by Clara Stone
“Here you go.” Jarod’s voice is too close behind me. I spin to the side in my seat and stare up at him, startled. He looks at me, grinning. In his hands are two red drumsticks.
I don’t realize that I’m reaching for them until they’re in my hands. I twirl the sticks between my fingers and grip them like they’re my lifeline. Excitement courses through me, shooting up my spine and raising goosebumps over my exposed skin.
“Let’s see what you can do with them, yeah?” Jarod asks, smiling warmly.
I nod, surprised at his not-so-creepy smile.
“See if you can follow this,” Jarod says to me, then turns to the band and counts us in. “Take it from the top. One, two, three, four . . .”
I take a deep breath and forget about everything but the music that vibrates over my skin. Finally, for these next few minutes or hours, I’m home.
AFTER THE MEETING with Wilson, I was shuffled through office after office, debriefed and prepped and otherwise given the crash course on how to do everything I’d already done on my own. But since this was my first “official” undercover assignment, they had to make sure I was “trained” enough. By the time I stumble through the door of my apartment, hours later, my mind is spinning and I’m exhausted.
When my cell phone buzzes, I don’t even look at the caller id before answering it. “Hello.” I sound tired even to myself.
“Well, it’s about time, Harrington Brad Lovelly.” Shit. It’s Blake. And she’s pissed. The last time she called me by my full name was when she caught me smoking in the backyard my sophomore year of high school.
I look at the ceiling and groan, setting my keys on the table. “Hey, Blake.”
“Don’t you ‘hey, Blake’ me,” she snaps. “I’ve been worried sick about you!” She starts going off, reprimanding for my behavior and I flop onto my couch, too mentally spent to stop her. I have been missing for almost eight weeks without calling . . . I should’ve expected she’d be pissed.
I let her take her frustration out on me for the next ten minutes, making sure that I answer with the appropriate “I’m sorry” and “I promise” when called for.
“I—I know. . . . Just—” I run my hand down my face and sink further into the couch.
I know it’s useless to try and explain things to Blake. I mean, it’s not like I can come right out and tell her the truth. I can’t. Not only is it dangerous and classified, but she’d freak out if she knew what I was about to do, let alone what I’ve already done.
“Harrington . . . ?” Blake finally pauses.
“I’m here,” I respond, taking a deep breath.
“Please tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay, Blake.”
She sighs. “Then why don’t I believe you?”
Because your intuition is so goddamn perfect. “I don’t know what to tell you. But I’m fine. Promise.”
“If you ever need to talk—”
“You’ll be the first person I come to,” I finish for her. There’s a long pause, and I stare at the blank TV screen across from me, waiting, hating the fact that I have to lie to her.
“You should come home, Harrington,” she finally says. “Your brothers miss you. I miss you. Hope misses you.”
“I know, Blake. I’ll come visit soon, okay?”
“Promise?” she asks. I hear a wail in the background. “God dammit! Hold on a minute.” I sigh and wait for her as she shuffles around in the background. I hear a few more choice words and what sounds like the slamming of a dresser drawer. After another couple seconds, she comes back on the phone. “Hello? You there still?”
I fight the urge to laugh. “What happened? Is Hope okay?”
“She’s fine. Just a little grabby for the boob.”
“Ah. Too much information.”
“Oh, really. Since when do you not want to talk boobs? You do know that women have them so they can feed babies, right? Not for guys like you to ogle and—”
“Blake, stop!” I groan. I can feel my ears burning with embarrassment and am inordinately glad that she can’t see me.
“You know, you were breastfed too, and from what I hear, you had the hardest time unlatching. I think Claire had to—”
“Oh god.”
She snickers. “You were almost two and half before you were forced to drink non-boob milk.”
“Stop. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t ever tell you not to share information about your breasts again. I’ll do anything. Just make it stop, before you ruin boobs for me.”
“Good. That’s better.” There’s a sort of satisfaction in her response, but I can feel her sobering. She’s not quite done with the lecturing yet, it seems. “Are you sure you’re okay, Harrington?”
“We’ve already covered this, Blake. I’m okay.”
“Just . . . promise me that everything will be fine, that we aren’t losing you,” she says. And I hear the word “again” echoing in the silence that passes between us.
I can understand why she’s so worried, given my past. I spent my teen years trying to get back at my mom for leaving us—drinking, girls, partying, dabbling with drugs, the whole nine yards. It wasn’t until I found the mixed martial arts that I found an outlet for all my anger, a place to unleash the frustration and hurt, to escape my father’s suffocating expectations.
I sigh. “You’re not losing me. Promise.”
I know I can’t hold my family back for too much longer. They’re all too damn clingy. So I give her the only thing I can: reassurance. “Everything will be fine, Blake. Please don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”
There’s a long pause. “All right. But try to come by one of these days, okay? I’ll bake your favorite cookies.”
I laugh. “You run a tough bargain, Blake.”
“You know me.” Small cooing noises come through line; she must be holding Hope again. “Oh, one more thing . . .”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, hoping this call is almost over so I can get on with my night. “Yeah?”
“Please tell me you’re hiding from us because you’ve found a girl and are too damn selfish to share her with us.”
