The NewlyFEDS

by Chance, Logan

  “Just that Richard and Miffie are broke.”

  My eyes widen as I listen.

  “And her family has been bailing them out every month.”

  “I just think this case is messing with my head,” she says. “I feel like they’re all innocent.”

  I step closer. “Well, they’re not.”

  “I know. I know.”

  The doorbell rings, and Addison sighs. “Be right back...hopefully.” She leaves the kitchen to answer the front door, and a few minutes later, returns. “It was Kelly.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Cookbook club. It’s my turn to host.”

  “Here? That should be fun.” I check my watch. “Are you ready to go to our meeting with Steele?”

  “Let me shower.” She heads upstairs, and I’m left with thoughts of her soapy, naked body under the shower spray.

  I need to control these caveman thoughts. ‘Addison mine.’

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  * * *

  After spending half an hour chasing a damn cat around the house, Addison and I finally arrive at the FBI building and park in the underground garage. Once I’m sure we weren’t followed, we head into the tunnel that brings us to the director’s office, where he and Grubbs await our arrival.

  “Leads?” Steele asks, once we’re seated in the two chairs facing his desk.

  “The Patterson’s are broke.”

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “Nothing substantial,” Addison informs him, “but we’re working a few angles.”

  “Listen,” Steele perches on the edge of his desk, “I have a lot of people breathing down my neck. We’ll dig into the Patterson’s financials, but we need this case closed.” The director’s eyes bounce between Buck’s and mine. “We lost Cooley. Had to pull him. It was getting too hot to keep him under any longer.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter. My irritation grows that I’m missing important clues because I’m letting Addison hypnotize me with a sway of her hips and a tilt of her pretty red lips. “So, he won’t be able to help with the drop now.” Fuck, again.

  “No,” Steele says, “you’ll have to find a new angle.”

  Easier said than done. All our angles are a straight line to nowhere.

  After the director dismisses us, we leave his office and on the drive back to the Highlands, Addison comes up with a plan. “How about we stop by Greg’s restaurant, and I’ll distract him while you check out his office?”

  “Distract him how?”

  “Ask for a recipe for cookbook club?”

  That might work if Addison can get a little one-on-one time by asking for his help with her cookbook club, and in the process squeeze a little information out of him.

  “Let’s do it,” I tell her.

  It’s after the lunch rush by the time we get there, so I’m hoping Greg isn’t too busy to have time for Addison.

  “I can go in alone,” I tell her as she rubs a tube of gloss over her lips.

  Her blue eyes meet mine and she raises a brow. “Vin, come on. I can handle this.”

  It isn’t thinking she can’t handle herself, I don’t like the way Greg’s eyes salivate at her like she’s grade A pussy he’s never had before.

  “I’ll need fifteen minutes.”

  “You can trust me.” She opens the door, and before sliding out she peeks at me over her shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

  I watch her cross the lot to the front door of The Flank House and disappear inside. It only takes me a few minutes to slip around the building and in the back entrance. This is my element. I know from the night we were here the layout and can guess his office is located down the hallway to the left of the kitchen. I guess correctly.

  Faster than Greg can ruin a good steak, I comb through his desk and in a manila folder, I find a paid invoice from Richard—five grand in cash—with no explanation.

  Five minutes later, I’m back in the Rover. I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly while I wait for Addison. Should I go in there? I know Addison said not to, but I’m having a hard time sitting still.

  I’m sure everything is going perfectly fine inside.

  Hell, who knows. Maybe Addison is closing the whole case, and we’ll be able to return to our respective homes by dinner time.

  Something about that idea doesn’t sit right with me.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I kind of like playing pretend house up here in the Highlands. I like seeing Addison’s face light up when I enter the door from ‘work’ each day.

  It’s nice to have someone ...there.

  I check my watch. It’s been fifteen minutes, and I want nothing more than to head in there to see what’s taking so long.

  What kind of recipe is he giving her?

  Before I go internally crazy, Addison appears, strutting through the parking lot and toward the Rover.

  “Find anything?” she asks once she slides into the front seat.

  “This.” I hand her the receipt with Richard’s name on it, and she stares at it for a second.

  “Cash? Oh, this is something, I wonder what it’s all about?”

  “I know. We’ll need to have Grubbs check into it. What about you?”

  “Greg was really nice.” She holds up a slip of paper. “Got a recipe.” She appears proud.

  I stare at the recipe in her hands, and then gaze into her soft-blue eyes. “How nice?”

  She shrugs. “Just typical nice nice.”

  I can picture the type of nice he was. I’ve seen the way he stares at her. I hate it. It makes my blood boil. And before I can even think about anything else, I lean over and capture her lips with mine. I don’t stop kissing her, letting her tongue glide along mine. My fingers fly into her hair, roaming over each silky strand. My body comes alive, and all the heated blood pumps straight to my dick.

  Our kiss lasts for what seems like forever, but before I’m even ready to stop she breaks the kiss.

  With wide eyes she asks, “Why did you do that?”

  “Greg was looking,” I lie. Because if I were to see Greg right now I might punch him.

  Addison doesn’t say anything just slides back into the leather of her seat and puts on her seatbelt.

