dave supposed to give you steady work when you’ve been fifteen minutes late to three consultations in a row, dude?”

  Wes tuned out the chatter. He’d had a long few weeks, and slow season or not, he was out there every day, busting his ass on the job. Dave loved to give him the hard jobs because Dave knew that Wes would show up and follow through. It was a good thing, and Wes was grateful for the work. He had plenty of money for Christmas, and he was hoping to fly up to Wisconsin and see his parents and his brothers. But he was also ready to shut off at night and totally relax. If they were going to start talking about work, that was going to be hard.

  What a gorgeous man. Look at those arms.

  Wes shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not averting his eyes from the Television. He pretended that he hadn’t heard the female voice in his head, just like he always pretended.

  And those shoulders. Mmm. I would not mind being under that tonight.

  Shaking his head, Wes attempted to dislodge the voice. His eyes, unbidden, cut over to where the girls stood by the bar, and he made direct eye contact with one who was clearly sizing him up. Their eyes met, and she smiled at him in that slow, seductive way that was clearly an invitation.

  Wes looked away again. He held his breath, knowing what was coming now that he’d looked at her, and he was only too right. Thoughts began to bombard him, and none of them were his own.

  Oh—he looked at me. Wait, he looked away.

  Could Sarah be any trashier? Look at how short her skirt is.

  How many beers have I had? I could have another—yeah, I can definitely handle one more.

  Is that a cockroach?

  I have no idea what this guy is saying—I haven’t been listening at all. Shit. Just nod.

  I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s never going to get any better. I’m never going to stop feeling this way.

  Wes didn’t know whose thoughts belonged to who, and he didn’t know why he was hearing them, but it was becoming an all-too-frequent occurrence. When it got bad, like it was now, and his thoughts were completely overtaken with the thoughts of others that he was never supposed to hear, he felt a sort of panic inside of him. It was too much coming at him at one time. It was sensory overload and, frankly, scary.

  People weren’t supposed to hear the thoughts of other people. That just wasn’t how things worked. It wasn’t how he wanted them to work. He had never asked for this gift or curse or whatever it was that had suddenly fallen upon him, and he wanted it to go away.

  Forget him. If he doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it, someone else will.

  I wonder what Philip is doing right now.

  Oh God—did I lose my keys?

  Shit, where’s the bathroom? Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke …

  “Hey.” Jake’s hand landed on his shoulder. “You okay, man?”

  Wes was grateful, because without something to cut through his thoughts, he often got caught in a cycle of endless minutes, that ended up feeling like hours. But Jake’s words gave him something to focus on, and he was able to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. “Yeah … totally fine.”

  “Because you were making a face.”

  “Was I?”

  Jake nodded. “Yeah, it was this face.” Jake pulled his eyebrows together so that his brow knit, and his nose scrunched. His lips pressed together in a thin line, and his entire face was an exaggerated representation of concentrated frustration. “Something like that, anyway.”

  Wes laughed slightly, taking another sip of his beer and hoping that if he became truly inebriated, the thoughts would stay out of his head. “Must have been thinking about something. Who knows …?”

  “Yeah, you’re a pensive one,” Jake said, leaning up against the bar. “Bet you were thinking about Alana.”

  “Actually, no,” Wes said, realizing that just a few weeks ago, Jake’s guess would have been right on target. That was before he had realized that Alana had been completely wrong for him and that her dumping him was the best thing that could have happened. It was also before he had developed the uncanny and unsettling ability to hear other people’s thoughts.

  “No?” Jake asked. “Moved on from her already?”

  “I haven’t moved on,” Wes said, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m not interested in moving on, in that sense anyway. But I know that us breaking up was the best decision, so I’m good with it. I feel all right about things with her.”

  Jake smiled, taking a sip of his own beer. “Good for you, man.”

  He definitely doesn’t know Alana and I slept together. Totally in the clear.

  Wes froze, sitting there on his barstool. Jake was one of his closest friends. They had worked together for years—ever since Wes had chased a dream and moved to Baton Rouge where he had taken a landscaping job. Jake had been on his short list for best man when he and Alana got married. Jake had been by his side during the roughest few days after Alana broke up with him.

  “Obviously Alana told me everything,” Wes said, keeping his anger in check, so that he could find out more. “Everything.”

  Jake’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh yeah, man? Everything about what?”

  “Everything that she felt guilty about.”

  Shit. He does know. Shit, shit, shit. Does he really know everything?

  Wes got up from the barstool he’d been sitting on for the past few hours, hanging out with Jake like everything was normal. “She told me about you two,” Wes said, lying without a shred of guilt as he reached for his wallet and pulled out his cash.

  “Wes, I’m sorry. It just happened.”