I laugh. “No. There’s no girl,” I assure her, shaking my head in amusement.
“Well, damn. That would have made things a whole lot easier. Okay, well, I gotta run. Stay safe, Harrington. We love you. ”
“Me too.” The call ends, and I set the phone on the arm of the couch. Between Blake and the FBI, I feel drained, emotions and thoughts swirling through my mind in an exhausting mess. I need to clear my head, so I head to my room, change into some workout clothes, and head out for a jog.
I SLOW TO a walk as I reach the red bridge overlooking the river. Just a little over five miles from my place, it marks the perfect place to stop and rest before turning back. I move to the center of the bridge and lean my arms against the rails, stretching the backs of my calves as my breathing slows.
I notice a ripple in the water below me, and lean forward, canvassing the riverbank. There, just under the shadow of the bridge, stands someone who looks all too familiar, and not at all like the girl I’d seen at the club a few nights ago. Something jumps to life inside me as I conjure up the image of her in that red outfit with all the feathers, and I grin as I make my way down to the riverbank.
Jess stands by the edge of the water in her signature sweats, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, skipping stones. She hasn’t noticed me yet, and my heart beats hard in my chest as I move forward to surprise her. But just as I’m about to tap her shoulder, she whips around, surprising me instead. I jump back in the nick of time to avoid the stone she chucked at my family jewels and stumble on the loose rocks, falling on my ass.
“Oh my gosh!” She runs toward me, scrabbling over the uneven rocks. “I didn’t . . . I was just caught off guard. Are you okay?” she asks, stumbling between each of her questions as she comes to a stop before me.
Of course I’m okay. Apart from my bruised ego. And the fact th
e guys back home are gonna have a field day with this one.
“Here, let me . . .” She extends her hand. I look at it for a second, and I don’t know why I’m so surprised by her gesture. I slide my hand into hers and let her pull me to my feet.
“Good thing I was the state dodgeball champion,” I say and grin, wide and toothy.
She drops my hand and raises her eyebrow as she scoffs, a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“And how did you practice for that, exactly? Flying shoes and slammed doors?”
My grin turns into a lopsided smile. “Something like that. So, fancy meeting you here.”
She shrugs and flops down on a nearby piece of driftwood. “I needed time to think. What about you?”
“Needed a run.” I take a seat next to her.
She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around her legs. She glances over at me, a sort of mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Admit it, you were trying to sneak in a few more practices so you can beat my stone-skipping record.”
I laugh, resting my weight on my hands, my legs stretched out in front of me. “Damn, woman. Can’t I keep any secrets from you?”
She looks away at that, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. It’s almost like she’s trying to bite back a remark, or maybe a question. I wonder what’s stopping her.
I look away too, watching the water flow past, slow and calm. The soothing sound of the river fills the silence around us for some time. I mull over whether or not I should ask her about her job at Blue Tango. On the one hand, I’m pretty sure she recognized me, and it would be weird if I don’t acknowledge that. But on the other, she had the perfect opportunity to tell me she worked there, and didn’t. Why?
“Do you like Batman?”
I look at her, surprised, but her gaze is far away from here and I’m suddenly not sure if she’s asking me about the other night, or just making random—and weirdly coincidental—small talk. “I’m sorry?”
She turns toward me. She looks down, then slowly moves her gaze up to meet mine. “I know it’s none of my business, but I swear I saw you at Blue Tango a few nights back . . . with Stamos and his men.”
I blink slowly, trying to decide what to say. Is she upset? Disappointed? Why is she so freaking difficult to read?
“Yeah, I was there,” I finally admit.
“Batman, right?”
“How do you figure?”
She smiles, bashful. “Your eyes. They were even more pronounced against that black mask and . . .” She points to my cheek. “And that bruise . . .” She flushes a pretty shade of pink. “I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure.”
I grin, relieved somehow. I’m not sure what I was expecting her to say, but I guess I’d been bracing for the worst. “You know, I knew it was you the moment you bent over with the drinks.”
Her eyes widen and the pink on her cheeks brightens. “I don’t dress up like that usually.”
I’m confused, what does that have to do with recognizing her? “I didn’t think you did. I mean, your usual MO seems to be sweats. Why would you think . . . ?” Just like that, all the pieces fit together and I realize why she looks like a ripe tomato. I laugh.
She swats at me. “It’s not funny, Harry.”
I run my hand under my nose. “It is though. But only because I’m surprised you’d think I recognized you from your outfit. I’m good, but I’m not that good. I’m Batman, remember, not Superman.” I wink at her.
She’s throwing me a death glare.
“What did you expect me to think? You were staring at my boobs the way you stared at my ass the other day.”
Guilty. She does have a great ass, and an equally striking rack. But I’m not ready to let her win this. “How could I not, when they were practically spilling out of that feather outfit? No guy in their right mind could ignore that.”
She doesn’t respond, but looks away again, pressing her lips together, angry. And I feel bad for making her feel like an object. That’s not what I intended.
