Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3

by Geissinger, J. T.

  “Nope,” says Connor, glancing back at me, his eyes warm. “Don’t hold your breath for it, either. C’mon in, kids, everyone else is already here.”

  My brows shoot up. Everyone else?

  Seeing my look, Ryan sheepishly explains, “They kind of insisted.”

  “They? Who’s they?”

  “You didn’t think the crew would let this opportunity pass by to say hello, did you?” Connor throws over his shoulder as he walks away into the gloom of the warehouse.

  I stare at his retreating back with rising panic, then I stare at Ryan. “Who are we talking about? The FBI?”

  “Worse. Come on, the sooner we go in, the sooner it’ll be over with.”

  When I balk, he adds, “I have one word for you, Angel.” He lowers his head and looks at me from under his brows.

  Regretting I ever mentioned it, I exhale heavily. “Trust.”

  “Bingo. Now loosen that Vulcan death grip you’ve got on my hand. You’re cuttin’ off the circulation in the right side of my body.”

  He turns and drags me inside. As soon as we’re over the threshold, the steel door slides shut behind us. We’re swallowed in shadows. It’s cool and dim inside, the cement floor polished to a subtle sheen. As we walk farther, my eyes adjust. I glimpse black computer towers extending the length of one wall in blinking, softly humming rows. Dozens of cubicles on the east wall house hard-jawed men wearing headphones, staring at computer screens. Another wall has a huge collection of weaponry displayed behind glass cases.

  “Wow,” I murmur.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. There’s enough free-floating testosterone in this place to get a convent of nuns ovulating in sync.”

  Ryan wrinkles his nose. “Don’t be sacrilegious. Nuns don’t ovulate.”

  When he doesn’t smile, I say, “Please tell me that was a joke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “God, you’re serious.”

  “Why would they ovulate if they don’t ever have sex?” His voice rises. “Hey, Connor. Back me up, here, brother. Nuns don’t ovulate, right?”

  A few steps in front of us, Connor stops short. He turns and looks first at Ryan, then at me. He points to his own face. “You see how I don’t look surprised by that question?”

  “I’m guessing these little gems of his aren’t that unusual.”

  “It’s not that he’s dumb, don’t get it wrong,” Connor says. “The man’s got an IQ of 156, which, by any standards, is way above genius level. Einstein himself clocked in at about 160.”

  “Funny you should mention Einstein, I was just thinking about him on the way over.”

  “Uh, guys? You realize I’m standin’ right here, right?”

  We ignore him. “It’s just that he has no idea—literally, none—about the inner workings of the female body,” Connor says.

  Ryan extravagantly rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for not bein’ a gynecologist!”

  “Don’t they teach sex education in schools in the United States?” I ask Connor, genuinely curious.

  “Oh yeah. But this one gets weirdly squeamish at any mention of menstruation, so his mother had to write him a note to get him out of the days in class where the teacher covered it.”

  My brows lifted as high as they can go, I look at Ryan.

  He’s glaring at Connor. “Bro,” he says accusingly.

  Smiling, Connor replies, “It’s one of my favorite stories.”

  “You’re not supposed to tell anyone!”

  “She’s not anyone.” He glances at our clasped hands. “She’s your girl.”

  Ryan is in a kerfuffle for a moment after that, unsure of how to respond. “Fine, but just don’t tell her I’m afraid of spiders!”

  “You’re afraid of spiders?” I ask laughingly.

  “Screams like a little girl when he sees one.”

  Ryan says, “Bro!”

  “You’re the one who brought it up, idiot.”

  Bypassing all the spider talk, I turn to Ryan. “Have you seen a psychiatrist about your fear of bleeding women? That seems extremely Freudian.”

  “Some deep-seated shit, for sure,” Connor agrees, nodding.

  “When I lived at home before college, my sisters used to fuck with me by hiding their used pads and tampons in my stuff,” Ryan says on an aggravated exhalation. “I never knew when I was gonna stick my foot in a sock or put my hand in a coat pocket and have it come away covered in period blood.”

  Connor and I make identical faces of disgust.

  “What the hell?” Connor says.

