by Ophelia Bell
We’re civil, but rarely connect except to continue the most formal aspects of a mother-daughter relationship. For her, it’s about maintaining the facade of her family life juxtaposed with a political career decades in the making. She pretty much leveraged my education to make me agree to help her keep up appearances, since I’m all she has left.
For me, it’s not hard to recognize her own need to do good in the world. Besides, I don’t have the energy to waste on hating her anymore, so I show up when needed, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my career. We stopped trying to be friends a long time ago.
But Nina’s right; I remember a time when our family seemed idyllic. When Chris and I were kids and Mom and Dad were happy and in love. When my parents could do no wrong in my eyes. Is it wrong to want that for myself?
“It’s no surprise they fought. The Longo-Nicolos are a family of passionate, caring people, Callie. You all seem to gravitate toward callings that are bigger than life. It’s in your blood, and I don’t think it’s fair of you to try to deny it. Your parents worked as a couple when they were together because they both understood that facet of each other, but were willing to compromise. I think Chris’s death broke their ability to find common ground.”
I stare morosely into my drink, which is little more than half-melted ice at this stage. “Chris’ death broke a lot. I’m not sure any of us really healed completely from that.”
I glance up at her, and my heart catches at the wetness in her eyes. Nina’s the last person who needs a reminder of what we all lost when my brother was killed. She’d been infatuated with Chris since our first sleepover when we were kids. He was six years older and in high school, so completely out of her league, but that didn’t stop her from fantasizing about their wedding when we were teenagers. Even though we were in our twenties when he died, Nina lost her ability to dream big, and I don’t think she ever got it back.
She rallies with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t change the pieces of them that live within you. The piece I think you shared with Chris too. You crave independence, adventure. Helping people is what drives you. I half-expect you to trot off to work with your dad whenever you’re ready for the next step in your career. As unfair as I think it is to your mom, he’s the one whose love and approval you really crave.”
“Are you saying my entire career is based on my unresolved daddy issues? My feeling of abandonment or something? I’m pretty done being psychoanalyzed here, just for the record.” I am only half-joking, and the barbed note to my voice is evident from the annoyed look she gives me.
She lets out an irritated sigh and grabs a throw pillow, tossing it at my head. I grab it and hold on, weirdly grateful for the soft thing to squeeze against my chest, because as much as I hate listening to her outpouring of insight, every word strikes a chord of truth.
“No . . . Well, partly. I think you are still so angry at your mom that you overcompensate with adoration of your father just to piss her off. And that you will never be happy with a man who doesn’t fulfill that ideation you have for what your dad represents to you: a hero who risked alienating his family to save lives.
“Which is why I never really got what you saw in Barnaby. He’s a doctor, sure, but in a boring specialty that you specifically avoided because you said it wouldn’t challenge you. He probably likes having regular office hours because it doesn’t get in the way of him fucking other women. It would’ve made more sense that you were the one sowing her wild oats, banging dreamy surgeons in on-call rooms or whatnot.”
I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t happen in real life, you know. We’re too damn tired to waste a chance for a nap.”
“My point is that I always expected you to wind up with a real man. Some fearless alpha-male like Chris or your dad. Someone with the guts to do life-changing work. He was beneath you, Cal. You deserve so much better.”
She gets up and retrieves our glasses, heading to the kitchen island to mix us both fresh drinks. I chew on my lip as my stomach turns somersaults at the memory of a certain real man I had a close encounter with earlier. When she hands me my drink, I blurt out, “I did something stupid tonight.”
“Honey, didn’t I get through to you? Dumping that asshat wasn’t stupid.”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. Afterward, on the plane. There was this guy, and we sort of . . . um . . . joined the mile-high club together.” I tilt my glass up to hide behind it while I take a long drink.
Nina’s utterly silent, and when I finally have the courage to look at her again, her eyes are as wide as dinner plates.
“That’s . . . ah . . . wow. Way to bury the goddamn lead, Callie!” She tosses another pillow at me, but I’m too tangled up in knots to dodge it and it smacks me square in the face.
“Yeah, sorry.” I give her a sheepish smile.
“Well, had I known all that, I’d have skipped all the deep, dark, emotional excavation and just asked for details. But seriously, why the hell do you think that’s stupid?”
“I don’t know. I guess while I know rationally that it’s all kinds of stupid to fuck a stranger on a plane, and we didn’t even have protection—god, what was I thinking? But the really stupid part? The part I’m kicking myself over? Is that I didn’t get his number.”
She nods sagely, tutting at the part where we skipped protection, which at the time made sense but now is really the most idiotic thing I’ve probably ever done. I should get tested.
“So, this guy . . . does he have a name, or was this just some random, anonymous hookup? Because these things matter.”
She leans closer, taking a sip of her drink, her eyes twinkling with glee over the rim of her glass. I feel lighter now, having confessed this to her, and the specter of my dead relationship is too impotent to hurt me any longer. It shouldn’t be this easy to get over someone, should it?
I frown when her question sinks in. “I actually did meet him before, but only just this morning. It’s such a crazy coincidence,” I muse, then go on to explain my early morning encounter with the stranger in Mrs. Santos’ room. “Nina, I felt like I knew him already, from before that first meeting even. It didn’t feel like a random hookup at all. Is that crazy?”