  I pull out of the lot and head home.

  Addison doesn’t say a word on the way back, and all I can think about is why did I go and fuck everything up and kiss my wife?

  Chapter 15

  Addison

  I’m ruining my career. I liked his kiss. Loved it, actually. What was I thinking? I had my tongue in his mouth before he could even open his lips. What am I doing? Oh my God.

  I have a well thought out plan I’ve been working on since I joined the agency.

  I have life goals—dreams and expectations—and Vin Mills, with his magic lips, doesn’t have any part in my future.

  I shake off these warring feelings budding inside me. They’re so new and fresh, I should be able to squash them like a brand new flower peeking out of the ground.

  Rough visual, I know, but can you really blame me? Vin just kissed me. And I mean kissed me.

  Now I sound like a teenager, but I can’t let this stop me from doing my job.

  Pull it together, Addison.

  He drives us back into the hills of the Highlands, and I keep my gaze out the window, studying every tree along the roadway as if there will be a huge test on them tomorrow. I’m too afraid to look at him. He’s like Medusa, turning my attraction for him into a stone lump that I won’t ever be able to get rid of.

  There’s an awkwardness between us, but I need to put my game face on, because when we pull into the driveway, Preston is on our front porch step, with that cat in his hands.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask Preston.

  “I wanted to show Mr. Davenport my new dirt bike,” he answers.

  “Oh, cool.” I glance at Vin. “I’ll be back. I’m going to visit with June.”

  I need to escape and clear my head—do
what I’m here to do— so I head next door.

  “Am I interrupting you?” I ask, when June opens the door wearing yoga pants and a sports bra.

  “Not at all. I just finished a workout. Come on in.”

  “Thank you,” I step inside and she takes me back to sit at the large island in her kitchen. “I haven’t really seen you since the party, so I just wanted to say hi.”

  “I’ve been so busy.” She runs a hand through her long, just-stepped-out-of-the-salon-hair. “Coffee?”

  I nod in agreement. “You have?”

  Hopefully, she says ‘yes, with money laundering’ so I can pack my things and go back to my lonely workaholic existence where hot guys don’t scramble my brain.

  “Dale is trying to get a job in California.” She turns to retrieve two mugs from the cupboard, and I watch the coffee machine as it rumbles with freshly brewing coffee. “He wants us to move again.”

  You’d have to be blind not to see the sadness in June’s gray eyes. She doesn’t want to move.

  I pretend to be happy for her by raising my voice a bit as I say the words, “That’s great.”

  “We won’t know for a few more weeks, but he’s pretty sure he’ll get it.”

  I nod. “Ah, ok.”

  She adds a little creamer to both mugs and then pours the black coffee over it. “I still don’t know how I feel about it.”

  She hands me my cup, and I grab a spoonful of sugar and add it. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “Dale is just trying to protect me.”

  “Protection from what?” Mob? Mafia? Matteo?

  Her face shutters as if she didn’t mean to say the words aloud, and she shakes her head. “Just protection from becoming stagnant from staying in one place for too long.”

  Nice save, June. I nod as if I can relate. As if I can understand her weak answer. Dale has secrets. And I want to find out exactly what they are.

  “Mind if I use your restroom?” I ask. It’s time to up my game, and stop waiting for something to come to me.

  “Sure.”

  She gives me directions, and sorry, June, but the downstairs bathroom is not where I’m headed. I politely excuse myself and slide off the stool. Once I’m out of the kitchen, I head down the hallway, peeking around the corner, hoping no one sees me going upstairs. June’s in the kitchen, and Dale’s at work, so this should be pretty simple.

  Swiftly, I creep up the stairs, and check the first room off to my left that has the door open. Lo and behold, it’s an office. Judging by the Denver Broncos memorabilia, it’s Dale’s.

  I shut the door, and rush behind his desk, not really sure what I’m searching for. I open the top drawer, and there’s nothing important: candy, pens, and junk. I rummage through a few more, and nothing of importance. Not until the last one do I find anything interesting. Nestled inside his bottom desk drawer lies a Glock.

  I slide the drawer shut, and know my time in the office has come to an end, unless I want June to come check and make sure I didn’t fall in the toilet.

  Slowly, I open the door and peek my head out to make sure the coast is clear.

  June is on the phone when I make it back to the kitchen. I hang back, trying to give her privacy, which is ironic, since I just went through her husband’s things in his office.

  “I understand,” she says in a terse voice and then disconnects.

  “Everything ok?”

  She forces a grin. “Perfect.”

  “Was that Dale?” Her and I are not the type of friends to be prying into each other’s personal lives just yet, but it feels right to ask. Like she’s the type of person, if things were different, I feel like I could trust her with anything. Ever meet someone like that?

  She nods. “He’s on his way home.”

  Before she can say anymore a loud rumble sounds off down the street. “What in the name…” my words trail off as June and I walk over to her oversized bay window to watch Vin race down the street on a dirt bike.

  June does this weird half whistle, half hoot. “Your husband is hotter than lava, girl.”

  “Umm, maybe.” I don’t really know the actual temperature of lava, but I would say Vin definitely has the capability to set things on fire, things like my panties.

