Becoming Rain

by K. A. Tucker

  “Buys and sells property.” I shrug. “Lots of it.” Rain Martines’s daddy has made his riches in real estate and land development. In reality, my dad spends his retired time tending to his tomato plants and making prosciutto in the basement.

  “I’m surprised I’ve never run into you at the park before.”

  “I’m usually here earlier in the day.”

  “Right. And what do you spend the rest of your day doing?”

  I shrug. “I’m taking a photography class. Sometimes I shop, or go to the gym. I’m figuring out life, basically.” As opposed to what my real life in D.C. looks like, which is running out the door with my travel mug of coffee and passing out the second my head hits the pillow well after midnight. To be completely honest, this assignment has felt like one long vacation so far.

  “Sounds like fun,” he muses. By his lax tone, I can’t tell what he really thinks. Is this a deterrent? It shouldn’t be. Guys like Luke are attracted to money and a life of leisure. That was part of the cover design. “I bought my condo last summer. I love it here. Great area.” He plays it off well, but I know that his uncle bought his condo for him. I wonder if he’s embarrassed that Rust funds him for pretty much everything and that’s why he’s not admitting to it, or if he likes to fool girls into thinking he has money. Or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to elaborate.

  We turn up the path to my condo building, my eyes focused on keeping my steps in line with his unhurried ones, to appear as relaxed. And I begin playing out scenarios inside my head. Scenarios no normal woman trying to pick up a guy would think of.

  I doubt he’s armed, given he was out jogging and a gun would weigh him down. Plus, I’ve never seen any guns lying around on coffee tables in his home. Maybe he’s got a knife. It would have to be a small one, though, and I can buy some time if he pulls it on me, until the cover team gets here.

  I should be able to restrain him with some difficulty, if he tries to force himself on me, for the simple fact that he won’t expect that I know how to fight back.

  I don’t read him as that type of guy, though.

  I read him as the type of guy who’s going to stroll into my condo, make small talk for ten minutes, ask for a tour, and then strip off his clothes in my bedroom, assuming the leg was just an excuse for my invitation all along.

  This is where I have to do things that fit into the “gray area,” of my job, to keep my cover, and the case, going.

  Like, if he tries to kiss me, I may have to kiss him back.

  Sneaking a glance at that mouth right now—curled up at the ends in a perpetual, slight smirk, glossy from a fresh drink of water, and surrounded by the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow to match the caramel-brown hair on his head—I’ll admit it would be far from the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Nervous flutters begin to tickle my stomach.

  And then his phone rings.

  All at once, his demeanor changes. His face turns grim, a glimmer of panic flying through it. Taking backward steps away from me, he reaches into his pocket. “Listen, I have to take this call.”

  No . . . “Go ahead. I can wait.”

  “Maybe we can connect some other time?” His steps are hurried as he moves away, a low murmur of “hey” touching my ears. He doesn’t look back. Not even once.

  I fight to keep the frustration from showing on my face as he disappears down the path to his building.

  Stanley lets out a tiny playful noise and then licks my cheek.

  I give his head a scratch. “You tried, buddy. We all tried.”

  I don’t know what else to do.

  ■ ■ ■

  “Warner said you were in after the last meet,” Sinclair’s deep, gruff voice fills my ear. Almost an accusation. “What happened?”

  I wasn’t expecting a phone call from the assistant director tonight.

  “I thought I was. I just need more time. I’m getting somewhere but it’s going to take more time.” Other cover officers get months—sometimes years!—to form relationships before people begin breathing down their backs. Me? Two freaking months! Less, technically, because the first few weeks were for case prep.

  “If we don’t have something solid to bring back to the judge, he’s not going to extend the warrant. He was already being a tight-ass about granting it the first time around.”

  “12 took that phone call,” I blurt out, desperate to get him off my back so I can think.

  “You know better than that,” he mutters with irritation.

  I do know better than that. I silently chastise myself for saying something so stupid to a high-level FBI superior as I head to the window, Stanley nipping at my heels.

  “Your cover?”

  “Still intact.”

  “Good. I’ll start looking over the agent files. Maybe I can still salvage this case . . .” Sinclair’s words fade out as my eyes land on Luke, walking toward the adjoining bathroom in his bedroom. His bare ass in full view.

  “Holy . . .” slips out, heat stirring through me as I admire his sculpted back. He’s a criminal, he’s a criminal, he’s a—

  “What’s wrong?”

  I feel my cheeks flush. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “Special Agent Cortez could pass for your sister. You’ll introduce the two of them and then step back. She’s a bit older but one hell of an experienced undercover. Never failed.”

  My full attention snaps back to the phone call. Special Agent Cortez? Who the hell is that? And why is Sinclair using words like “fail” and “step back”? My arrest record is great. And screw experience! My competitive streak comes out in full force. “I’m close. Just another few days. If you bring her in now, it may cause more harm than good.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’ll pull back altogether, not wanting to cause friction between sisters.” I cringe as the words come out of my mouth. Even I don’t believe them.

  “Oh, come on, Clara . . .”

  “Just give me another week or two.” I’m borderline pleading now. Not good. This guy’s not going to hire an agent who begs.

