Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  “Perfect. Now you’re FOXHUNT. Tallyho!”

  Rashad and I exchange an is-he-for-real? look. “Why do we put up with this?” I ask.

  “We take whatever they give us. We’re the tokens.”

  I furrow my brow in a question, and he explains: “You’re the token woman and I’m the token Black guy. We’re just trying to not be the first to die.”

  Not sure that’s very “PC,” but it’s pretty funny.

  “FOX,” Elliott says, “c’mon, do me.”

  I turn back with an expression of excuse me, what, now? But that’s not an overt come-on. Elliott beckons for me to come at him — he wants a new name, too.

  I narrow my eyes and fold my arms like I’m thinking deeply. “You’re named after Eliot Ness, right?”

  Elliott flinches. “You remember that?”

  “Yeah. And he was the leader of the Untouchables.”

  He waits for my conclusion.

  “HAMMER.” I lean back in my desk chair like that seals it.

  “Hm?”

  “You can’t touch this.”

  Elliott mock-rolls his eyes. “OTIS was better.”

  “No way.” Rashad jerks his head in my direction. “She’s doing mine next time.”

  “Hey.” Elliott holds out a hand to go along with a give-me-some-credit-here face. “You like yours, don’t you, T?”

  “Almost as much as I like yours.”

  “C’mon, what’s more fitting than calling you ‘FOX’?”

  I grin. He totally set himself up. “Calling you ‘HAM.’”

  Elliott laughs with the rest of us, and we drift back to work. I’m about done with my report when Elliott drops a manila folder on my desk. A couple papers fan out across the desktop. I look up. “Done already?”

  “Yeah.” He slides the folder closer, like he doesn’t want to give a high-level report first.

  Fine. I flip it open — and stop. The top page is a scan of a passport, and smiling up at me is a photo of Danny.

  I slowly raise my eyes to meet Elliott’s. “What is this?”

  He purses his lips as if to say I’m smarter than that.

  “This is a total misappropriation of resources —”

  “It’s not his real traces; just something I threw together.” Elliott waits for me to accept that argument, and when I don’t, he tries again. “We’ll do a background check when you get married anyway.”

  I slap the folder shut, forcing my climbing heart rate to slow. “I know you’re all tied down, but we’re just going on a second date. Don’t get excited.”

  I expect Elliott to attack back. Instead, he raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But never hurts to be informed.”

  Right. To make my point, I shove the folder into a desk drawer. Elliott heads back to his desk. But he only makes it a few seconds before he’s on my case again. “Wait, T — your date is this Saturday?”

  I swivel back on him, ready to let into him, but then I see his face. He isn’t teasing again. He’s still sincere.

  Always bad news. “Yes, this Saturday. Why?”

  The apology in his tone is 100% real. “That’s Vasily’s next competition.”

  Of course. Of course. Of course.

  Some days, I hate my life.

  Wednesday evening, Campbell brings his Xbox 360 and Joel over for pizza and the chance to use my bigger, better flat screen.

  Yeah, yeah, I’m a single guy with disposable income. I buy stupid electronics. Sue me.

  I can only play video games for an hour or two before it starts to get monotonous. Shoot the bad guys, more come back, etc., etc. But this passes for my social life, so I play along. Half an hour after I’m really thinking about AeroTechCanada’s wingtips, Joel pauses the game to grab more soda, and then my phone rings. Out of nowhere, my throat instinctively tightens, random PTSD that has nothing to do with this war game. I’m not expecting a call.

  Could be Kendra.

  No, I know it’s not her. Can’t be. She doesn’t have this number.

  Unless my mom gave it to her.

  I push down the panic and pull out my phone. The display reads Talia.

  Now I’m nervous for a different reason — but a good nervous. I hope. Without any explanation to the guys, I duck into the spare bedroom to answer. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Danny? It’s Talia.”

  “Hey, how are you?”

  “Um, could be better, because . . . I’ve got bad news.”

