by Shandi Boyes
Isaac nearly laughs again, but my vicious glare stuffs it back into his throat. “Do you want to know why we haven’t gotten ‘naughty’?” His tone is smoother than his wrinkled brow.
I nod, desperate to discover if I lost my mojo somewhere between Substanz and here. That is the only plausible excuse for his shortage of interest—surely! I don’t have tickets on myself, but I don’t lack confidence either.
I stop seeking blemishes in the mirror when Isaac explains, “One, as much as the female population disagrees, men’s eyes don’t pop out of their head as they do in cartoons. Your fine ass was the first thing I noticed about you. Doesn’t mean I tripped over my tongue on the way out, though.”
His reply makes me smile.
“Two, you just witnessed the shooting of three men.”
I nearly correct him that it was only two until he quickly reminds me of the sniper his sidekick took down.
“And three. . .” He leans close, aligning his unique-colored eyes with mine. “Cormack has often told me to go fuck myself. I never thought it was possible until I found you.”
I angle my head to the side, more confused than ever. “Huh?”
“You’re driven. Beautiful. Don’t stay down when shoved in the gutter.” He glides his hand down the front of his body. “You’re just missing some vital organs.”
I fake a gag. “So you’re saying I’m you, just with female bits?”
“Yes,” he answers without delay.
“As in, like a sister?”
Isaac purses his lips. “If I had one, I guess so?”
“That’s disgusting.” This gag is for real.
After taking a few seconds to settle my flipping stomach, I lift my eyes to Isaac. “Drive like mine doesn’t come cheap. If you truly want me to become a part of your empire, hit me with your best offer.” When he attempts to interrupt me, I continue talking, stealing his chance. “But cut the bullshit. We dodged enough landmines tonight; I’m not up for a second run through the gauntlet.”
Knowing my time at Substanz has ended should render me meek, but unfortunately for Isaac, my daddy is the bartering king of our town. His love of negotiating was one of the many things he passed down to me: that and his adoration of wickedly mouth-burning wings.
“My contacts had Dwain released from custody without charges—”
“Yes, that is true. But we discussed his release during our drive. That means it’s not a part of our current negotiation,” I interrupt.
The glare Isaac gives me would make grown men quiver in their boots, but it excites me more than it scares me. Not sexually. The more I think about it, the more what he said rings true. We are very similar. He reminds me a lot of my younger brother, Ayden, just in a more mature, refined way.
"There is a compensation package included in our agreement." He flips over the contract until it stops at a figure well above the standard pay rate of a twenty-two-year-old up and coming law student. "I require exclusivity. You cannot work for anyone but me. The amount cited is negotiable, although you don't seem the type driven by money. If you were, you would have been offering your services tonight for real. There is a lot of money in the prostitution market."
Half of what he is saying is true. I’m not driven by money, but the needs of my family are. “Before I can agree to anything, I need you to be aware I’ll require three years’ salary in advance. I also have no conflict with your exclusivity clause as I can’t work for you, attend law school, and maintain a fulltime job at the same time. It isn’t possible.”
I expect Isaac to glower, laugh, or at the very least, pack up his shit and leave. He does no such thing. He just snaps his fingers together two times, wordlessly demanding his companion bring over the suitcase he’s been clutching the past two hours.
“Cash or check? I prefer cash.” Isaac snaps open the suitcase, exposing bundles upon bundles of hundred dollar bills. Noticing my shocked expression, he adds on, “This is the correct amount to save your family farm, isn’t it? I had my accountant run figures last week. He assured me this was correct.”
His smirk reveals what his mouth failed to acknowledge. He knows I had no intention of my wages going toward my schooling. I would use them to save my family ranch.
“Is the amount correct, Regan?” Isaac asks, his tone lowering with understanding.
“It looks about right,” I stammer, shocked and overwhelmed by the circumstances of our night. Not just our exchange, the entirety of everything.
The answer to my prayers is presented before me, but I can’t wrap my head around it. Nothing has ever been easy for me. I still have three years of law school to trudge through before I can contribute to my parents crippling business. . . don’t I?
“Why me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
For the first time tonight, Isaac looks conflicted. Even his shrug isn’t as defined as usual.
“There are hundreds of students in my predicament, so why me? A man as handsome as you would only need to smirk at Bella, and she’d work for you for free. She’s the top student in our program. She would be a prime candidate for you.”
“I want a fighter,” Isaac deadpans.
I huff, relieving the air from my lungs as rapidly as his confession stole the wind from my sails. “You saw the way I froze tonight. I’m not a fighter.”
"I disagree." He tugs a manila folder out from beneath a bundle of bills before adding on, "The fact you survived this makes you a fighter in my book."
Tears burn my eyes when he flips open the manila folder, exposing the source of my nightmares in horrifying detail. My lungs saw in and out as I fight through the heaviness clouding me. The memories bombarding me hit as hard as Luca’s Jeep when it smashed into the tree trunk. My throat is still raw from the silent screams I released when he was pulled from the wreckage mere seconds before he was covered with a thin white sheet.
