by Shandi Boyes
“If that is true, what harm will be done proving that?” Theresa asks, her tone lowering to a more understanding one.
I remain quiet, not trusting her, but having nothing to fall back on. I know Regan is innocent, so proving that isn’t an issue. It is the lying I’m struggling with. My plan today was to come clean to Theresa about the conflict of interest I have in this case. Then, once the dust settled on that, confessing my line of work to Regan was my next step. Now. . . I’m fucking lost.
I am to blame for Dane’s injuries, so shouldn’t I sacrifice my happiness to ensure he lives the best life possible? If you had asked me that same question only days ago, I would have answered yes without a smidge of doubt. Now I’m torn. I want Regan more than anything, but I owe Dane everything.
“What do you need?” My voice is laced with so much anger, I have a hard time recognizing it.
“Names, dates, anything we can use to take down Isaac,” Theresa answers quickly, her briskness exposing her eagerness. She wants to take Isaac down almost as badly as I do. I just haven’t figured out why.
I rub my hand across my tired eyes before asking, “And that’s all you’ll do with the information? Take down Isaac?”
Theresa’s pause should riddle me with hesitation, but with my head not responsible for my thoughts, I pretend her dipping chin is in good faith.
It is stupid of me to do, but not as stupid as it is for her to underestimate me.
5
“What can I say? She’s a freak, and not in the way I like them.”
A halfhearted laugh escapes my lips as I slouch into my chair. “I wouldn’t let Kristin hear you say that. She’ll have you hung by your nuts.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Dane’s laugh is more genuine than mine. “Won’t be the last.”
When a deep oomph barrels down the line, my first smile of the day cracks onto my lips. I should have known Kristin was by his side, supporting him. Excluding the day she gave birth to their second daughter, Addison, she hasn’t left his side since that fateful night five years ago. She’s the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The reason he wakes every day. She’s his Regan.
I wait for Dane to finish laughing before asking, “Did you forward the footage from Regan’s apartment to the DA handling Danielle’s case?”
Dane hums the start of his reply. “She said it wasn’t required, but I still shared what I found.”
His reply is short, but it doesn’t stop me missing the words he didn’t say. “You also believe Danielle will get off lightly?”
Dane’s second hum isn’t as strong as his first. “Most likely. It’s a sticky case. Your grubby mitts didn’t help.”
“What was I supposed to do? Let her attack Regan in a church full of witnesses?”
My reply is equally shocked and peeved. Shocked he doesn’t understand my objective—Dane protects his wife as fiercely as I guard Regan—and peeved he’s reading Regan’s stalker case in the same manner as me.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Dane replies, snubbing the fury in my tone. “Then the case would have more evidence than just a partial fingerprint discovered in a glove several floors down from the crime scene and the word of two scorned women.”
“Regan isn’t scorned—”
“She is listed as the spouse of the deceased. Even if Danielle’s claims of an affair with Luca are false, the jury will still see Regan as a scorned woman, meaning Danielle’s claim of being harassed by Regan after Luca’s death is plausible.”
My deep exhalation nearly drowns out what Dane says next: “You know the odds in these cases, Alex. For every juror we dismiss for their disdain of cheating, we have another who’s a glorified adulterer. I hate to tell you, man, but the odds are against you on this one. Danielle is claiming self-defense.”
Anger hits me like a hard blow to my chest. “How can she claim self-defense when she was the one who arrived at church clutching a pig’s heart?”
“The same way you should have refuted Theresa’s claims of being insubordinate—severe emotional distress.”
A pfftt noise vibrates my lips. “Severe emotional distress, my ass. Nothing I did this weekend was done under protest.”
“I know.” Dane’s tone isn’t as high as mine, his voice not as stern. “But Theresa doesn’t. She placed you in a predicament you weren’t trained for, therefore you didn’t know how to act. A simple mistake—any good union rep will argue the same on your behalf.”
