A Shameless Little BET

by Meli Raine

  I’m crouched down next to Jane. Her body heat draws me in, a force I have to fight.

  “Jane.”

  “Have a seat. Might as well not let good food go to waste,” she says, grabbing a cream-covered pastry and eating it.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, we can talk.”

  “Or you can take that to mean I really don’t want good cake to go to waste.”

  “I am sorry,” I say. Starting off frank and blunt is better than the alternative.

  “You should be.”

  “And I promise I will never, ever treat you like that again,” I tell her, meaning every word.

  “Like what?”

  “Like someone who needs to be shocked into an abnormal situation and pushed beyond their limits to test who their true self is.” All the cards are on the table. I need her. I need her to trust me again. I know she’s trustworthy.

  How do I prove I am?

  “That’s my entire life these last seven months, Silas. It’s shouldn’t come from the person who is supposed to lo –”

  “Love you?”

  “Right.”

  “I do, you know.”

  “You have one hell of an awful way of showing it.”

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

  “You don’t?” She shifts in her chair, looking away from me as if it’s painful to make eye contact.

  “Not yet. I need to prove myself.”

  “Prove what? That you’re not an asshole?” Detached and chilly, she’s trying so hard not to show how vulnerable she really is. I want the sweet, open woman who started to reveal herself to me. Not this.

  I want so much more.

  And I’m going to have to fight for her.

  “Would that be a good start?”

  “No. A good start would be for you to tell me all about Rebecca. The entire truth, Silas.”

  Damn. There it is.

  Another gut punch.

  “That is a very long story.”

  She spreads her hands out and gestures to the table. “We have a lot of food. Speak.”

  “Okay.” I pour myself a cup of coffee and let my thoughts assemble. How do I start?

  How in the hell do I start to explain what happened with Rebecca when I still don’t know?

  Maybe that’s where I should start.

  “I still don’t understand what Rebecca did. Who she really was. Investigations made by committees I’m not supposed to know even exist are still stumped by her. Here’s what we know: she was an extremely skilled double – possibly triple – agent who infiltrated the Army’s military intelligence core,” I begin.

  “And your heart,” Jane says with more sympathy than I deserve.

  “Yes. That too.”

  “You killed her.”

  “I did. In the line of duty.”

  “Did you try to stop her?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “There wasn’t time. She was picking people off like we were playing paintball. I had to shoot her.”

  “And you shot to kill.”

  “There is no other way, Jane. Not in that situation. You don’t choose. You act. I acted.”

  “Lindsay told me. She told me what you did. But she couldn’t know what you felt. I want to know what you felt.”

  “What I felt? You don’t feel in moments like that. You do whatever instinct tells you.”

  “That’s one hell of an instinct, to override love.”

  “All the feelings came later, Jane. It’s not as if I didn’t have them. I did. Eventually.”

  “Good to know you do have them.”

  “You know that I do. Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Close off for the sake of closing off. Play games. We don’t need to do this.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  A major part of being good in the field is knowing when to back off and when to push hard.

  I can see it’s time to back off.

  All I do is nod as I finish my coffee, buying time. Her eyes track everything I do. They’re filled with sorrow I want to banish. I need to hold her. Touch her. Please her. Reassure her.

  But it’s too soon.

  “You want to know what it felt like in those impossible seconds – less than that, even – when I had to kill someone I adored? I’ll tell you what it felt like. It felt like being waterboarded and having my fingernails torn out at the same time without feeling any of the pain. It felt like an endless scream into eternity, and never being allowed to stop. It felt worse than dying.”

  She’s holding her breath.

  “The hardest part wasn’t on that tarmac. It was later. That afternoon, when I watched them zip her into a body bag. That evening, when she didn’t come see me. Instead, I was interrogated. Congratulated. Commended. Questioned. You have any idea what it’s like to be held up as a hero at the same time people wonder if you’re a double agent, too – and you have to sit inside your own head as you reckon with your own stupidity?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “It’s about as fun as it sounds.”

  “So you know what it’s like? To have people not trust you?”

  “Sure. Drew did, though. He was a goddamn rock for me then.”

  “I’m glad you had someone to pull you through.”

  “When we were given credible information that you were somehow working with the same people suspected to be behind Mark and Drew’s parents deaths, I knew it was bullshit. Knew it. But at the same time, I didn’t know it. The shitshow with Rebecca made me question my core. My radar. Every part of me that was honed to do my job got shattered by her betrayal. And I was too unaware to notice. That’s the kicker. Not that I was besotted or turned into a dupe by love. That can happen to lots of people.”

  Jane is holding her breath, listening with such direct attention.

  “It’s that I didn’t have a clue. Not one hint,” I admit, hating myself.

  “Sounds like she was really, really good at what she did.”

  “That’s the whole point, Jane. I’m supposed to be better.”

  “You sound like Drew.”

  “Good. I take that as a compliment.”