  “Oh, yeah, they thought it was hilarious. Meanwhile, I’m traumatized for the rest of my life. Every time I walk by the feminine products aisle in a grocery store, I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

  I picture him as a teenager, freaking out over a maxi pad he found in his sock drawer and shrieking every time he sees a spider, and I start to laugh.

  Connor looks at me, and he’s laughing, too. “Can you believe this shit?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, I can.”

  “Glad to know my psychological wounds are so entertaining,” Ryan says drily, but I can tell he’s not really angry. I love it that he can take a joke at his own expense.

  On impulse, I kiss his cheek.

  His blinding grin comes on in full, megawatt voltage. “By the way, I know all I need to know about how the female body works.” He looks at Connor and waggles his eyebrows.

  Connor’s sigh is the aggrieved but fond one of a mother whose favorite child is misbehaving again. Shaking his head, he turns and walks away. We follow like a pair of ducklings.

  When we arrive at Connor’s office, there’s a welcome party waiting.

  Darcy reclines in a big leather chair, her feet propped up on an even bigger black oak desk, her eyes closed as Kai, standing behind her, massages her shoulders. Judging by their outfits, they both got dressed in the dark this morning. Or lost a bet. Nothing matches, and it’s all eye-wateringly bright. Python cowboy boots are involved.

  Tabby, pacing a three-foot section of floor in the corner, has her nose pressed against her cell phone screen. Her thumbs fly over it as she types. In comparison to Darcy and Kai, her outfit is almost normal—that is, if you have two part-time jobs at a theme park as a pirate and a slutty witch, and wore both costumes at the same time.

  There’s a lot of black ruffles and pale skin, and heels that could double as kebab skewers. A knotted black bandana caps her red hair. Two enormous gold hoops swing from her earlobes.

  Juanita is lying on the black leather sofa against the far wall in a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform of plaid, pleated skirt, white shirt, and knee socks. She’s watching something on a tablet propped on her stomach and feeding Cheetos to the fat black-and-white rat lounging contentedly on her chest.

  When we walk in, everyone stops what they’re doing and looks up.

  And for a moment, just a few stuttering beats of my heart, I allow myself to remember what it feels like to have a family.

  Because it’s obvious they’re all happy to see me.

  Darcy lets out a whoop and jerks upright, knocking over the desk phone and almost falling out of the chair in the process. Kai jumps up and down, maniacally clapping. Tabby’s grin is almost as huge as Ryan’s. Juanita is grinning, too, and even the damn rat looks happy, whiskers twitching like mad.

  “Oh,” I say in a small voice, my heart thumping with surprise, my eyes wide.

  Ryan slings his arm around my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze, as if he knows I’m in need of a little emotional fortification before I face the firing squad.

  “Miss Thang!” bellows Darcy, finding her footing with the help of Kai. “You made it!”

  She charges.

  “This will only hurt a little,” Ryan says regretfully, before jumping out of the way.

  Darcy throws her arms around me, engulfing me in her bosom.

  She smells sweet and fruity, like coconuts. It’s pl
easant, but I’m being suffocated, and so I make a bleating sound of distress.

  She releases me to hold me at arm’s length and cackle. “A travel writer! Ha! We all knew that was baloney, girl! No writer in history has ever had ta-tas like that!” She leers at my chest.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’,” drawls Ryan, leaning against a bookcase.

  Darcy turns scolding, shaking her finger in my face. “Now don’t worry about us telling anyone you got sticky fingers, girl. We’re real used to keeping each other’s big, hairy secrets in this crew, you hear?”

  “Um…”

  She leans in and says in a stage whisper, “You know, me and you gotta stick together because the redhead is nuts. Tattoos of green fairies, and building computers that think and shit. And don’t get me started on all that Hello Kitty nonsense. It’s like she thinks that cartoon cat is alive.”

  Tabby looks at the ceiling. “Darcy. I’m literally four feet away.”

  “Lurk much, nutty?” Darcy mutters under her breath.

  Exasperated, Tabby throws her hands in the air. “Still! Four! Feet!”