That’s easy for him to say. He doesn’t know what Theresa is holding over my head. It isn’t just my job on the chopping block if I go against her. Dane’s livelihood is also at stake.
Believing my silence is due to contemplating his suggestion, Dane says, “You called for my advice, so here it is: go the deflective ruse. It’s an easy excuse. I glanced at the surveillance images logged this weekend. If I were there, I would have soothed Regan in the same manner you did.”
The last half of his sentence comes out in a flurry from Kristin’s fist stealing the air from his lungs. It is lucky she’s quick to retaliate, as my response wouldn’t have been anywhere near as subdued.
A door being slammed shut rumbles down the line before Dane quickly pushes out, “Stop being so hard on yourself. Do you truly believe you’re the first agent to dive beneath the sheets with a target? It is a part of our industry.”
His reply stumps me—wholly and without constraint. I know him well enough to know his comment wasn’t metaphorical. He’s talking from experience.
“What the fuck, man? Does Kristin know?”
I try to hold in my anger, but, in all honesty, I can’t. Kristin is so much like a sister to me, anger minces my words, making me sound the most volatile and unhinged I’ve ever been.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Dane laughs as if we’re at a comedy club. I don’t know what the fuck he thinks is funny. This shit isn’t funny.
When I say that to him, he replies, “You need to remember who you’re preaching your godliness to. I heard the rumors. I know how you climbed the rankings so fast.”
Fury builds in my gut. “What the fuck are you talking about? I got where I am on my own merit. No one gave me shit.”
His mocking laugh adds to the wobble of my top lip. “Uh-huh, you keep telling yourself that, bro.”
When he disconnects our call, I clutch my cell as if it is his neck. This isn’t the first argument we’ve had, but it’s the first time I’ve regretted carting him down the meadow on my back. That man I was arguing with is not my brother. The Dane I know idolizes his wife. His girls are the apples of his eye. He’d rather die than hurt them. He doesn’t cheat and lie. He loves. I can’t put it any simpler than that.
I sit in silence for several minutes, torn on where I go from here. I called Dane because I needed advice on what to do with Regan. Our conversation started in the right direction until Dane gave me an update on Danielle’s charges. There is solid evidence that Danielle has been in Ravenshoe the past two months. She admitted to the arresting officer that she has a “strong dislike” of Regan, but the DA is still going in soft.
At this rate, she’ll barely get a slap on the wrist, let alone the sentence she deserves. It is like five years ago all over again. They’re handed the perp wrapped up in a shiny red bow, but instead of believing the evidence presented to them by a dedicated and well-respected member of law enforcement, they side with the criminal.
I guess that excuses my heated conversation with Dane. We’re both on edge. Dane has a bout of extensive physical therapy coming up—it’s costly and excruciatingly painful—and I’m still twisted up in knots over my somewhat arrangement with Theresa.
I don’t trust her. She’d throw a baby under the bus if it guaranteed she’d get her man. That’s not someone I want to side with. What I said to Dane was straight up honesty. Everything I’ve accomplished in my career I achieved myself. No one gave me a lending hand or a sneaky payment under the table.
My dedication to my job is why I’m at the
office at god knows o’clock on my day off, seeking evidence in Isaac’s case. I know what I’m searching for is here; I just have to find it.
And I’ll do it without prying into Regan’s private life.
A few hours later, I throw an evidence folder onto my desk in frustration before raking my fingers through my hair. I’m fucking exhausted. With my run-in with Theresa playing on my mind all morning, I didn’t get a wink of sleep before starting an impromptu sixteen-hour shift at the office.
I’m also dying to call Regan, but since I’m striving to keep the lies to a bare minimum, I don’t know what I could say. Even asking her something as simple as how her day was could substantiate corruption when I eventually come clean. Her day-to-day life intertwines with Isaac’s, so until that is unraveled, a humble conversation is out of the question.
I’ve never felt so fucking torn in my life, and Dane’s confession isn’t helping matters. He cheated on his wife. Like. . . fuck. If he can do that, what else is he capable of?
