by Eva Charles
“If you give me back my phone and let me out of here, I’ll call an Uber back to my car.”
There’s no fucking way she’s calling an Uber. It’s dark and the parking lot is empty, and I suspect the one where her car is parked is empty too. She doesn’t pay attention to her surroundings even when she’s not all shaken up.
“Here’s your gun. The bullets are back in the chamber. And the safety’s on. Do you know how to use that thing? I mean really know how to use it?”
She glares at me. “I would be happy to show you if you’d like.” Her voice is strong and she doesn’t sound as beaten as she looks. Frankly, I’m relieved by the sarcasm.
“Listen, I might have gone too far—”
“You think?”
I ignore the snark. “I agreed to the meeting to get rid of you. But it became clear you weren’t going anywhere fast. I wanted to see how far you’d go to get the story—how important it was to you, and how big of a pain in the ass you were going to be. Then I started to get pissed off that you were careless about your safety. That you’d risk your life—for bullshit.”
There’s fire in her eyes—just a small spark, but it’s there. “It might seem like—”
“I take it back. It’s bullshit to me, but clearly important to you. I’m telling you this, though, nothing is worth the risk of enduring what I could have easily done to you. Nothing.”
She stands tall, flipping her hair over a shoulder. “You don’t get an opinion about the decisions I make regarding my life. You don’t even know me. I’m not an idiot. I checked you out. I knew you were a highly-trained operative. I knew full well you could’ve overpowered me. But I didn’t believe you would.”
You have no idea what I’m capable of, what I’ve done. If you did, you wouldn’t sleep tonight. “You’re not a mind reader. How could you possibly know what I might do? How?”
“Because I make a living based on intuition and then follow the facts. I’ll admit, I was desperate and might have taken more risk than I would ordinarily. But we both know damn well the risk was tiny.”
I’m still pissed off. But I don’t argue the point, because I would never hurt her. She didn’t read the situation wrong. “I’ll show you around if you still want to see the club.” I won’t allow her to see anything that will peak her interest, but I want to give her something. I just do. “Then you can see for yourself that nothing here is worth taking your clothes off over. When we’re through, I’ll take you back to your car.”
She glares at me. “I’ll decide what’s worth taking my clothes off over.”
Christ, she’s a pain in the ass. “Do you want to see the place or not?”
Thin lines appear, etching the smooth skin between her brows. I’m pleased to see she’s being cautious. “Are there any strings attached?”
“One.”
“Forget it.” She dismisses me with a wave of the hand, checks her weapon, and secures it in the holster inside her bag. She handles the gun properly, which also makes me feel a little better. But she still has no clue what an easy mark she is—young and pretty, real pretty, and as she hoists that stupid bag onto her shoulder, I’m still not entirely convinced the gun isn’t just for show.
“The next time you’re chasing a story, I want you to remember how easily things could have gone bad today.” Her body tenses. It looks like I’m about to have my balls handed to me, but I don’t give a shit. She’s going to hear me out. “Next time, remember how much I struggled not to pull you onto my lap when you handed me your shirt. You saw the evidence—couldn’t drag your eyes away.” I glance at the smooth, creamy skin along her throat, my eyes lingering where it meets that defiant little chin. “Don’t make it easy for fuckers like me. Remember today. That’s my one string.”
She swallows hard, blinking a dozen times in rapid succession, trying to digest what I just told her. It’s all true, and I don’t give a damn if she knows it. I didn’t touch her, and I won’t. In my line of work, the very last thing I need is a nosy reporter in my bed, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t tempted. I wait for her to haul off and take a swing at my head, but she doesn’t.
“Are you going to stand there all night and tell me what a fucker you are, as if I didn’t already know, or are you going to show me the spa?”
I crack a smile. God, would I like to toss this woman over my shoulder and chain her to my bed for a week. “Yeah. I’ll show you the spa. But while we’re speaking freely, that ridiculous purse you carry—it’s bigger than you. It looks like it weighs a ton. Makes it easy for someone to grab you, and less likely you could get away.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just comment on my purse.”
She showed a little spunk at Tallulah’s, but mostly she was reined in tight, and after we left the bar she was too nervous to give me any lip. She doesn’t have much to lose right now, and it appears Kate McKenna is done taking my crap.
I like this side of her. I like it a lot.
“The floor right below is the spa and gym. Let’s start there and make our way down. I have an appointment and I’m already running late, so we might not get to everything, but you’ll have a good feel for the place by the time we’re through.”
There is not one thing I show her that would raise a single suspicion. The kinky shit is on the lower level, and there are a few things in the apartment we just left. But she didn’t see any of it.
“I’m sorry your visit didn’t give you any leads.”
“What about the basement?”
“I already told you that there wasn’t much of a basement.”
“Underground garage that takes up a small portion of the building. It was pristine. It doesn’t make sense that someone would go to all that expense to park a couple dozen vehicles.”
She’s looking for a reaction from me that she’s not going to get. “You’re not dressed for the basement.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if you’re going to crawl around with the vermin, you need to be appropriately dressed. That skirt and those shoes won’t cut it.”