  Darcy ignores her. “Now I know you and the boys got some business, so me and my baby”—she blows a kiss to Kai, who giggles and waves with his fingertips—“and short stuff over there with the obese dairy cow rodent just stopped by to say hi real quick on our way to lunch. So. Hi.”

  I can tell I’m supposed to say something now, so I pretend this is a completely normal situation. “Hello. It’s very nice to see you again, Darcy,” I say pleasantly.

  She nods in solemn satisfaction, like we just made a blood pact. Then over her shoulder, she bosses, “Kai, say hello to Miss Thang!”

  Kai makes a formal little bow. When he straightens, he says in his charming German accent, “I would like to cook you a meal when this is all over, Miss Thang. Do you enjoy schnitzel? I make an excellent traditional schnitzel.”

  Wondering what he means by “ven zis is all over,” I reply, “That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Kai. And you can just call me Mariana.”

  I notice Connor and Ryan are both trying hard to keep straight faces, and not having much luck.

  Juanita rises from the couch and skips over, tossing the rat onto her left shoulder in a smooth, practiced move. All gangly limbs and soft clouds of dark, curly hair, she inserts herself between Darcy and me, dusts orange Cheetos powder from her hands, then stares up into my face.

  “Me and Elvis have a bet about where you’re from,” she says, as if picking up where we left off in an earlier conversation. “He says Brazil, but you don’t have a Portuguese accent—”

  “I don’t have any accent,” I interrupt, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

  Everyone else seems to have suddenly fallen silent.

  Juanita slowly shakes her head, not in disagreement, but as if I’m not listening. “He says Brazil,” she repeats firmly, “but I say Colombia. So which is it?”

  Her eyes are large and velvet brown, black-lashed and penetrating. They’re also devoid of childlike innocence, or any of the bashful self-consciousness adolescents usually display in a roomful of adults.

  I’m looking at a fifteen-year-old girl, but the person looking back at me hasn’t been fifteen in an eternity.

  Ghostly pale and unsmiling, my sister’s face swims into my vision. I inhale a hitching breath.

  “You remind me so much of someone I once knew,” I whisper in Spanish, reverting to my native tongue without a thought, dragged back by the weight of ancient memory and the kind of wounds that scab over, but never fully heal.

  “I knew it.,” Juanita replies instantly in Spanish. “Elvis, you owe me five bucks.”

  “Okay, no secrets now. Everybody talks in English from here on out.”

  It’s Tabby, her tone light and joking, but she’s looking at me with a gaze that’s anything but light. I realize that she understood everything Juanita said to each other at the same time I understand that she won’t mention another word to me about it, or divulge to anyone else what we’ve said.

  This is turning out to be one hell of an interesting day.

  Twenty-Two

  Ryan

  While Tabby and Mariana stare at each other, mentally transmitting some kind of weird, girl-code shit, Connor and I share a look of our own.

  His look says She okay? You okay?

  My look says I’m good, but my woman’s hangin’ on by a thread.

  He nods. His piercing gaze flicks over to Mariana. “All right, kids,” he booms, addressing the room. “Visiting time at the zoo is over. Say your goodbyes.”

  Darcy makes her signature farm-animal snort. “C’mon, Kai, let’s roll. It’s Badass Big Guy Meeting Time. Short stuff,” she says to Juanita, “you got a restaurant picked out for lunch? And don’t say anything with the words kale bar in it, or I’ll be forced to kick your tiny Catholic behind.”

  “I’m an atheist, Darcy” Juanita replies. “I only go to a Catholic school because I’m fifteen and have no legal rights, and that’s where my mother wants me to go. And I was thinking that new Thai-French fusion place on sixth. Elvis loves Thai food.”

  Aghast, Darcy cries, “Atheist! Hush, you silly child, God will hear!”

  Juanita turns to look at Tabby. “Is it worth it?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  Juanita shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder. She looks at Mariana and sticks out her hand. They shake solemnly, an ocean of unspoken words between them.

  I can’t wait to find out what their little exchange in Spanish was all about.