Now I understand what Regan meant about not lying to the people you love. I’m hurt by Dane’s betrayal, and I’m not the one he deceived. And although my deception isn’t as deep as Dane’s, at the end of the day, I’m still lying to Regan.
Under different circumstances, I’d come clean. Not just to Regan but Kristin as well. Obviously, my knee wasn’t the only thing that got shattered in that field all those years ago. Apparently, my integrity was destroyed right along with it.
When did I become this man? Was it when I lied under oath to save a woman I didn’t know? Or when I pledged to Dane I’d never stop hunting the man responsible for his injuries knowing he was sitting directly across from him, vowing revenge?
This weekend, I thought I regained a part of me I had missed the most. Now I’m realizing all I did was half unmask him. I’m no better than I was five years ago or six weeks ago. I’m broken. Fractured. Fucking lost.
I’m drawn from dangerous thoughts when the creak of a door sounds through my ears. Cranking my neck, I spot a man approximately mid to late twenties standing at the entrance of my office. Well, I shouldn’t say my office. The damp, sooty basement the Bureau seconded for Theresa’s team doesn’t have any internal walls, and the dusty windows lining one side only peer out to a derelict warehouse that houses just as many rats. It is a bunker that represents Theresa’s operation to a T—bland and boring as fuck.
Noticing the unnamed intruder is standing next to an industrial-sized vacuum, I gesture for him to enter. He does—albeit hesitantly. I understand his unease. Usually, the instant the clock strikes six, a mass evacuation occurs from this floor. The techs don’t put in the same hours we agents do. They’ve got women to go home to. Kids to bathe. Sheets to mess.
If I weren’t seeking evidence to take Isaac down without Regan’s help, I would have left hours ago—although sleep would be the last thing on my mind. Who needs rest when you have a woman like Regan waiting for you?
Not anyone sane.
When my eyes return to the stack of evidence in front of me, a few hours of shuteye doesn’t seem as impossible as it did seconds ago. My sleep deprivation must be making my vision blur, because if I were to believe the reports in front of me, Isaac is a brilliant business man who is filthy fucking rich, but not corrupt.
If that isn’t a clear sign for me to call it a night, I don’t know what is.
When I stand to gather my jacket from the back of my chair, I notice the janitor is still loitering by the door. He has dropped to his knees, the large vacuum cleaner he’s wrangling as uncooperative as my heart has been the past seventy-eight hours.
“Did you check the fuse? Relics like her still have the original equipment they were designed with,” I ask, stopping at his side.
He mumbles something about it not being the fuse. His sharp grumble reveals his disinterest in my help, but if that didn’t, his quick change in position is a sure-fire indication.
Must be asshole appreciation day today—everyone is super moody.
After taking in his sandy blond hair, the part of his face not hidden by a cap, and dainty hands, I head for the door. I’d wish him luck, but he’s not the only one struggling with anger issues today. I have plenty of them—in abundance.
Halfway to the door, my pace slows. His hands were dainty, dainty—almost feminine. I don’t know why it bothers me—his girly hands are more a problem for him than me—but recalling that fact has my heart rate kicking up.
Just before I exit, I scan the notch in the wood the janitor’s frame reached when he entered. It is inches below my line of sight—making him a good head shorter than me.
Once again, his small stature is no concern of mine, but yet again, it has my heart rate soaring. His age, height, and lithe frame must make his position difficult. He’d barely hit 130 on the scales. The vacuum he’s trying to fix weighs nearly that much.
I don’t know whether to laugh or groan when my polished dress shoe snags a cable on the ground. The cord from the vacuum cleaner is sitting halfway out the door—nowhere near the closest electrical outlet.
“Might start if you plug it in.” My deep timbre is hindered by annoyed laughter.
I don’t have time to tell others how to do their job. I’m having enough trouble maintaining my own work ethic.
Bobbing down, I pick up the cable before spinning around to face the janitor. Halfway there, a glimpse of silver flashes before my eyes.