  “It happened a lot,” Wes said, taking a stab in the dark.

  Why did that crazy bitch tell him all of this? Dammit! She swore she wouldn’t. What the hell else did she tell him?

  Jake’s inner thoughts were as panicked as the expression on his face, and the only small comfort that Wes felt was that he was causing Jake as much discomfort as he felt. Garland, who was still sitting nearby, watching the game, was clearly listening, even though he pretended not to be. Wes addressed Garland directly.

  “Hey, Garland, did you know that my friend Jake banged my girlfriend? A lot?”

  Garland swallowed h
ard and glanced over, clearly unhappy about being brought into the middle of things. “Uh, nope. No, I did not.”

  “Yeah, turns out he did,” Wes said, slamming a hundred-dollar bill down on the table. It was enough to cover his tab four times over, but he didn’t care.

  “It was only a few times before you broke up,” Jake said. “Most of the time, she wasn’t actually your girlfriend.”

  Wes pinned Jake with an icy stare. He was taller than Jake by a good bit, and as he stood, he towered over his former friend. He was also broader in the shoulders and chest. His arms bulged with muscles, the product of working outside for years, and even in December, he was deeply tanned and his naturally blonde hair was lightened and highlighted by the Louisiana sun. He wore it just slightly long, so that it curled against the back of his neck and lay over the tops of his ears.

  Jake, small by comparison and with nondescript brown hair and an unmemorable face, stared up at Wes, clearly afraid that he was about to be hit.

  But Wes wasn’t about to risk going to jail just for the satisfaction of knocking out Jake. There were plenty of other ways to get back at the man for stabbing him in the back, and he fully intended to. But for the moment, he just picked up what was left of his beer and calmly poured it out onto Jake’s shoes. Then he spat in Jake’s face and turned, stalking out of the bar.

  His mind was reeling. Looking back, he wasn’t shocked that Alana cheated. They were clearly in trouble long before he had realized it, and she wasn’t an honorable woman. He didn’t love her anymore, so it was more anger than hurt that he felt. Jake had been a good friend, and one that Wes had thought he could count on, but he would never speak to the man again after tonight. No matter what Jake said or did.

  But the information he’d learned wasn’t the only reason that his thoughts were in a jumble and his blood pressure was high as he walked from the bar towards his apartment. It was how he had learned the information. For weeks now, he had been catching snippets of other people’s thoughts, and it was only getting worse. Now it had ended a friendship. He didn’t want to have a window into other people’s heads, and he didn’t know why he was even in a position to do so.

  He needed to get answers, and it was time to stop denying that. It was time to actually do something about what had been happening to him, and he knew that there was only one place he could for help.

  He needed someone to tell him why he was hearing other people’s thoughts. Someone who would believe him about it, when he wasn’t sure he even believed it himself.

  Chapter 3

  Jordan

  It was a gorgeous day. In early December, Baton Rouge was still experiencing weather in the high fifties and low sixties on a regular basis. On that afternoon, however, the temperature and climbed all the way to sixty-five degrees, and the sun was out, and the sky was clear blue. New Orleans was less than two hours away by car and only half an hour away if she flew. That city was calling Jordan’s name.

  The office was slow, and Jordan didn’t see that changing at 3:00 on a Wednesday. If she left now, she could be in New Orleans for a delicious seafood dinner followed by a walk along the pier as she waited for the nightlife to kick off. Jackson Square, with its plentiful musicians and interesting people watching, was sure to keep her plenty busy until Bourbon Street picked up. Then, she could fly back to Baton Rouge and be back in her office at 9:00 the next morning.

  She gathered her things up, ready to slip away. But then she heard the front door of the agency open. There was a male voice, speaking to the receptionist. Jordan frowned, listening harder but detecting no helpful sounds from her colleague’s offices. Barrett wasn’t in, Hannah was catching up with a former client, Ryan had Angela in with him—she stopped listening to that room quite fast. And Quentin’s office was silent. Had he already slipped out before her? It was the kind of afternoon that begged for it.

  Jordan had her bag in hand when there was a knock on her office door. “Jordan, are you in?”

  She glanced toward the window, thinking that in mere seconds she could truthfully not be in the office. But she sighed and put her bag down, mentally dismissing her plans to get away. It wasn’t that she really resented landing a case—she loved what she did. But she’d gotten her heart set on fried oysters on the pier and a night of dancing and drinking. Jordan might not want a relationship with anyone, but that definitely didn’t mean that she didn’t like to enjoy herself with the opposite sex.