I peer at Isaac with watering eyes when he asks, “Why didn’t you tell anyone what happened that night, Regan? Your family would have been there for you if you had given them a chance.”
He isn't judging me; he's merely confused. I understand. I'm still baffled by my actions all those years ago, so how can a stranger be expected to comprehend them? Luca was eccentric, dramatic, and severely suicidal. I didn't want his name tarnished by what he had done. I wanted people to remember who he was, not an illness he couldn't overcome.
For that reason, and solely that reason, I used the darkness of the night to escape the accident scene. I’ve never told a soul I was in his car when its excessive speed was instantly stopped by an old oak tree that now bears his name. My secret will remain with me until the end of time. I loved Luca, and nothing said or done will ever change my opinion on that. He was sick. His actions weren't his own. I am not going to let a lapse in judgment undermine our relationship.
I swipe at a rogue tear rolling down my cheek before reconnecting my eyes with Isaac's. "If I accept your proposal, my first suggestion will be for you to find a new PI. This one is extremely ill-informed."
I toss his manila folder back into the suitcase as if it is nothing but idle gossip.
Even knowing I am lying, Isaac nods. “Does that mean you’re accepting my offer?”
Images of Luca’s smile when we devised our scheme years ago flash before my eyes, causing my lips to inch high. He was so pleased with my decision to become a lawyer, he sent a text message to every resident at Colendale. It was his way of shouting it off the rooftops.
His pride forces me to say, “As long as your offer doesn’t interfere with my studies and family, I’ll abide by it.”
Isaac remains quiet, intuiting there is more to my demands.
He is right.
“But, if you ever mention Luca’s accident again, or so much as breathe his name in a derogative snarl, I will not only quit, but the return of any advance payments will be null and void.” I lick my dry lips, praying a bit of moisture will help deliver my last set of words. “Those are my terms. You either
agree, or we go our separate ways.”
I hold out my hand, ignoring the way it’s shaking. I need this more than Isaac will ever know, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be walked over. If Luca’s death taught me anything, it was that nothing good comes easy. You have to work for it.
I expect Isaac to take a moment to consider my provisions, so you can imagine my surprise when he simply shakes my hand. “This is the reason I chose you, Regan. The people who remain loyal during the bad times are the ones most deserving of the good times. This is just the beginning for you. How far you take it will only be determined by you. Don’t dream for success—”
“Earn it,” we say at the same time.
Chapter Six
Five years later. . .
She arrives at the same time every morning. Unlike five out of the seven days last week, her hair is pinned away from her face. She has on the same tight pencil skirt she wears every day, the same smattering of blush on her cheeks, and the same fire-engine red lipstick on her lips. Even the sprays of perfume dotting her neck are in the same spot.
For a woman whose presence excites every soul in the room, she moves blithely through the populated restaurant. It doesn’t matter if she is pounding the pavement on the isolated streets of Ravenshoe during her daily 4 AM run, or entering a restaurant full of money-hungry investment bankers and their trophy wives, she is forever noticed.
Men want to bed her. Women, although jealous, admire her. It never falters.
I adjust the tilt of my newspaper when Rae reaches a table at the back of the restaurant. My eyes consciously scan the print even without my brain taking in a single word. Months of rehabilitation strengthened my ability to undertake covert operations. Even the slight limp a bullet to the knee caused my frame doesn’t dampen my effort. I’ve watched them every day for weeks, and not once has their focus shifted to me.
I thought I was imagining things when I spotted Rae entering a restaurant two months ago. My mind has often strayed to her since our fatal night in the field five years ago; I was beginning to wonder if I was hallucinating. She glided into the restaurant as casually as she did now, her hair tousled from the breeze, her nipples stiffening from her braless state. She was utterly oblivious to the numerous field agents scattered throughout the restaurant. Her focus was on the same target we had our sights set on: Isaac Holt.
I haven’t spoken Rae’s name in over half a decade. It is for the best. With the surveillance images I obtained at Substanz corrupted by re-runs of Rugrats, I had no evidence to back up my theory that the owner of Substanz was running an illegal prostitution ring. All I had was my recollection of events and my photographic memory.
My head was woozy with sedatives when I sat down with a sketch artist, but the image she created of Isaac was so compelling, a positive match was found in the FBI’s Facial Analysis Comparison the following morning.
We had our man. He just happened to have an alibi — a solid one.
I argued until I was blue in the face that Isaac Holt was the man responsible for Dane’s life-altering injuries. No one listened. They believed a criminal over one of their own. Their inability to see the truth should have had me handing in my badge, but for some fucked up reason, I couldn’t resign. I trusted the system and was confident one day we would get our man. I was right.
Isaac popped up on the FBI’s radar a little over twelve months ago. His fascination with an underground fight ring run by notorious members of an organized crime syndicate was the start of his demise. We’ve had operatives on him the past six months. They’ve yet to stumble upon a shred of evidence that will convict him for life. I’m sure it isn’t far away, though, even more so since I’ve been brought in on the case.
I am supposed to be watching Isaac, but I can’t help but wonder if I should pay more attention to those associated with him. Isaac is pedantic about dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Justly so. He has a lot to lose. Those under him don’t.