  The pale skin on her neck moves as she swallows. It’s soft. Pliant. Turning to look out a window, Jane gives me a lovely view of her long, elegant neck. A flash of Alice and the paintings hits me hard in the chest. I tighten.

  Pants do, too.

  “You should have told me. Sooner.”

  “I should have.” I can’t help it. I reach for her hand.

  She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t remove it.

  She doesn’t squeeze mine, either, though.

  “I am sorry. Deeply sorry that I hurt you. This is a line, though. One we have to respect.”

  “A line?”

  “I’m not backing down from this. I am not going to lie to you and tell you I regret what Drew and I did with you and the gun. It...” I sigh. “It gave everyone clarity.”

  Every breath she takes suspends me in time, frozen and waiting. Patience is my strong suit. I don’t react to situations. I assess and act.

  This situation isn’t my norm, though.

  Not by a long shot.

  As I watch her, I see the struggle. The longer I watch, the more I feel it. I can’t fix this for her. I can’t nudge her, either. Jane has to come back to me on her terms. In her way. One hundred percent in control, and more important: one thousand percent sure.

  A lesser man would manipulate her.

  A lesser man would push.

  I am not that man.

  Exhaling, she narrows her eyes.

  “Clarity. Yes,” she says slowly, blinking exactly once. “It sure did.”

  Jane

  My heart won’t stop beating hard. So hard. The sound of it won’t leave my ears, scraping along the edges until all I am is a bloody, raw mess of pure emotion.

  I don’t want to stop being mad.

  I don’t want to have an ex
cuse to soften.

  I don’t want to be logical and calm.

  I don’t want to be reasonable and flexible.

  I want to be hard.

  Unyielding.

  Impenetrable.

  Yet here he is, unlocking all of my defenses, and not with a battering ram. No cannons needed.

  His whisper is enough.

  His openness is more powerful.

  “Before you say anything more,” Silas adds. “Hear me out. Come to a meeting with me.”

  “A meeting?”

  “Drew wants us to meet with him, Lindsay, Paulson, and some others.”

  “Mark Paulson? Why?”

  “Because now that you’ve been proven to be trustworthy, we can tell you more. Get your insight.”

  “You want me to give you information. You don’t want my ‘insight.’”

  “We want both.”

  “Is that why you’re here, Silas? To get me to come to some meeting where I’ll be the good little witness and pour my guts out so you can meet your goals and call this mission accomplished?”

  “It’s not the only reason why I’m here.”

  “But it’s a reason?”

  “I would be lying if I didn’t own that. Yes, it’s a reason.”

  “How,” I ask, choking on the word, coughing as it tries to come out smooth and fails, “how am I supposed to trust you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What other reason?”

  “Huh?”

  “What other reason brings you here?”

  “You.”

  “Me... as a woman?”

  “As someone I want to bring back into my world in every way possible.”

  Why can’t he be more simple? If Silas were black or white, good versus evil, a jerk versus a nice guy, I could make a decision and be done with this. Nothing about the last seven months has been that clear.

  Not one bit.

  And this won’t be, either.

  “Why should I?”

  He stills. “I don’t have a good answer. I’m not sure why you should.”

  “Would you? Would you trust me after I tested you the way you tested me?”

  “Yes.” His answer is so immediate.

  “Easy to say,” I tell him, my tone sharp. “You’re lucky I’m even talking to you.”

  “I know I am.”

  “Why should I go with you to this meeting? What’s in it for me? Why should I help you? You want me to give you even more.”

  “I want you to have a chair at the table, Jane. As an equal.”

  “I’m not your client anymore. I’m really, truly done.”

  “I know. Duff told us you tried to lure him away.”

  “Duff can’t keep a secret.”

  “Not from us.”

  I’m stuck. I want to know more about my situation. About who is trying to kill me. These looks Drew and Silas give each other whenever Monica Bosworth’s name comes up tells me there’s way more there than meets the eye.

  On the other hand, some part of me is still screaming on the inside from what happened this morning. You don’t go through that and suddenly – poof! Everything’s fine.

  “If I go to this meeting –”

  Silas grins.

  “If I go, I get an answer to every question I ask.”

  “As long as it’s approved to answer, then yes.”

  “Who decides approval? Drew?”

  “For the most part. The senator, too.”

  “My father has been controlling which information I have access to when it comes to my life? How unbelievably screwed up.”

  “It’s reality.” His shrug makes it clear he’s resigned to it.

  “Not a fan of reality these days, Silas.”

  “Maybe if you see more of it, you’ll understand it.”

  I’m at a crossroads. Part of me is so mad at him, I am about to explode. Another part is in love with him. Still another piece of me is back at that parking garage, convinced he’s really dead.

  And then there’s the piece of me that really, really wants to know more.

  “Fine,” I say, holding up a palm. “Just the meeting. You owe me that.”

  “I do.” He stands, as if we’re about to leave together.

  “Duff will take me.”

  He thumbs toward the side of the building. “I have a car. I can drive us.”

  “Duff will take me,” I repeat, intentionally driving my voice colder, lower, more separate.