  Darcy, Kai, and Juanita take their leave. Connor lowers his bulk to the big captain’s chair behind his desk. Tabby perches on a corner of the desk and folds her hands over a knee, and Mariana and I sit in the two leather guest chairs opposite them. For a moment, we all simply look at one another.

  “I hope I didn’t ruin your honeymoon,” Mariana says quietly.

  “Are you kidding?” laughs Tabby. “You were a highlight!”

  Connor swivels his head slowly to look at her, his dark brows climbing his forehead.

  Tabby smiles tenderly at him. “Not the highlight, honey.”

  “Don’t need to hear any details about the other highlights!” I interrupt before Connor forces Tabby to make a list of all his talents in the sack. I know I’ve got an ego on me, but Connor’s got an egosaurus. If he gets a burr under his saddle, we’ll be here all day trying to calm that bucking bronco down. “Connor, you wanna start?”

  For a moment, he drums his fingers on the desktop, thinking. Then he looks up at Mariana. “Yeah. Let’s start with Vincent Moreno.”

  She stiffens. I reach over and touch her arm. She clutches my hand, threading her fingers through mine and squeezing. The whole time, Connor watches us with unblinking intensity. I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

  “What do you want to know?” Mariana asks.

  “When Ryan told us your situation, we made some inquiries,” Connor says, referring to himself and Tabby.

  “Inquiries?” Mariana repeats cautiously.

  It’s Tabby who answers this time. “As I told you before, I work for the government. Specifically the NSA. Freelance, but at the highest clearance. We’ve also got contacts in the FBI and the CIA, and the international security and law enforcement communities. All this adds up to a very powerful network of information.”

  Mariana sits perfectly still, listening, a look of intense concentration on her face. A faint tremor runs through her hand.

  Her voice lower, Tabby continues. “This man you work for… He’s very dangerous.”

  “No,” Mariana says without a second’s pause. “Ebola is dangerous. Sharks are dangerous. Live electrical wires are dangerous. Vincent Moreno is pure evil.”

  “Yet you’re on his payroll,” Connor says curtly.

  Mariana’s eyes slice through him like a hot knife through butter. A vein throbs on the side of her neck. “When the Devil tells you to jump, the only question you
ask is how high.”

  I resist the hot, crackling urge to come to Mariana’s defense only because I already know Connor and Tabby are on our side, and I know this is a conversation that has to be had. But fuck, seeing Mariana upset touches nerves I didn’t even know I had.

  Maybe my feelings for her are making me grow new ones.

  “I understand that,” Tabby says. “I know something about psychopaths myself.”

  “Then you know that they can’t be reasoned with, or easily fooled.”

  “Yes.”

  “So when Ryan tells me he’s going to return the Hope Diamond and set Capo up with a sting, you’ll understand my opinion that not only is that a particularly stupid plan, it’s also destined to fail.”

  To my horror, Tabby replies, “Yes. I happen to agree with you completely.”

  “Tabby! What the fuck?” I shout.

  “Save your outrage for the end, brother,” Connor says wearily. “It gets worse.”

  Before I can protest further, Tabby continues. “There’s no way a man like Vincent Moreno is going to accept a meet with a stranger, especially when all he has to do to find out who you are, Ryan, is dig a little. Then he discovers your identity, easily guesses what you’re up to, and puts out a hit. You’re dead before dawn. So is Mariana.”

  “He wouldn’t kill me right away,” Mariana says, looking at her hands. “There are things he wants from me much more than my death.”

  That sucks the air right out of the room. We all stare at her in silence, until Tabby finally breaks it.

  “Submission?”

  Mariana shakes her head, closing her eyes. “More than that. More like surrender. I’ve been defying him for years. But mostly he just wants my pain.”

  She opens her eyes and looks at each of us in turn, me last. “He wants to wring every drop of anguish from me the way you’d wring water from a towel. He’s come close a few times, but always manages to hold himself back. And if I’m being honest, I think the reason he can resist has less to do with self-control or honoring the blood oath I took than it does with heightening his anticipation. All these years, all these jobs, this noose he holds over Reynard’s head… I’ve finally realized it’s not really about repayment of a debt.”