I dip my chin in silent agreement to the waitress offering to refill my coffee.
“How was your breakfast this morning, sir? Up to your standards?”
My lips curl at her formal salutation. She's not doing it because I am her superior and she's being respectful. She's hinting at her submissiveness, begging for a chance to display the naughty girl hidden behind her sultry smile and hourglass figure. It isn't just years of studying body signals awarding me this knowledge. It is the flirtatious winks I've seen her bestow on Isaac numerous times this week.
She is hoping the generous swell of her breasts and cute smile will have him overlooking the fact she is a brunette. She is regrettably mistaken. I’ve only ever seen Isaac converse with timeless, captivating blondes with dazzling smiles and legs that stretch for miles—women who look remarkably similar to Rae.
Sickened by a daytime nightmare, my eyes jackknife back to Isaac's table. Upon discovering it is empty, I abruptly stand to my feet. While throwing bills onto the table, I scan the area. Blue eyes, brown eyes, even a few handfuls of mismatched ones reflect back at me, but I fail to find a single pair of steel-gray eyes. I don't even spot the ones that have graced my dreams many times the past five years.
“Do you have a back entrance?” I ask the waitress, who startles from my curt tone.
“There is one at the back of the kitchen. . . but no one uses it!” She shouts her last sentence to ensure I can hear her over my feet stomping the floors as I charge for the swinging kitchen door.
“Did a man come through here? Black suit, short hair, stands about this tall?” I hold my hand to just above my left brow.
A Taiwanese man in a white chef’s jacket and checkered pants shrugs. “Every male patron in this restaurant matches your description.”
Although annoyed by the candor in his tone, I understand it. “What about a female? Blonde, approximately five-nine. Dazzling green eyes, satiny hair that sits in waves between her shoulder blades, and timeless features. She is wearing a light pink fitted shirt and a tight black skirt.”
The man’s eyes light up. “No, but if you find her, can you give her my number?”
He lands against a pair of stainless steel fridges when I sidestep him. There was plenty of room for me to maneuver around him, but his snippy comment couldn’t go unpunished.
Humid winds smack into me when I exit the restaurant at the speed of a rocket. My eyes stray left before dragging to the right. Even with the alleyway less congested than the sidewalks of Ravenshoe, there are enough people milling around, it takes me several tedious minutes to scan each of their faces.
When manual facial recognition fails to find either Isaac or Rae, I recruit an old technique every agent uses at least once in their placement.
“Have you seen this man?” A lady with a wrinkled face and lipstick-covered teeth shakes her head when I show her Isaac’s license photo.
I move on to the next person.
The crackle of a receiver interrupts my interrogation of the sixth Ravenshoe local. “You lost him again, didn’t you?”
Mindful I don’t want to look like a loon talking to myself, I pivot to face a solid brick wall before answering, “No. He’s just. . .” I inwardly curse a hundred times before finalizing my lie, “. . .using the restroom.”
“Uh-huh.” The supervisor of my department, Theresa Veneto, huffs down the line, “I didn’t think Isaac was a pee in the alley type of man.”
My profanity isn’t silent this time around.
After wiping the annoyed expression from my face, I spin around. As the uncomfortable creep of my body hairs announced, Theresa is standing behind me. She is leaning on a dumpster, her lack of fanfare unsurprising.
Theresa is attractive; she just has a massive stick lodged up her ass. If you’re willing to set aside your morals for a couple of hours, you’ll be her new best friend. But if you aren’t fucking her, anticipate being handed every shit, underhanded project she can find. I was interim leader of my previous department. I’ve worked for the Bureau for over
six years, and excluding my little blunder five years ago, I’ve never received a record of conversation or been reprimanded by my superiors.
Years of dedication means sweet fuck all to Theresa. She wants every agent under her licking her boots—or a few inches higher. Refuse that, refuse advancement. I can’t spell it out any simpler than that.
When Theresa glares at me, demanding an answer to her silent interrogation, I say, “He was there, then poof, next minute, he was gone.” My tone is as pathetic as my excuse.
I am a confident, alpha male who has no qualms being friendly with the ladies, but this is different. Theresa isn’t a woman you sleep with then sneak out while she’s napping. She’d pin your nuts to the noticeboard at headquarters if you so much as failed to seek permission to use the restroom. It isn’t just her ball-stringing demeanor informing me of this; it is many painstakingly detailed stories. Not rumors. True life stories from reliable sources.
My focus snaps back into place when Theresa pushes off her feet to stalk my way. She has the bloodsucker walk down pat, lithe and soundless. “So what distracted you this time? Or should I ask, ‘who distracted you this time?’”
Her penciled brows shoot up high when I remain quiet. I have a million thoughts streaming through my head. None are suitable for my superior.
The chances of holding back my retaliation are lost when Theresa advises, “I’m assigning you a new target.”
I try to speak, but she continues talking, beating me to the task, “Don’t fret; your time will be well occupied. I’ll even let you have first pick.” She throws three color-coded folders into my chest. “Barbie. The Hulk. Or Harvey Dent? What’s your flavor?”