I get to my feet and offer my hand to her. She looks at it, then at me. To my surprise, she slides her hand into mine and I pull her up, a little too hard. She stumbles forward, nearly taking us both right back down. But I find my footing and manage to keep us upright. Her hands land on my shoulders, mine wrap around her waist, and suddenly our bodies are flush against each other. Chest against chest. Thighs against thighs. Even her toes are on top of mine, pressing mine into the uneven ground. It hurts, but I don’t care at the moment, because I’m too busy staring into her big round, surprised eyes.
Her chest heaves—forward and back. Up and down—the same rhythm as mine. But apart from that slight movement, there’s . . . nothing.
She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
We are frozen, at a standstill.
Unable to look or push away.
I notice how dark her pupils have turned, the tiniest hint of blue in the green surrounding them. Her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, thick and long. They make her look a bit exotic. I don’t think I’ve ever admired eyeballs before.
But damn, I am now.
“I’m sorry. About my comments before. But for what it’s worth, you have a beautiful body and even more gorgeous eyes.”
She looks down shyly. “You are ridiculous—”
“—ly amazing. I know.” I cut her off, turning her potential insult into a compliment. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she’s still holding on to me, and I’m perfectly content to let her.
“Not the word I was going for,” she says, meeting my gaze with a coy smirk.
I feel one corner of my lips quirk up. “I agree. That’s a little bland. I bet you can think of something better.”
“Full of yourself.”
“Confident,” I offer.
“Master of self-proclamation.”
“Optimist.”
“Arrogant,” she fires back, smiling in full now.
“Modest.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “In what world?”
Her hands now rest over my chest, like it’s the most natural thing to do. And I realize I’m smiling, not just physically, but on the inside too. If I’m not careful, I might get addicted to this. “Okay. You’re right. Modest isn’t the right word. Hmmm . . . I think I prefer certain, rather than arrogant.”
Her eyes sparkle as a wide smile spreads over her lips. My god, she’s beautiful. Not just in that hot and sexy, I want to rip her clothes off kind of way. But something much, much more profound. And suddenly, I’m starting to see just how much trouble I’m in.
I release my grip at the realization and take a respectable step back, shoving my hands into my pockets. Her forehead creases, like she’s confused at the sudden turn of events, and she looks away, her cheeks flushed.
I clear my throat and try to think back on how we ended up in this position in the first place. Ah yes. We were talking about how I recognized her at Blue Tango. “It’s your tat.”
“What?” Her word is harsh.
I point to her wrist. “The other night, I recognized you because of the tattoo on your wrist. ‘Born to drum.’”
“Oh,” she says and blushes harder, like someone pinched her cheeks.
Good god, pinched cheeks? Did I really just think that? Heath is right. I really need to stop reading women’s fashion magazines, before I turn into the King of the Fashionistas.
“Though I do have to admit”—not really; I need to shut up, but for some reason I seem to have zero self-control around this girl—“I was checking you out . . .”
She raises her eyebrows. And an array of emotions wash over her face—anger to pleased to embarrassed to something else.
“I mean, what would you do if you saw me running around like that? You’d totally check me out too.”
“I would not!” she blurts, her face flaming red.
I don’t respond, because I know she knows that she totally would. It’s human nature.
“Stop looking at me like
that,” she snaps.
I raise one shoulder in a half-shrug and tilt my head, giving her a lopsided grin.
“Stop it, Harry.”
I crinkle my nose. “Will you ever stop calling me that?”
“Not a chance.” She waves her hand, holding back a chuckle.
“So what now?” I ask.
“Now,” she says, taking a step back, picking up another stone, and tossing it toward me, “we practice.”
THE BANGING ON the door is harsh and loud. And consistent. The person doesn’t let up, and I finally drag myself out of bed. I grab my phone on my way to the door, checking the time. 1:43 a.m.
Awesome.
“Hold your fucking horses,” I yell as I stumble across the living room. I set my phone down on an end table as I pass and swing the door open.
Fisher stands on the other side, pissed as hell. It’s been almost a week since the night at Blue Tango and yeah, he’s called. About fifteen times. I didn’t answer any of them. But only because I wanted him to feel as fucking annoyed as Anna and I felt.
“Are you fucking out of your mind?” Fisher yells, stepping into my apartment. “Your phone better be broken.”
I shut the door behind him with a sigh. “Please, come on in. Make yourself at home.”
“Do you even understand what the fuck you got yourself into? If Stamos ever finds out that you’re not who you say you are—”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” I wave him off, heading to the kitchen. “I need a drink.” I grab the beer on the table I’d planned to drink earlier and never got around to. It’s warm, but I don’t care. A beer’s a beer. And I’m gonna need some kind of liquid bracer for this.
“What were you thinking, Harrington?” His voice is softer. “Do you know what this will do to your family? Your career?”
I scoff, clicking open the beer can and taking a swig. I sigh, letting the bitter taste of hops wash away the last dregs of sleep. “I dunno, Fisher. I guess I was thinking that my best friend hasn’t called me since he got kicked out of the FBI, no matter how many times I’ve left him a message. I was thinking that his little sister came crying to me to save her brother because she’s worried he’s back here seeking some sort of justice for his dead family and not thinking about the one person who’s relying on him—”