  I don’t allow my pulse to rise. No other response. “What’s that?”

  “I was really excited about our date, but —”

  Was? But? Oh, this’ll be good.

  “I just got three huge cases dumped in my lap, and I’ll be stuck putting out fires all day Saturday.”

  Now my heart sinks. I try to keep the disappointment out of my words. “That’s too bad.”

  Could this be a tactic to get out of a date? To control me? I remember that moment that almost made me turn her down when she asked me out, when she backpedaled and that little voice in the back of my brain screamed Talia was manipulating me into going out.

  That little voice sounds a lot like Kendra.

  “I’m so sorry,” Talia cuts into my thoughts. “Can I get a rain check?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I silence the screaming in my mind and try to keep my tone on the safe side of flirting. “But I was looking forward to kittens.”

  “Bet you’ve done nothing but daydream about running through the wildflowers with some adorable little furballs.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  She might be kidding, but my chest does feel hollow. I was looking forward to our date. “I’ll need, like, six or seven pictures of kittens to get over this. Or to retain the will to live.”

  I can just see her doing the blink-tilt-recalculating thing and practically hear her smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “They’ll have to be extra cute. Cuteness overload.”

  She laughs, but her keyboard clicks in the background. Not ready to give her up to work yet. “What kind of cases do you handle?”

  “I’m a litigation intern — so mostly scut work and whatever else they want me to do. Couldn’t go into too much detail anyway; confidentiality, you know. Plus, it’d bore you to death, and that’d probably double my kitten debt.”

  “Maybe triple.”

  “Exactly. Better avoid the topic of work. Although I bet that aerospace gig isn’t boring.”

  The tension in my shoulders releases a little. She’s not trying to cut and run or play games. She actually sounds like she doesn’t want this conversation to end.

  Only logical to settle in and talk. “I don’t think it’s boring, but I won’t make you listen to the ins-and-outs of the latest fluid dynamic trials.”

  “I dunno, I’m already racking up a massive cute-debt. Might need help working it off.”

  I glance around the room. Crud. Unless I want to plop down on a cardboard box of stuff I hauled nine hours and six hundred miles to not unpack, there’s nowhere to sit. Why couldn’t I have picked my room? Yeah, it’s ten feet farther away, but — great.

  Talia sighs. “I should get back to work.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “Believe me, I’m not.” But she gets off the phone anyway — before I have a chance to hammer down when that rain check would be. Something tells me it’ll be harder to cash that check than it was to get out of Beth’s reach.

  Just when I was getting my hopes up.

  I return to my living room, but only one of my friends is still there. I know I wasn’t gone that long. “Where’s Joel?”

  “His girlfriend called.” Campbell mimics cracking a whip.

  No comment on why I left.

  “Been meaning to talk to you,” Campbell continues. He points past me, down the hall. “Did you say you have a spare bedroom?”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “What’s your rent like?
”

  I tell him, but I’m not hiding the eyebrow of skepticism. “Why?”

  “Landlord’s doubling my rent. Looking for a roommate?”

  Hard to say no to halving my bills every month, and Campbell’s a cool guy. “Sure. When do you want to move in?”

  “I have to be out by the end of the month.”

  “That’ll work.” I think. “Oh, wait — my mom will be in town that weekend.”

  “Is she staying here?”

  “Not sure. Maybe.”

  Campbell considers that. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “Cool.”

  Then the freight train traveling at sixty kph from New York collides with the ninety kph train from Boston. I really hope Talia doesn’t try to cash that rain check while my mother’s in town. Don’t see that ending well. For all the pressure she puts on me to date, nobody’s good enough for her son. Nobody except one girl.

  Not going there.

  I pick up my controller again, but I’m hardly paying enough attention to do well in the game. When my phone buzzes, I’m grateful for the distraction. A text. From Talia. I open it to find a picture of a tiny cat asleep in a teacup. This has got to count for at least two kittens. Right?

