Man in Queue

by Shandi Boyes

  16

  “Calm down and stop talking in fuckin’ riddles. How do you know he’s one of us?” Grayson’s eyes glance down at the photo Brandon printed all the way from Ravenshoe. “Where was this image obtained?”

  “The back quarter panel of the taxi that picked us up from the alley. The cab driver must have recently washed his car as the paint was so gleaming, we caught his reflection.”

  His nose screws up as he takes in the grainy image. “I thought you said there were two perps?”

  “I thought there were, but maybe I was mistaken? I wasn’t exactly thinking straight since my brain was leaking out of my ears.”

  Grayson’s angry snarl matches mine. “Yet, you still recognize him?”

  “Yes! The vision is shit, but you know how on point I am with photographic recognition. He’s the same man who flew with Regan and me to Texas last week.”

  The distrust in Grayson’s eyes fades for belief. He’s aware I have the most photographic memory in our family because he fought me for the title last year.

  “So this photo is evidence—if you can call it that—that he may be the man who attacked you, but I’m not connecting my dots the same way you are. How is this proof he’s with the Bureau?”

  I fill the seat next to him, causing the old wicker chair to squeak from having two grown-ass men sitting on it. “Theresa had photos of Regan and me. . . together.” He nods, recalling me telling him the same thing two nights ago with the exact same dip in my tone. “When she presented the evidence, I didn’t pay as much attention to the non-focal points as I usually do.”

  “You were distracted by your girl. I get it.”

  The humor in his tone pisses me off, but I nod all the same. Regan forever distracts me, to the point it is becoming frustrating.

  “I assumed the photos were taken by a member of the flight crew via some type of surveillance device as they had a black tinge on the edges. It was only after talking to Brandon did I assess the photos more diligently. The black edging appears to be high caliber stitched cotton, meaning the photos were taken over someone’s shoulder—most likely a man’s suit-covered one. Add that to the angle of the photos, and you can only reach one conclusion: they were taken by someone sitting across from us. The fucker used my neurosis against me to gather intel on both Regan and me.”

  Although I can see Grayson is dying to grill me, unlike me, he has no troubles keeping his focus on the task at hand. “Accusing a supervisor of tailing an agent is a risky move, but saying an agent assaulted you. . .” His words trail off as he scrubs his hand over his tired eyes. “That feels wrong just admitting.”

  Before I can inform him that Theresa gives wrong a whole new meaning, he adds on, “I get where you’re coming from, though, and you haven’t viewed the info my guys have unearthed the past twenty-four hours. Dodgy has a new meaning now that I’ve run stats on the head of your unit.”

  I stare at him quietly. He said he’d look into my case. I didn’t realize that meant he’d have his crew working on it as well. Grayson’s guys are the cream of the crop, the very essence of what every agent strives to become a part of. They don’t work on stalker cases that involve rogue supervisors more interested in netting their targets than maintaining the integrity of their unit. They take down entire criminal associations, terrorists, and serial killers.

  Missing my shocked expression, Grayson slouches into his chair. “This guy you’re targeting, do you have much on him?”

  Shaking my head, I drop my eyes to the photo Brandon printed for me, assuming that is whom Grayson is referencing.

  “Not him,” Grayson responds, returning my focus to him. “The guy you’re at Ravenshoe for. The one who got your panties in a knot whenever your girl mentioned him in a roundabout way during dinner.”

  A pfft noise sounds from my mouth, denying his assumption without words. Regan rarely mentions Isaac or his association when she’s with me. Her thoughts are too occupied for him to enter the equation.

  Grayson nips my attitude in the bud by saying, “I saw the elevator footage, Alex. She doesn’t just have your panties twisted up; she’s got your balls in her purse as well.”

  Although I’d rather knock the smug grin off his face with my fists, I have more important points to work through. I’ve pussy-footed around for nearly a week now. It’s time I start thinking with the head on my shoulders instead of the one between my legs. Regan deserves a man who can both satisfy her and keep her safe. I’m only exceeding in one field at the moment.