“I already got plenty dirty today. I’m not afraid of a little more filth.” That was a jab squarely at me.
I check my watch, not that I have any intention of taking her to the basement, but I want her to believe I’m considering it. “I don’t have time. And I’m telling you—the answers to the secret societies you’re researching are not at Wildflower.”
“Then where are they?”
“I don’t know.” I really don’t. “Some of what you insinuated, ritualized sex and nefarious secret societies, sound a little far-fetched for buttoned-up Charleston. But I suspect if there are secrets, it’s because someone wants it that way. Poking the bear is rarely a good idea.”
Kate glares at me over her shoulder, and my cock comes alive at her fiery green eyes. “Far- fetched?”
She’s smart, too young, and hot as hell with that hand on her hip. I want to cancel my meeting and fuck her into next week—fuck all the sass out of her until she can’t form a single intelligible word. But I don’t take marching orders from my dick. Nothing good ever comes of that. “You should go back to Boston. It’s your home. You should have never let the bastards drive you out.”
“I can’t right now.” Maybe not, but she looks like she’d drop everything in a hot minute and head north if she could.
“I meant what I said about trumped-up accusations.”
“How do you know they’re not true? My behavior upstairs should be enough to convince you that I’d stop at nothing for a story.”
“I just know. Gut feeling. Instinct. Call it what you will.”
She tilts her head. “Why is it okay for you to trust your instincts about me, but it’s not okay for me to trust mine about you?”
Because I’m highly trained commando and have spent years of my life in hellholes. But I don’t tell her that. “I appreciate a person with goals and dreams. I hope you reach all of yours. Watch your back, Mary Kath
erine McKenna. You’re a beautiful woman, and the world is filled with monsters, the likes of which you couldn’t even begin to fathom.”
“You’re patronizing me.”
“Nope. I’m just saying, don’t take your clothes off for men who don’t deserve it. Make them earn the privilege. I respect my sisters. They’re capable adults, but that’s exactly what I tell them all the time.”
“Do they listen?”
“No. They do whatever the hell they want. Same as you.”
8
Kate
Sinclair drops me at my car and waits while I start the engine and get situated. I take the phone out of my bag, turn on the ringer, and place it on the console. The light flickers with messages, but with Sinclair still waiting, I don’t take the time to check them.
I glance out the window and nod to let him know I’m all set. I don’t know why I smile at him. It’s just a small polite smile, maybe out of habit, or maybe to say thanks for waiting. Not that he deserves any thanks from me.
Sinclair lifts his chin in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t go anywhere. No, he’s not the kind of guy that would leave a woman in an empty parking lot after dark. Although his chivalrous behavior now is completely at odds with that little stunt from earlier.
When he pulls out of the lot behind me, I begin to wonder if he’s planning on following me to the small motel that’s been my home for the last few weeks, but at the top of the street, he turns in the opposite direction.
I’m embarrassed to admit, even to myself, that I’m a little disappointed. It’s been that kind of evening, with so many highs and lows I still don’t know if I’m coming or going. So many emotions—anger, relief, sadness, surprise, shame, and arousal—one poured on top of another, swirling and overlapping, creating a disturbing canvas, dark and erotic, with nary a glimmer of light to be found.
My phone chimes. I glance at the screen before answering. “Hey. I was about to call you.”
“That was a weird message. I started to get worried when you didn’t respond to my texts. I want all the details on Smith Sinclair.”
Fiona has been my best friend since the day she wet her pants in kindergarten during circle time. Later that morning on the playground, Brett Nash called her Missy Pissy in front of the older kids. Everyone laughed. I was furious and kicked him in the shin so hard he cried like a baby. Everyone laughed then, too. I had to sit in the principal’s office until lunchtime, but it was worth it.
“He’s just a source for the Warren King story. I’ll tell you about him in a minute. First, tell me about the boys.” Maybe by then my thoughts and emotions will stop swirling, and I’ll be able to explain Smith Sinclair in a way that makes some sense to both of us.
“The little monsters are finally asleep. Brett and his dad took them to a Sox game this afternoon, and they spent more time in the bathroom and at the concession stand than in their seats. I told Brett five was too young to sit through a baseball game.” Yes, that Brett. He went from a toad to a prince. It took forever, and it wasn’t pretty, but that kind of evolution can’t be rushed.
“So what happened with Sinclair?”
“Nothing.” I’m still not ready to talk about Sinclair, even to Fiona. “I didn’t get anything helpful out of him. I have to go back to DC tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to. You can choose to go back, but you don’t have to. You can stay in Charleston or go anywhere you want.”
Anywhere I want. Does that include—I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Is it too soon to go back—home?”
“I didn’t mean Boston,” she says tersely. The finality leaves me smarting. Fiona doesn’t want me back in Boston. Every time I visit, she worries I’m not going to leave. Even though she misses me, and I know she does, she believes my family is toxic—believes it with every fiber of her being. “There’s nothing good here for you, Katydid.”