“Well, if he has family in LA, there’s still a chance for you to look him up, which I am ordering you to do once you get back. At least assuming the stars don’t align and you happen to run into him while you’re in Denver.”
“As nice as that would be, I’m not going to hold my breath.”
11
Mason
“Jesus motherfucking Christ, Booth. You could’ve warned me to pack a warmer coat,” I gripe as I reluctantly step out of the car outside a swanky hotel. It’s fucking cold in downtown Denver. I’m not sure what I was expecting. “Cold” in Los Angeles wasn’t enough to prepare me for arriving to a deep-freeze.
Booth laughs at the continuous string of curses I let out as I zip up my coat, which does nothing to block out the chill. “This is actually mild for late December. It’s not even cold enough to snow.”
The mere mention of the word “snow” causes a cascade of shivers throughout my limbs. I hoist my bag over my shoulder and book it into the hotel lobby, and thank fuck that it’s warm.
The place is probably the fanciest hotel I’ve ever been inside, with a soaring central atrium that looks up at least nine stories to a stained glass ceiling high above. Balconies rise around the outside, lined with intricately detailed railings, all lit up beautifully with garlands and lights. The enormous Christmas tree takes up much of the central area, but is dwarfed by a massive chandelier.
“Do we have the budget for a room at a place like this?” I ask, recalling the less than comfortable accommodations Booth had to settle for in Mexico City, since his bosses wouldn’t clear a budget for someplace nicer.
“Your new best friend in Los Angeles is covering our stay. I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. But I suppose it’s incentive to get this done right.”
He lea
ds the way to the check-in counter, where the front desk clerk greets us with a bright smile. I chuckle when Booth requests not just one double, but two king rooms, adjoining if possible.
The woman frowns and eyes us both. Booth is in a suit and trench coat, looking the part of the clean-cut G-man as always, aside from his five o’clock shadow. I probably resemble a serial killer by comparison.
The clerk’s face flushes and her wary look at me shifts to true regret when she looks at him. “I’m sorry, but with the senator’s party this weekend, the suites are all booked. I have several doubles available.”
Booth dips his hand into his inside pocket and pulls out a pair of envelopes, smoothly sliding the two cards out of them to show her. My eyebrows shoot up when I read the fancy script engraved on the heavy paper. There are actual invitations to this shindig.
“We’re guests, invited by Senator Longo herself. If you have rooms in reserve for guests of the senator, I’d like to claim two. We need them for official business as well as rest.” With that, he slips one more thing from his pocket.
A flash of gold catches my eye from within the small black wallet. It’s an effort not to roll my eyes when I recognize his DEA badge where he holds it just out of sight of the clerk, ready to draw the big guns if he gets more resistance.
He doesn’t flash it at her right away. Instead he turns up the wattage on his smile as the woman inspects both invitations, then gives us an apologetic look.
“I see . . . Please just give me a moment.” She types madly on her keyboard, staring at the screen in front of her.
Booth leans over the counter slightly, checking the woman’s tag. His voice is rough and honey-sweet when he says, “Tonya, my partner and I have been traveling hard for the past twenty-four hours. This is the first real rest we’ve had in even longer. If you can help us out, I’d be in your debt.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. I just need to see some identification. Security for the party is very strict, and we’ve been asked to limit access to certain floors where the higher-profile guests are staying. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.” He nods at me and I sigh, reaching for my passport and handing it to him.
He sets both IDs in front of her, the gold of his badge flashing beneath the twinkling Christmas lights. She does a double-take, but recovers quickly, a mask of professionalism slipping back into place. Still I catch her gaze slide surreptitiously to him, taking in his broad shoulders and the open neck of his white button-down shirt. He probably boarded his flight in a tie, but has since dispensed with it.
I’m not one to check out other men, but Booth is no slouch when it comes to staying fit. Not to mention his blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American-hero looks don’t hurt when it comes to getting what he wants.
Had circumstances been different, I could have probably turned on enough charm myself to give him a run for his money, beard, bruises, and all. But I’m too antsy to get on with things, and my traitorous brain keeps replaying my encounter with the doc on the airplane.
Did she get my note? I should’ve fucking left my number.
The clerk is still typing away when my neck tingles and I turn, narrowing my eyes at the doors that are just swinging closed. Cold air hits me, but I don’t think that’s what got my hackles up. I scan the atrium and lobby and don’t see anything that raises any alarms, but I tap Booth on the arm and nod toward the big room behind us.
“Be right back,” I mutter.
I do a circuit around the edge of the lobby, pretending to gawk at all the dark wood, marble, and the decor that’s clearly a monument to local history. A shadow slips around a corner up ahead and I follow it at a distance, adrenaline creeping higher. I reach the wide staircase to the second floor and peer up, catching the tail of someone’s coat, someone who’s walking just a touch too fast for a casual guest.
Trailing them to the next level, I move to the shadows. From up here I can see clear across the lobby around the balconies, but my view is partially blocked by wide columns. I wait until the person’s head peeks out over one of the railings. They look down at Booth, then scowl and glance around the lobby—looking to see where I’ve gone, most likely.