  “How did you see the elevator footage? I wiped it from the servers?”

  Grayson’s lips tug high, exposing several pegs of white teeth. “Is anything ever truly wiped?”

  I’m tempted to tell him to save his excuses for when I upload the sex tape he made in college, but the squeak of a screen door stops me. Regan storms onto the back porch we’re hiding out on. The high slit in her mid-thigh dress steals my devotion for a couple of seconds, but her sassy diva-like attitude utterly consumes it.

  I assume her fiery attitude is because she’s finally deciphered what I mumbled earlier, but she proves me wrong when she says, “You wiped my messages from my phone.” Her tone leaves no chance in hell I can mistake it as a question. “Why would you do that?”

  I nudge my head to the door she just stormed through, requesting for Grayson to give us some privacy. With a shake of his head and a determined stance, he ignores my suggestion. After glaring at him in warning that he’ll pay for his stupidity later, I stand from my chair and motion for Regan to join me at the side of the patio. She is as stubborn as Grayson.

  With a cocked hip, she spreads her hands across her waist then arches her brow high. Most men would take the shit-eating grin stretching across Grayson’s face as appreciation for the spectacular vision standing before him, but Grayson is anything but ordinary. He’s not taking in Regan’s seductive curves, ample breasts, and drop-dead gorgeous face. He’s attracted to her fiery attitude.

  Our father might be set in his ways like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, but the new generation of Rogers are a cut above the rest. With our father rarely home, our mother raised us, which means we have no qualms respecting fierce, determined women. And I have no issues subduing them either.

  I step closer to Regan, my chest swelling when the vein in her neck pulsates with every movement I make. “I didn’t mean to delete your messages—”

  “So you admit you used my phone?” she interrupts, her voice as ice cold as the glare she’s giving me.

  I nod. “Just like I have since the night in the alley.”

  That stumps her for all of two seconds. “Allowing someone to use your phone doesn’t give them the right to do whatever the fuck they want with it. Those were my messages—for me.”

  “I had every intention to tell you about Isaac’s calls, but between being attacked, your discovery last night, and other matters this morning, I haven’t had a chance.”

  Regan looks two seconds from ripping me a new asshole, but I’m saved from being maimed when Grayson interrupts, “Isaac?” He scoots forward on his chair, acting as if it’s the first time he’s heard the name. “You said you’re from Ravenshoe, right?” His question is directed at Regan, not me.

  A sudden wish for privacy crosses Regan’s face before she nods once at Grayson’s question.

  “Is this Isaac also from Ravenshoe?”

  Grayson is good. If I hadn’t discussed Isaac with him earlier, I’d truly believe he has no clue who he is.

  When Regan nods again, Grayson murmurs, “No shit! I had a college friend who moved to Ravenshoe a few years ago. His name was Isaac.” He scrubs his hand along his jaw as if he is digging through his memory for clues. “What was his last name again?”

  If he’s hoping Regan will jump in and save him, he’s shit out of luck. She keeps her lips more tightly sealed than mine.

  Realizing Regan will never give him the out he seeking, Grayson reveals, “Holt. That’s it. Isa
ac Holt.” He gifts Regan the smirk he generally uses when he wants the ladies on his side. “Is my Isaac your Isaac?”

  “No,” Regan answers without pause, not the slightest bit fazed she has two sets of very dominant, interrogative eyes staring at her. “But I have heard of Isaac Holt. What lady in Ravenshoe hasn’t?” My cheeks inflame with anger when she fans her face as if she’s suddenly hot. “He has quite the reputation.” The way her tone dips ensures we can’t mistake what reputation she is referring to.

  Grayson laughs, shifting my eyes from glaring at Regan to him. “Sounds like the Isaac I used to know. If you ever see him, be sure to tell him I said hello.”

  “Sure,” Regan replies, her tone friendlier than her snarled lips are implying. “Should I refer to you as Grayson, or do you have another alias you’d prefer I use?”