  “That seems like a waste of –”

  My turn to sigh like Drew. I mimic him perfectly. Silas jolts, mouth turning down in a tight grimace.

  He presses his earpiece and says something to someone. Probably Duff. Then he looks at me with those bright blue eyes, overly alert. Pumped, even. He’s flying high on emotion and biochemical processes triggered by the fake gun fight, our conversations, and maybe – relief.

  Whatever complex psychological needs Silas has, some have been met by what happened with the guns.

  Too bad I have needs, too.

  Needs that involve not being turned into an emotional pretzel for the sake of some stupid trust test.

  “Just gave Duff the address.”

  I shove a final piece of lime cake in my mouth and grab my purse. “See you there.”

  Without looking behind me, I walk out into the bright sun. Lindsay’s standing on the porch next to Drew, the two arguing intensely. She peels off him and follows me until we reach the black SUV, Duff holding the door open. We climb in.

  It isn’t until Duff pulls out of the parking lot that I realize:

  Drew never apologized to me.

  Chapter 4

  Silas

  “You owe her an apology,” I snap into the secured line as I drive behind Duff, following carefully. Jane and Lindsay are with him. Drew’s behind me. We’re a caravan, a motorcade.

  A mess.

  “Are you and Lindsay on some private connection? She just said the exact same thing to me a minute ago in a text.”

  “It’s because we have morals, Drew. Try it sometime. I know that’s out of your comfort zone, but you’re always up for a challenge.”

  “I’m not a robot, Gentian. I know I owe her an apology. That inn back there wasn’t exactly the best situation for it, unless you wanted me interrupting your confession.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Apology deferred. Not cancelled. Now, can we move on to more important business? Paulson’s got some crucial info.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’re running matches on Lindsay and DNA. So far, nothing in any of the major federal databases. My gut says Monica slept with someone important. A power broker.”

  “Sure. We talked about that. But it has to be someone from twenty-five years ago. Could be high up in the power chain now. Or could have been powerful then, but they’ve lost power.”

  “Or died.”

  “That, too.” Drew’s as obsessed with finding the identity of Lindsay’s biological father as he was with Jane being a deep state operative. Now that the question of Jane is put to rest, all his focus is on Lindsay’s paternity.

  The guy is going to be found.

  “No match on Nolan Corning?” I ask, knowing that was Drew’s suspicion for a while.

  “Tests aren’t back yet. I hope to hell it’s not him. That would unleash one hell of a clusterfuck, wouldn’t it? High-ranking senator ordered gang rape on his own bio daughter? I can’t have Lindsay going through that. She’s been through enough.”

  “Right.” I don’t say it, but it’s between us, hanging there: what we want doesn’t matter. The tests will tell the truth.

  “Any other leads?”

  “We’re trying, but twenty-five years ago people didn’t use email or social media to manage calendars. Figuring out who Monica interacted with back then is about good old-fashioned legwork, not database filtering.”

  “Back then, she’d have had a paper planner. Everyone did. Hell, my mother still use
s one.”

  “Right. And who saves those? No one. So I’ve got people combing through the local newspapers in SoCal. Harry was working in the DA’s office then. Monica is the kind of person who doesn’t change. Who she is now is just a sharper version of her younger self. She has always had a taste for power.”

  “You think she slept her way through players? Why?”

  “Who knows? To benefit Harry’s career? Her eye has been on the first lady prize for a very, very long time.”

  “A prize she’s willing to kill for?”

  Another patented Drew Foster sigh fills my ear. “You tell me, Gentian. You tell me.”

  “The evidence will tell us, Drew.”

  “Yeah, but we have to find it first.”

  “We will.”

  “You’re more optimistic than I am.”

  “No. I’m more motivated. Whatever Monica Bosworth is up to, it hurts Jane. No one is allowed to hurt Jane.”

  “You just did,” he reminds me.

  “And so did you.”

  “Right. Apologize. I know.” He huffs. “You have any idea how deep in the doghouse I am with Lindsay? She’s beside herself.”

  I say nothing.

  “Anyhow,” he says, regrouping. “Paulson’s got more info on this. Let’s get to the secure location and talk more there.”

  “This line’s fine, right? You can tell me what you need to.”

  “Not... not this. Not what Paulson’s got.”

  “Ah.” I stay cagey, like Drew. If we’re on a secure line talking openly about Lindsay’s paternity and he still doesn’t want to talk about Paulson’s evidence, it must be bad. “See you there.”

  Beep. Call over.

  The drive takes us up the coast, sticking to the long, winding road that hugs the beaches. I know Drew and Mark’s plan: a beachside conversation, well away from observation and monitoring.

  It’s also well away from safety.

  Convincing Jane to come took more emotional arm-twisting than I thought. But it worked. I hate that I had to dangle information she has a right to know regardless of this meeting. I hate that she is lied to constantly, lies of omission and commission.

  Promises of crucial information are the gateway to getting her back.

  It’s weak. I know. It’s also all I’ve got.