  “The Bureau’s dropped a ton of resources into this operation. I’m battling internal department feuds over my strategy. There’s no more room for failure, do you understand?”

  “Got it. I’m close. I really am.” I press “end” just as my forehead hits the wall, a heavy groan escaping me. “I’m not going to fail,” I promise myself, peeking across the way again in time to see Luke disappear to the right. I assume, into the shower.

  I dial a new number.

  “Yup.” That’s how Warner answers the phone, whether he’s working or not.

  “Hey, Warner.” There’s no missing the defeat in my voice. “Any chance you can swing by?” I hate talking candidly when I know that the call is being monitored for evidence. It’ll get erased eventually, but you never know who’s listening before it does.

  “Doubt it. It’s going to be a long one.” Voices hum in the background. He’s got two other undercover cases going right now, and it seems like he works twenty-nine hours a day, dividing his time among them. “Why? I just talked to you. What’s going on?”

  “Sinclair called me. He’s talking about bringing an agent in and having me pull back.”

  “Shit.”

  My panic sparks. “Shit? Shit, why? How bad is that? How often does this happen?”

  He heaves a sigh and says with reluctance, “I don’t know. It happens, sometimes.”

  “And what happens to the pulled agents?”

  “Sometimes they end up on other cases. Sometimes . . . they don’t.”

  A thought strikes me. “What happened to the other undercovers on this case?” The ones who failed.

  There’s a pause, and I picture him biting his bottom lip like he always does when he’s not sure if he should say something. “Pushing pap
erwork in Nebraska or Utah or something like that, the last I heard.”

  Perfect. “This is my one shot at the Bureau, isn’t it?” When I applied for the D.C. police force, I didn’t have my sights on going Fed. Being any type of law enforcement—armed with a gun and the power to change a person’s life forever—seemed both daunting and thrilling. But it didn’t take long before I started to excel at my job and commanding officers took notice. That’s when the career questions began. How high do you want to go? they’d all ask. The truth is, I didn’t join with aspirations to be the next female chief of police, or run entire units. I just wanted to feel like I was making a difference. A year in, I was already making contacts in the various units, bored with street patrol. Major strings were pulled by high-levels and I was transferred into the MCU. I figured I was in the right place. Doing undercover work came surprisingly easy for me, and I had one of the best arrest and conviction records in the group. But still, I soon found that the cases weren’t high-profile enough. I scoured the newspapers, reading about big arrests around the country. Those were the ones I wanted to work on. The kind where a bust shuts down terrorist cells, cripples trafficking rings, saves lives. The kind that the Feds typically spearhead.

  So I filled out my application to join the FBI, along with about a hundred thousand other people. Without an “in,” I doubt I’ll ever hear from them.

  Sinclair is my in.

  “Listen, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. Is this case a big deal? Yes. But I can’t say you won’t have other shots. I also can’t say you will. Sinclair can make anything happen if you impress him. If you don’t . . . he can be a real dick. Plus, jobs with the FBI are competitive. The ones who make it are there because they do what they need to do.”

  I feel even worse now than I did five minutes ago. “ ’kay. Thanks, Warner. ’Night.” I hang up, his words cycling in my head.

  They do what they need to do.

  A snort by my heels reminds me that Stanley is waiting, staring at me, those giant bat ears perked. “Demanding little brat.” I crouch down to scratch his belly, my focus drifting across the way, into the fully lit bedroom, while Luke’s in the shower. Searching for an answer.

  A part of me simply waiting for him to emerge so I can get another view.

  “How do I get through to this guy? Huh, Stanley?”

  With an excited butt wiggle, he flips over and pushes his snout past the blinds. When his bulging eyes spy Licks across the way, he throws his head back and begins barking frantically.

  “Get back!” I grab him by the belly and drag him away from the window, his claws grating against the hardwood floor. “Our target knows you now. He’ll know we live here,” I scold.

  And then I freeze. Suddenly, I know what I need to do.

  Deep into the gray area we go, Clara.

  Chapter 9

  ■ ■ ■

  LUKE

  The hot water sliding over my stiff, tired muscles felt good. The soap seeping into the puncture wounds on my leg did not.

  I towel off, thinking about Rain and that fucking little mutt. And Licks, for doing absolutely nothing. I swear someone could be stabbing me to death and that fat bastard would just sit there and drool.

  I had the perfect “I’m getting laid” card tonight, after her dog bit me. On her knees in front of me, she looked ready to do just about anything to make up for it, stirring my blood and my cock. And then my burner phone had to ring.

  And I panicked.

  I seem to panic every time that phone has gone off this past week, since Rust handed it to me, along with the numbers of two fences I’ll be funneling his requests through.

  It ended up being a short conversation, not that I wanted her overhearing any of it. Rodriguez, one of the fences, saying he picked up a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. I said no, we only buy based on orders coming in from Vlad. Otherwise, we’ll be collecting cars, and that’s too risky. That’s one of Rust’s rules and it’s a sound one.

  So far, I just take requests from Rust and pass them on to Rodriguez, and I’m done. Nothing stressful. Sure as hell nothing that seems worth the kind of money Rust has thrown my way.