  “Yeah, come on in,” Jordan said, sitting back down in her chair and pulling her laptop closer to her, so she was ready to take notes. The door opened as she was getting things ready on her desk, and Jordan heard Anna, the receptionist, politely usher the client into Jordan’s office. The door closed behind Anna, and the client stood in the center of the room, and only then did Jordan look up to see who she would be talking to.

  When she did see him, she had to struggle to keep her reaction off her face. In general, Jordan was a strong believer in being transparent, but even she knew that she should not allow this potential client to see that her first reaction to him was that he was sex on legs. He had everything working for him. He was tall—he had to be over six feet. Broad, with muscled shoulders and arms that strained against his tight black T-shirt. His jeans fit him like a dream, highlighting muscled thighs and a firm ass. And she hadn’t even gotten to his face yet. He had gorgeous green eyes and blond hair highlighted by the sun that he wore just a little too long to be considered well-kept.

  He gave her an awkward smile, and Jordan felt her stomach flip over.

  Wow, she thought. You must really need that night on Bourbon Street. Keep it together, Grey. He’s just a gorgeous guy. Nothing new about that.

  “Hi,” Jordan said. “I’m Jordan Grey, one of the investigators here. Sit down. What’s your name?”

  The man sat down in the chair across from Jordan’s desk and cleared his throat, appearing to feel awkward in his surroundings. “Uh, I’m Wes. Wes Moretti.”

  “You’re not Italian-Jewish.”

  Wes blinked at her, then laughed slightly. “No, I’m not. Thank you for noticing?”

  “Your last name is Italian-Jewish, though,” Jordan said, reaching for her pen. She had a habit of tapping it against the desk, as she was doing an intake with a new client.

  “Oh right,” Wes said, nodding. “I was adopted by my stepfather. He adopted me when I was a toddler. My dad died on the job—he was a cop.”

  Jordan stopped tapping her pen. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks,” Wes said, smiling again. “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember him. My stepdad is my dad, and my stepbrothers are my brothers. But, you’re right …I’m not Italian-Jewish.”

  “Me either,” Jordan said, dismissing the topic. “So, Wes Moretti who is not Italian-Jewish. What are you in for?”

  Wes smiled again, shifting a little awkwardly in his seat. “What am I in for? Sounds like a question for a prison inmate. Uh, no, but actually …I have sort of a strange problem.”

  Jordan nodded, waiting.

  “This is the Rockwell Agency, right?”

  “Of course it is,” Jordan said. “Is your problem associated with memory or cognitive processing?”

  “What?”

  Jordan sighed, putting her pen down. “Mr. Moretti—.”

  “Wes, please.”

  “Wes,” Jordan said, accommodating the man. “This is the Rockwell Agency, and my job is to listen to strange problems. That’s literally the only reason that I’m here. So, if you have a strange problem, and you’re in the Rockwell Agency, then I think you’ve done one thing right. But if you don’t tell me the strange problem, then I can’t help you.”

  Wes nodded, dragging a hand through his thick hair, tousling it even further. “Right. Sorry. I’m nervous—I’ll admit it. I feel like what I’m about to say is going to make me sound like a crazy person. But I have heard that this is the place to come if you think you might be a crazy person.”

  �
��No, we don’t deal with mental health,” Jordan told him, wondering if he was ever actually going to tell her what he needed.

  “I hear people’s thoughts.”

  And there it was. All that buildup, and now it was just out on the table. Jordan didn’t react at first, considering what he’d said. It was a problem. A big problem. If it was true, that is. If he could hear people’s thoughts, then he was going to realize very quickly that she didn’t say half of the things that were actually in her mind. And he might also hear her think about dragon …

  She cut off that thought, eyeing Wes warily. “Explain to me how that works. How do you know you’re hearing other people’s thoughts?”

  “I don’t know what else it could be,” Wes said, leaning back in his chair and gesturing aimlessly with his hands. “At first, I thought that I was just letting my imagination run away with me. I would get these voices in my head—other voices. Not mine. I wondered if I was going crazy. But then I realized that the voices only happened when I was in a crowd of people. Never when I was alone. And then I started noticing that the thoughts and the voices matched up to the people around me. Then I really started listening to the voices, and I could tell—I could just tell whose thought it was.”

  Jordan had picked her pen back up, and she was tapping it, taking no notes at all with either it or her laptop. “So, you hear these voices all the time?” God, had he heard her earlier assessment of him? If he knew that she had immediately thought he was sex on legs, he’d done a good job of hiding it from her.

  “No,” Wes said, shaking his head. “It comes and goes. I don’t know why. I don’t think I’m controlling it.”

  “And how long has this been going on?”

  “A few months, maybe?” Wes said. “I can’t remember exactly. At first, I didn’t think I was hearing thoughts—I didn’t pay much attention. But it’s been a while.”