  I press my lips together to hide the smile from Campbell. I dunno, I text back. It’s so small, it might only be a half a kitten.

  At this rate, I’ll be in cute bankruptcy before I can use that rain check.

  I text her back: Just be sure to cash in by Aug 30. Limited time offer.

  Yep, manipulation. Awesome. I learned from the best, but it’s not a lesson I want to pass on.

  On the other hand, Talia and my mom will not mix. I’m doing this to protect them both.

  Talia doesn’t seem too concerned. I’ll see what I can do. I understand you’re in high demand.

  I text one last time: Ha.

  You know, it’s totally rational to be this excited to go out with her. Now to make sure we cash that rain check.

  Once again, I’m spending the weekend away from the man I’d like to be getting to know. Plus, the last time I was in a poofy, froufy, sparkly dress was supposed to be the last time. But here I am, waiting in the wings at another ballroom competition, nerves battling in my middle.

  I was anticipating nerves today, but they were supposed to be over my date with Danny instead of trying to get in with the head of a (so far untraceable) spy ring so he’ll recruit me.

  “You got this,” Elliott whispers to me. He massages my shoulders. “Gord” and “Joanne” might interact like that, but I have to jerk away. Too tense to enjoy that (and still a little strange).

  If Danny were here, he’d know better than to reassure me. He knows I perform better under pressure and I’d rather be pushed to do my best than reassured. And he’d know better than to try to touch me. Or maybe I wouldn’t mind him trying.

  Though if Danny were here, I’d be hiding in the bathroom, figuring out how to get him out of the building.

  Fortunately, he’s not even in the same city — we drove to Montréal for this — and Elliott and I have already made it through the first round. They announce the first half of the Latin semi-finals, our event, and Elliott holds out his hand. My palms are sweaty but oh well. Gord and Joanne are on.

  We strut to the floor, and I slap on a smile over the nerves. I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this.

  Stupid how scared I am to mess this up, when winning isn’t our objective today. In fact, messing up’s our strategy: get me closer to Vasily, whether that means me flirting or me falling.

  He and Galina are in this heat, too, which hurts our chances at the finals. Elliott and I reach our spot on the floor and do a double underarm turn, him releasing me into a solo spin to take our positions. I strike my pose for the first dance, the cha cha, and make eye contact with Elliott. He glances in the direction of Vasily’s red shirt and gives me the subtlest nod.

  Yep. I’ll be taking a fall in this heat.

  Having a concrete objective calms my nerves a little, and the music blasting over the loudspeakers covers up the rest of the jitters. Here we go.

  The first song is too soon to make a move on Vasily, so I concentrate on the performance. I catch the beat, catch my breath and catch my skirt. I swish the neon green poofs around my legs and strut in a circle. In any other context, this would look totally bizarre, but here, I’m anxious about not exaggerateing the movements enough. Elliott starts for me and I sashay away, only to reverse the chase on him in the next count. Finally he takes my hand, spins me, and pulls me into the closed formation for the dance. I concentrate on hitting my marks with my feet, hips, hands, posture, smile.

  Another turn rotates us into an open formation, following the steps side by side, until we freeze in a mid-step pose for a second. Before we start into motion again, the music fades.

  “Samba,” the announcer echoes. Elliott checks his shoe soles. (Don’t worry, his sequins are all in place.) We take our positions. When the beat booms through my rib cage again, I arch my back, circling my hips wide.

  Again, this would be bizarre anywhere else.

  Although keeping up this snake-like movement takes more concentration than the cha cha, I glimpse Vasily’s red sparkly shirt. Not close enough to make our move.

  Samba runs long, it seems, but Elliott made sure our routines covered an extra minute. (Each dance only lasts ninety seconds, and no, there’s no “overtime.”)

  We bow for the samba and move to our positions for rumba. For some reason, these routines always seem to begin with posing, gesturing and posturing. I go through my poses as Elliott slowly advances on me with his own stylized steps.