  Nothing I’m going to complain about to him.

  But all the same, I wonder if that nervous bubble that bursts inside my stomach every time the burner phone rings will ever go away. If I’ll always be on edge, wondering what people know. Wondering if Rodriguez is a guy I can truly trust.

  If this is really what I want to be doing with my life.

  Rust promised that Rodriguez is trustworthy, that he’ll never name me to the street-level fence he uses. That what I’m experiencing is only virgin jitters and I should always be wary, but soon it’ll feel like just another business call. With two layers between us and the thieves, we’re protected.

  I could have turned around and chased Rain down inside her building, after hanging up with Rodriguez, but I make a point of not chasing women.

  Maybe it all worked out for the best, anyway. She lives right next door. Too fucking close. Start up with her and the next thing I know, she’s everywhere. With everything going on right now, I need more space, not less. I can’t believe I didn’t notice her address on her invoice at the garage.

  It sucks, though. I kind of like her. She’s gorgeous. She seems smart, and surprisingly nice for a girl who’s “figuring out life” on her daddy’s dime. I find myself already wondering when I’ll run into her again as I step out of the bathroom and into my bedroom . . .

  My legs lock up with the view of the lean, practically naked female body across the way.

  Rain, standing in the middle of her bedroom.

  In next to nothing.

  I tighten my grip of the towel wrapped around my waist as I step forward. I’ve rarely noticed the condo in the twin building across from me. From what I remember, the blinds are always drawn. They’re not now, though, and Rain’s busy filling her dresser drawers with folded clothes, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and G-string. The woman is no stranger to the gym, her curves sharp, her muscles carved. Does she know that we live parallel to each other? That my bedroom looks right into hers?

  I stand there and watch. I watch as she tosses her empty laundry basket to the floor. I watch as she picks up a book from her dresser and sets it on her bed. I watch her lift a glass of red wine to her lips. And I feel myself react. I adjust my towel accordingly, unable to peel my eyes from her as she dives into her bed, stretching out on her back, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, her legs long and sleek and bent, one folded over the other.

  Is she doing this for my benefit? Because . . . damn . . . it’s working. On impulse, I grab my phone and search out her number, remembering that I had programmed it in there.

  I hit “call.”

  She reaches back over her head to her nightstand to pick up her phone. With a quick scan at the screen—my name likely won’t show up because it’s blocked—she answers. “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Luke.” I step closer to the window, waiting for her to turn her head toward me, to spot me standing here. Basically, to admit to me that she knows I’m here. That she’s known all along and that she’s putting on this show for me.

  She doesn’t so much as twitch my way.

  “How’s your leg?” Her voice has a certain huskiness that I don’t remember from earlier. One that stirs the blood flow in my body, especially as I continue watching her lying there, unaware of me.

  “Fine.” It hurts like hell. The little asshole’s teeth sunk into muscle. I wouldn’t be surprised if I can’t run tomorrow. “How’s the mutt?”

  A throaty laugh escapes, making me smile. “Resting up for his next attack.” She places the book facedown on her bed. Her hand trails up and down her thigh with painstakingly slow passes, stalling on the strap of her panties. Her finger curls under it.

  Jesus. I’m not
sure that I want her to look over and stop. I’m rather enjoying this show. “Should I be on the lookout tomorrow?”

  “I’d highly recommend it.”

  “What are you doing?” Besides torturing me.

  She lifts up the book, scanning the cover. I’m impressed that she reads actual books. Priscilla has nothing but stacks of fashion magazines and the gossip rags they sell at the supermarket cash registers. “I was going to read a bit, but . . .” Her mouth moves with the yawn in my ear and then she arches her back in a stretch, pushing a nice pair of tits up into the air. “Think I’m calling it a night. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her back to me, her waist slender and long, her left shoulder blade decorated in swirls of sexy ink . . .

  She reaches back and unclasps her bra with one hand, letting it slip off. And I find myself silently pleading for her to turn around.

  She stands up and leans over—giving me a fantastic view of her apple-shaped ass—to hit the wall panel. Her bedroom falls into darkness.

  I can’t keep my groan from escaping.

  “Luke? You okay?”

  “Uh, yeah . . .” I clear my throat, realizing that I’m probably breathing into the phone like a psychopathic stalker. She could be watching me right now, my bedroom lit up. I glance down at the formed tent, wondering what she’d think of this scene. I’m going to have to deal with that before I head out. She just gave me plenty to use while I do.

  I don’t like women knowing how much power they really have over me, that they can turn my brain to mush so easily. I’ll lose my upper hand that way. So I punch the light switch on the wall, throwing myself into darkness, too. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Teaching Stanley not to bite people.”

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  “And going out with you.” There’s a smile in her voice.

  I smile right along with her, because that’s exactly what I wanted her to say. “That’s right. You are.”

  Chapter 10

  ■ ■ ■

  CLARA

  One of my strengths—and I don’t know if it’s a cop thing or just a Clara thing—is my peripheral vision. My brother jokes that I have extra sets of eyes hidden beneath my thick mane of hair.