It’s a dark-haired man in a brown jacket zipped up to his chin against the chill. He’s hunched into himself, warming his hands against each other despite the warmth of the lobby. Someone just as thin-skinned as I am. Not a local.
I silently set my bag down before slipping up behind him. He sees me too late to run, and within a breath I knock his legs out from under him and have him pinned to the floor with my forearm across his throat, my other fist aimed at his face.
“Who the fuck sent you?”
“Zavala,” he wheezes, raising his hands in surrender.
“Fucking hell, he has men all the way up here?” I ease off just a little so he can breathe.
He narrows his eyes as he scans my face. “So you’re the traitor working for the government, huh? The one who got Rafael and Emilia killed.” He spits at me, wet saliva smacking into my face. My fist cracks against his nose and blood founts from it.
The punch is probably overkill, but I’m a hair trigger away from strangling the bastard as it is. “Why are you following me? Doesn’t he have enough leverage to give him confidence I’ll deliver?”
“Fuck, man. Zavala just wants to protect his interests. I’m not here to ask questions or get in your way, just to report in that you’re doing what he wants and to make sure Amador doesn’t finish the job.”
I release him and stand back, letting the man rise. He swipes his fist beneath his nose and winces at the smear of blood across his knuckles.
“How did he know I’d be here? I didn’t even fucking know until this morning.”
“Hell if I know, hermano. I just do what the old man says. Whatever your deal is, he’s invested enough to make sure you survive long enough to deliver.”
My gut clenches. “You make it sound like he’s worried I won’t.”
“I don’t know, sounds like you aren’t the most popular man in Mexico at the moment. Word is Gustavo Delgado’s hunting you down like a fucking dog. If Zavala knows you’re here, so does he. I’d hate to be you.”
“Shit.” I lean back against the column behind me and scrub my hands over my face. I’m not surprised, but it’s one more thing to worry about. I doubt Gustavo knows why I’m here, and I’m pretty sure he’s not dumb enough to cross the border himself to find me. Still, I don’t need a bunch of thugs getting in my way.
He’s still giving me a look like I’m something he just scraped off his shoe. I shake my head. “Listen, Rafael and Emilia meant the world to me. If I knew what was coming, I’d have taken those bullets myself. I may have betrayed Zavala, but they were still my friends.”
They were more than just friends, but this asshole doesn’t need details. He hasn’t let on that he knows what Zavala has on me either, aside from the betrayal itself. Chances are he’s been north of the border all along and is out of the loop on all the drama at Zavala’s compound, beyond the bare minimum that was shared when he was ordered to track me down. I’ll let him go, but if I catch any of Gustavo’s lackeys coming after me, I’ll gut them.
He makes a noncommittal noise through the rag he holds against his nose to stanch the blood flow. “You’re lucky Zavala still needs you. Any of those Amador fuckers show their faces, they won’t get close. But that won’t last.”
I’m under no illusions about how immune I am from cartel retribution, but at least Zavala has my back for as long as I’m useful to him. I’ll just have to deal with things myself when that’s no longer the case.
Footsteps approach, and we both glance over to see Booth striding toward us, casting a wary look at my new friend. The stranger blanches and utters a soft curse.
“Well, if it isn’t Teo Sanchez,” Booth drawls. “It’s been a long time. How’s the knee?”
“You’re a son of a bitch, Booth. And lucky this is such a fancy place, or I’d
throw you over that railing.” He gives me one more look and a nod. “I’ll be around,” he says before striding back the way he came, a hitch in his gait.
“What the fuck did he want?” Booth asks, watching the other man leave.
“Just checking up on me for Zavala. As if I needed more to worry about. I take it you two have met?”
“He’s a slippery fucker, but yeah, he’s one of the usual suspects we’ve been tracking in connection with this operation. We’ve never officially been able to tie him to a cartel. Until now.”
“I could’ve done without the fucking reminder.”
“We’ll get Zavala’s deal so you can bring Zoe home,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “For now, let’s just go take a load off.” He waves the paper sleeve with the keycards at me and heads toward the elevators.
“When do we meet with Longo? Soon, I hope,” I say as we step inside and Booth hits the button for the ninth floor.
“Friday night is the earliest we can get to her.”
“Fuck, why not sooner?” Friday is three days away, and every second I sit on my thumbs makes me more anxious, gives me more time to stew over what went down. And makes Zoe’s situation all the more precarious.
“This isn’t an easy ask,” Booth says. “We have to do things on her terms now if we want to ensure her support. She won’t be in town until her party, so we wait. Rest up. And maybe get a haircut while you’re at it.”
I shoot him a look and rake my hand through my shaggy mane. “You don’t think she likes the lumberjack look? We are in Colorado.”
“I think you need to look like you have your shit together. Which is why we’re taking full advantage of Flores’ generosity this week. Take a load off tomorrow. At least try to relax. Let me make some calls to ensure some of the parties involved will be on board when we meet the senator. Then we’re getting you a fucking makeover, because this hobo-chic look you’re sporting has got to go.”