Then all I see is blackness.
6
My eyes stray from the screen of my phone to Isaac when his throaty cough rumbles through my ears. He doesn’t have a cold; he’s merely announcing he’s noticed my disturbance without words. I’ve been a little preoccupied the last half of our meeting. By a little, I mean a lot. Alex never said he’d make contact before arriving at my apartment tonight; I’m just hoping he will. Isaac works odd hours. Considering he is my sole employer, I bend my schedule to fit him. I forgot to factor our meeting in when I invited Alex over to share a bottle of wine, so I’m worried I’ll miss his visit.
I freeze as fear hardens my spine. I’ve become one of them: those needy, clingy women who stare at their phones for hours on end, willing for them to ring.
Ugh! I’m going to be sick.
Is this why Alex hasn’t made contact in over eighteen hours? He said he’d be late, but I didn’t realize he meant this late. If he is loitering because of my forwardness, he doesn’t need to fret. Asking a man to share a bottle of wine is the equivalent of slipping him my hotel room key. It doesn’t equal a lifetime commitment. It means I’m horny.
Mostly.
Somewhat.
Not even.
Argh! This is the exact reason I didn’t want to go to Texas. I barely knew the man who bumped heads with me in the elevator, but that didn’t stop me from thinking about him twenty-four-seven for the two months that followed. If that didn’t already have my radar hollering, the fact I agreed to go home with him on the weekend of Luca’s memorial should have been all the indication I needed to know I should stay far away from him.
Perhaps I’m having a midlife crisis? I’m not thirty for another three years, but after everything I’ve been through, some days I feel like I’m fifty. Don’t get me wrong, when my thoughts stray to Alex, sex is on the forefront of my mind. But occasionally, everything he said and did this weekend also makes an appearance.
You couldn’t see his eyes when he held me after our foray in the business class bathroom. We were in the most unromantic venue you could possibly imagine, the zesty scent filtering the air constantly reminding us of our location, but nothing could take away from the emotions exchanged between us during that moment. It was beautiful—horrifyingly disgusting—but beautiful nonetheless.
My dinner stops creeping up my esophagus when a stern gaze secures my devotion. Isaac is glaring at me. It isn’t his make your knees wobble with nothing but a sideways glance stare. It is more frightening than that. He wants to talk, and it has nothing to do with busi
ness.
Pretending I can’t read him as well as he can read me, I prop my hip onto the makeshift desk before glancing down at the business proposal displayed across it.
“I like it. Not sure I’d pay to enter the dance club, but desperation makes people stupid. So. . .” A shrug finalizes my reply.
Not believing my sudden interest in the nightclub designs he’s showing me is genuine, Isaac arches his brow. I act oblivious, my skills clearly unimpressive considering how narrow his eyes become.
“It’s nothing,” I eventually succumb, throwing my arms into the air. “It’s just a guy I met. He’s as confusing as you.”
Isaac takes my swipe at his ego with a smile. “Did you meet him while home for the weekend?”
My eyes rocket to his. How does he know I went home?
“Your credit card,” he fills in, smirking at my wide eyes and gaped mouth. “My accountant fills me in on any expenses charged—Every. Single. Morning.”
Misreading the anger in his tone as exploitation, I pledge, “I transferred my fare on the way here. I’m not expecting you to foot the bill—”
Isaac swipes his hand through the air, cutting me off. “I don’t care about the money. Your expenses are covered as part of your employment—travel included.” He waits for me to nod in agreement before continuing, “I’m more interested in your decision to return home this weekend. How long has it been?”
He already knows my reply, but I pretend he doesn’t. “Nearly a year since I’ve been home. Eight since I’ve stepped foot in that church.”
Hearing the quiver in my words, Isaac moves around the desk to join me on the other side. He’s removed his suit jacket but kept on his beloved vest, giving him the enticing ruthless businessman look every woman craves—well, ones not suddenly obsessed with Viking men with devastating blue eyes and hairy chins.