There’s more for me there than anywhere else in the world. Before they accused me of stealing information from the police department, I was happy in Boston. Wasn’t I? I clutch the steering wheel tightly. “You’re there. And my godsons. And my dad, and now my brother Tommy. I miss you.”
With the air between us still heavy with unspoken thoughts and feelings, I pull the car up to the entrance of the dingy motel and turn off the engine. I glance at the rundown building. The dim lighting hides the layers of grime on the siding, but does nothing to improve the depressing façade or to ease my loneliness.
“We’re at the Cape from the end of June through the third week in July, but I’ll come to visit as soon as I can string a few days together, after that—wherever you are. Brett’s perfectly capable of managing the kids, and my mom and mother-in-law will be happy to help out while he’s at work. It’ll give the Nanas a perfect opportunity to check for dust bunnies under the beds and try to reverse the effects of my inept mothering before the twins grow up to be miscreants.”
I dig a water bottle out of my bag while we joke about the Nanas. It’s all in jest, but there’s more than a grain of truth behind the humor. Fi is a wonderful mother, but she does things her way, making both her mother and Brett’s crazy. I laugh so hard while she mimics her mother that I spray a mouthful of water all over the dashboard. For a few minutes I forget about Pulitzer prizes, the Keaton wedding, and Smith Sinclair. And I forget about how lonely I am, so far from home.
“When I got your text, I googled Sinclair. Impressive. All that muscle and those dimples—my ovaries nearly exploded. Damn he’s hot.”
I shiver, remembering his warm breath on my skin, Do you like to have your hair pulled, Kate? I shake my head. Liar.
“I didn’t see much of the dimples today. He brought his A game—as in, he was a total asshole.”
“What happened?”
What happened? Where do I begin? It’s Fiona, just say it. I sigh. “He tricked me into taking my clothes off.”
“Wait. What?”
I’m nearly drowning in shame—no, it’s more like embarrassment. Not because I gave him my clothes, although that’s a small part, but because I allowed him to make a complete fool of me, with nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing. I take a breath and blow it out loudly.
“We played this game—for every question he answered, I had to take off a piece of clothing—everything he told me was a lie.” The last part of the admission is so soft it’s barely audible. I wonder if she’s thinking about what happened in the frat house. It’s crossed my mind a dozen times since the bathroom at Tallulah’s.
“You took off your clothes for a stranger to get information for a story?”
Leave it to Fi to distill my stupidity into one clipped sentence. Plain English, and not the British kind, prettied up with a charming accent. “Yeah.”
“You let him play you?”
I chew on my thumb, trying to contain a fresh wave of embarrassment. “Yeah.”
“Kate.” She says my name gently, but I hear the small rebuke, laced with disappointment and pity. The pity is the worst.
Her tone makes me defensive, and for a few brief seconds I stop feeling sorry for myself. “Don’t get all judgy-judgy on me.”
Fiona sighs. “I’m not. Lord knows I’ve taken my clothes off for a stranger or three, with nothing but a chaffed vag to show for it.” Water is running in the background and I hear the clang of metal against metal. I imagine her standing at the sink in her cheerful kitchen, enjoying a glass of wine while she does dinner dishes, and I’m more homesick than ever. “It just doesn’t sound like you,” she adds softly.
It’s not like me, but I’m grateful for the validation, and relieved. I was beginning to have second thoughts about myself. “I needed the information, otherwise I’m back in DC covering silly stories.” I hesitate, taking a second to come to terms with my future. “I don’t think I can face that life again.” She doesn’t say anything. “I know there’s a story here, Fi. An important story. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it. It’s pulling at me.”
“If
that pull is guilt about your mother, then maybe you should leave. But if you really believe there’s a story in Charleston worth pursuing, then stay.”
This is complicated and can’t be distilled into black and white choices. There are too many variables. Fiona knows this, but she’s pushing my buttons. Or maybe I’m too wound up to see my circumstances as clearly as she does.
“It’s not that simple. If I stay, I’ll be walking away from a prestigious news outlet and a paycheck. There will be no second chances. Those jobs are impossible to come by.” I sound whiny and helpless, even to my own ears.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t really believe what your gut is telling you. Or maybe you don’t want the story bad enough. You’re not normally a coward.” Unless my family is involved—she doesn’t say it, but that’s what she’s thinking. Fiona might have spared me on that front, but make no mistake, I’m getting a dose of tough love right now, like only Fi can deliver it. I suppose I need it, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant.
She’s right. I’m not a coward, but I hate to disappoint—especially my dad. What will he say if I quit my job on a hunch? Nothing supportive. “It would be irresponsible to walk away from a good-paying job without any real prospects.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You’re twenty-seven years old. You have no responsibilities but to yourself. This is the time to take risks.” The water’s off and it’s quiet now. “Whatever you decide, I’m behind you one hundred percent.” I hear Brett’s voice in the background, calling her to come upstairs.
“I should let you go.”
“Follow your heart, Katydid,” she adds softly, before we hang up.