  “I think I’m pregnant just from watching him ride that thing.”

  I’m too busy watching Vin make his way back down the street, no helmet, shirt flapping in the wind along with his dark hair to respond to June’s ovaries exploding.

  “I can’t believe what a badass you married. He could get seriously hurt.”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I’m going to see what’s going on.”

  Vin pulls into the driveway of our home next door, and June follows me outside.

  With a goofy grin on his young face, Preston stares at Vin like he’s a dirt bike wielding god from another planet. He steps forward as Vin gets off the bike.

  “Does your mother know you have that thing?” June asks Preston.

  “My grandfather bought it for me,” he says.

  He puts the helmet in his hands on top of his head, and takes the bike from Vin.

  She saunters closer to me, and we step onto the lawn. “I bet Miffie has no clue her son is about to ride that thing,” she says.

  And right at that moment, Miffie exits the front door of her house, and struts over.

  “Be careful,” she yells as Preston takes off.

  “He’ll do good,” Vin reassures her, joining us to watch Preston ride down the street, like he’s Evel Knievel.

  Once Preston and Vin take a few more turns with the bike, Miffie leaves and I tell June I’ll see her Thursday at cookbook club.

  “Can’t wait to see what you have planned,” June says. “It felt like a rite of passage my first time. Like a test to see if I would be invited back.”

  “Great. No pressure,” I only half-joke. I can’t be kicked out of the club before I even join.

  “Just make sure it’s edible,” she comforts me. “You’ll be fine.”

  Well, now I’m really worried. I may cook most nights, but I never said it tasted good.

  Something tells me Greg’s simple bruschetta recipe isn’t going to cut it. I didn’t tell Vin, but Greg wasn’t exactly willing to part with his recipes.

  When we return to the house, I don’t have to worry about the awkwardness lingering from the kiss, or whether I should apologize for my incessant moaning, because Vin immediately secludes himself in the basement.

  For probably too long, I stare at the door he closed behind him before I banish my foolish thoughts and spend the next hour searching the internet for something fantastic for Thursday. Something that’ll blow their Gucci socks right off. And voila, I find the perfect cookbook—50 Shades Of Chicken.

  After sticking my head into the basement to let Vin know I’m running out, I make a trip to the grocery store to pick up enough ingredients to test out recipes for the next three days. These women are going to beg me to be in their club.

  Vin is still in isolation when I return, so I put everything away, except what I’ll need, and get busy prepping my meal, dicing and slicing like a pro. The countertop is an explosion of measuring spoons and spices by the time I slide my seasoned chicken into the preheated oven.

  A while later, as the smell of fresh chopped garlic fills the air, Vin appears.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “Dripping Thighs,” I tell him, wiping down the counter. “They’re supposed to be succulent.”

  “Excuse me? That’s the recipe Greg gave you?”

  I stare up at him, not wanting to admit that Greg was a slight failure. “No, it’s from 50 Shades Of Chicken.” I move over to the sink. “His recipe was a little basic, so I found something better.”

  “Ah. Well, dripping thighs sounds delicious.”

  There’s no way I can turn around and not blush, so I stay focused on scrubbing the sink. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

  He leaves and to my
disappointment, when dinner is served, the only thing dripping is me watching Vin eat the overcooked meat and remembering how his lips felt.

  The next evening, I don’t fare any better with my attempt to cook a wow them dish.

  “What’s this?” Vin asks, after a prolonged chew.

  “Pound Me Tender,” I answer, feeling the heat rise in my face. “It’s supposed to melt in your mouth.” His eyes don’t leave mine as I give him an apologetic stare. “You don’t have to eat it.”

  “I want to eat it,” he says in a voice hot enough to melt the butter on the table. “Maybe it just needed to be pounded a little harder.”

  “It probably did.” I scoot away from the table before I climb on it and ask him to pound me.

  After another fail on Wednesday with Thighs Spread Wide, and another night of Vin isolating himself in the basement with surveillance, I’m a little cranky and a lot nervous by the time Thursday evening rolls around.

  “What time will everyone be here tonight?” Vin asks when I enter the living room where he’s sprawled across the couch with the television remote in his hand, lazily flipping through the channels.

  “Six o’clock. How’s the lounging going?”

  He sits up a bit, his eyes meeting mine.

  “I’m very busy right now.”

  I laugh, folding my arms and leaning against the wall. “How’s that?”

  “I’m getting into character.”

  I push off the wall. “Make sure your character is out of here by six pm.”

  He chuckles and then resumes flipping through Netflix on the oversized 80-inch flat screen.

  With the clock ticking down to showtime, and another impending cooking disaster looming, I plod upstairs, changing into jeans and a white-flowy blouse. So no hairs ruin my chances of acceptance into cookbook club by falling into the food, I twist my hair up into a tight knot like I usually wear to work.

  When I’m done adding a little gloss and mascara, as well as a pearl necklace with matching earrings, I am the epitome of a nouveau riche housewife. All I need is a glass of wine to complete the look.

  Ugh, wine.

  I rush downstairs. How could I forget to chill the white wine? There’s no way this will be cold by the time everyone gets here.