  Grayson snaps his eyes to mine, his fury uncontained. Before half the unasked questions streaming from his eyes can reach my ears, Regan tosses a dozen fake IDs onto the coffee table wedged between us. Half belong to Grayson; the rest are mine.

  Grayson launches to his feet. “You told her about the frosting canisters? What the fuck, Alex?!”

  Ignoring his angry sneer, I step closer to Regan. I’ve got more concerns than his private stash being raided. Regan is looking at me in a way I’ve never wanted. Anger. Betrayal. Disgust. They all filter from her beautifully pained green irises. That far outweighs his need to find a new hidey hole.

  Before I can get within touching distance of her, Regan crosses her arms in front of her chest, then locks her eyes with mine. They’re brimming with unbridled fury and a shit ton of hurt. “Is Alex even your real name?”

  I nod my head. “Nothing I’ve told you is a lie. My name is Alex Rogers. I was born December 31st. Grayson is my brother. This is the house I grew up in as a child. I’ve never lied to you, Rae. Not in the way you’re thinking.”

  Relief washes over Regan’s face when she hears the honesty in my tone. It doesn’t last long. Not even for a second. Her guards are up; her trust is down, and I fucking hate it. “Not in the way I’m thinking? So what other ways have you lied to me?”

  “We’ve discussed this. You know I can’t. . .”

  My words trail off when she squeals in frustration, spins on her heels, then reenters The Manor. I take off after her in under a second, only stopping when Grayson fists my shirt. I can see the worry in his eyes, his panic that I’ve let Regan crawl so profoundly under my skin I’m not seeing the entire picture, but I can also see he understands my dilemma.

  “You need to tread carefully,” Grayson warns, his tone unlike anything I’ve ever heard. “If your findings are true, you could lose her forever.”

  His words sucker-punch me harder than his fists ever could. That’s the last thing I want.

  “If the man stalking her is one of us, she’ll think everything was staged. The feelings, the trust, it will all vanish.” He sounds as if he is talking more from experience than conjecture. “When the time is right, you can come clean, but now is not the time.”

  “She already knows.”

  Grayson shakes his head. “No, she doesn’t. She’s running on half-truths—just as you are. Be inventive, Alex, while also doing the job you’re paid to do.”

  His riddled reply piques my curiosity—even more so when he releases me from his hold, snags the printout from the coffee table, then enters The Manor without speaking another word.

  I stay on the patio for the next several minutes, running my fingers through my hair and pacing back and forth. I want to tell Regan everything, but Grayson’s warning holds some credit. Regan just protected Isaac’s identity, which proves she’s extremely loyal to him.

  Although I can’t guarantee that would have been the case if she hadn’t caught me in a lie, I must remain cautious. I know firsthand how hard people fight when they feel as if their backs are against the wall. They fight with everything they have, often forgetting who they are fighting for.

  I won’t let that happen to Regan and me. I’ll fight for her with everything I have because I’m used to fighting. Nothing in life ever comes easy for me, so why would I expect love to be any different?

  17

  I stop shoving clothes into my bag like a madwoman when the creak of a door sounds through my ears. I don’t know why I’m being so dramatic. It’s hard being angry about having your privacy invaded when you did the exact same thing only minutes ago.

  I didn’t enter The Manor’s large industrial kitchen with the purpose of tracking down information on Alex, but when I spotted the dozen or so canisters of frosting at the very back of a middle shelf, my inquisitiveness got the better of me.

  Mostly.

  Somewhat

  Not even.

  I was spying.

  The more annoyed I become about Alex deleting my messages, the more logical my quest for revenge sounded. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but when you’re working off minimal sleep and a brain firing off only two cylinders, even the stupidest ideas seem brilliant.

  To be honest, I wasn’t surprised when I found the driver’s licenses with Alex’s photo but alternate names in replace of his. In a world where everyone knows everything, even regular joes seek ways to keep their private information precisely that: private. I’m more angry that they didn’t give me anything concrete to explain the stupid feelings I’ve been bombarded with the past forty-eight hours. I must be in a time warp, as nothing happening can be true. My protectiveness of Isaac is as intense as it’s always been, my libido just as strong, but there is something very wrong with this picture.

  I don’t excuse snooping as if it is a normal thing to do; I don’t choose sex over morals, and I sure as hell don’t let men weasel their way into my heart with cute words and mind-blowing orgasms.

  More determined than ever, I spin around to face Alex. He better be packing heat, as several grenades are heading his way.

  My willpower withers when the person entering my room isn’t whom I’m expecting. The already elevated beat of my heart doubles when the man’s face identifies as familiar.

  “You’re the gentleman from the plane? The one who sat two seats across from me?”

  I don’t know why my comments sound like questions. I’m not seeking confirmation. I know what I saw, just as well as I know it’s extremely unlikely he was on the same flight as me and is now a guest at the same B&B.

  The man stiffens, stunned I’ve remembered him, but his mouth remains tightlipped. His surprise is warranted. I’m not recalling him because he has a gorgeous face and fit body any red-blooded woman would have a hard time forgetting. On the contrary, being saved from his scrutiny by the handsome man filling the vacant seat next to him is the reason his face is stored in my memory bank. He’s not creepy-looking, but the vibes he gives off are.

  “What are you doing here?” I feel the rod in my back straightening, taking on the steel strength in my voice.

  When he steps closer to me, as if the six paces between us are too great, I hold my hand out in front of my body.

  He copies my gesture, but more to say he means me no harm than to keep me at arm’s length. “I’m not here to hurt you, Rae. I’m here to help you.”

  If his use of my nickname doesn’t send sirens alarming in my head, the similar size of our hands skyrockets my panic to an all-time high. His hands don’t match his round face and deep timbre. They are dainty and small, quite feminine.

  “Help me with what?” I impress myself with how calm my voice is. Probably helps that my suitcase hides the stiletto I’m clutching for dear life.

  A condescending smirk etches onto my face when he replies, “Your life is in danger.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  I force tears to my eyes. “How do you know this. . . unless you’re the man behind the threat?”

  His balk ripples the air. I’ve got him stumped, but not enough to restrain his curiosity. “What gave me away?”

  I lick my dry lips before answering, “You
called me Rae.”

  He clears the confusion from his face with a quick scrub of his shadowed jaw. It gives away his ruse even more. He’s married. He may have removed his ring, but the white band circling his ring finger will take months to clear.

  After dropping his hand from his face, he says, “That’s your name, isn’t it?” His tone is more panicked than threatening.

  I shake my head. “No one calls me Rae.”

  “Anymore,” he corrects, proving he knows me more than a random stranger would.

  When he steps closer to me, I raise my stiletto into the air. Spotting my weapon of choice, he has the audacity to smile. It’s a stupid thing for him to do. Discovering Alex is spying on me already has my mood teetering dangerously on edge; now his arrival has pushed me over the brink. I’m the most unhinged I’ve ever been.

  With a grunt, I push off my feet. I charge for the door he’s blocking with his waif-like frame, hoping if I pierce his arm with my stiletto, it will give me enough leverage to escape without harm.

  My plan has the effect I am aiming for. He howls like a wolf staring at a moon when my heel breaks through both his suit-covered sleeve and his skin, but he’s not down long enough for me to fully flee.

  “Let me go!” I scream when he bands his arm around my waist to yank me away from the locked door.

  My scream is drowned out by Alex calling my name. He either heard my battle cry or sensed I am in danger. “Rae!”

  As the sound of feet stomping up a set of stairs booms into my ears, I throw my head back. Stars dance in front of my eyes when my skull cracks the stranger’s nose, making another painful moan ripple from his lips.

  “I’ll break your nose with my next hit,” I warn, my voice strong.

  When he fails to adhere to my threat, I throw my head back for the second time. It hurts him more than it does me.

  As his hands dart up to catch the blood gushing from his nose, I break away from his side. The tremor of my body rattles all the way down my arm when I twist the old-fashioned handle on my bedroom door. I turn and turn and turn, but it fails to open, and there’s no key in sight.