  Rumba is even harder for me than samba, but that has less to do with the footwork and more to do with how we’re supposed to stare into one another’s eyes with passion.

  I have a hard time staring into Elliott’s eyes without laughing. Especially seeing him dance. In spandex. And stage makeup. And — glitter?

  Don’t get me wrong — he’s good — he’s way better than me. But to see a guy I know like Elliott swiveling his hips, spinning, kicking . . . yeah. Laughter is the right response.

  Fortunately, I’m also supposed to tease and reject him in this dance, and that I can do. But just as we’re getting to the good part, I see a flash of red in the middle of a turn.

  Vasily’s right next to us.

  “Time,” Elliott says. That’s all the warning I get before he spins me out — and directly into Vasily.

  I bounce off him, sending me sprawling on the floor. A collective gasp rises from the room. Vasily stumbles, but barely breaks rhythm.

  The music fades before Elliott reaches me, and as soon as he’s done with his own hip wiggling, Vasily’s kneeling by me. “Are you hurt?”

  Phase one: check. Now to suck him in. I shake my head without making eye contact.

  “What did you do to me?” Elliott demands. Those words hit like a slap. I flinch away from him — and that’s not acting. Because for a split second, it’s not Elliott standing over me.

  It’s my mother.

  Vasily helps me to my feet, glaring daggers at Elliott. “Do you need any help?” Vasily asks me.

  I don’t trust my voice, but I manage to shake my head, still staring down. Elliott steps up to pry me from Vasily’s grasp and push his arm away. “She’s fine.”

  Finally I shove all my emotions into the right places. This is Elliott. He’s supposed to act this way to help me draw Vasily in, playing Gord as my high-handed partner. Not an eerie imitation of my mom.

  A judge, a middle-aged woman in a floor-length glittery dress, reaches us. “Can you go on?” she asks me.

  I let my eyes grow wider, flicking between Elliott and Vasily and back. Elliott sends me a not-so-subtle signal, tell the nice woman yes, and I nod, my gaze locked on his.

  “The paso doble,” the announcer interrupts, exaggerating his pronunciation. Elliott grunts, which probably means the announcer said it wrong
anyway.

  The judge backs off, and I shuffle to my position to start the second-to-last dance. The dance is supposed to imitate a matador (Elliott) and his cape (me). Elliott casts a pointed look at my feet — no, my knees.

  Got it: fake an injury.

  The music starts. Within eight bars, my feet are slow, my hips are off, and I’m obviously favoring my “good” leg. As soon as Elliott’s got me in the closed formation, he bows closer to me (poor form). “You okay?”

  I grimace to cover my wink and follow his underarm turn. But again, I’m too slow. Instead of meeting him at the end of the turn, I trip on his foot.

  And bump into Vasily again. “Sorry,” I murmur. He doesn’t look my way, absorbed in his own dance, but I know he heard.

  Probably enough. I hobble off the floor to the stands. Elliott plays his role to the hilt, continuing our paso doble routine alone. He looks extra ridiculous waiting for no one to spin and turn with him.

  The paso doble ends, and Elliott strides from the floor in my direction. I shift a fraction of an inch to see Vasily watching him.

  “Jive!” the announcer calls the last dance.

  Before the music starts, Elliott reaches me. He seizes my upper arm and drags me to half-standing. “Dance,” he barks.

  “I can’t —”

  “Because you’re embarrassed?”

  “Because I’m hurt!”

  He drops my arm. I slam down onto the wooden bleachers, and Elliott marches off.

  Through the last song, I fold my arms and let my head hang. Feels like ages pass, though it’s only a few minutes before the music’s done, the announcer’s pumped up the crowd, and the dancers are filing off the floor — past the bleachers where I’m sitting.

  Let Vasily approach me. Let Vasily approach me. Let Vasily approach me.

  “Excuse me,” comes that now-familiar accent. “Are you hurt?”

  I look up, sniffling conspicuously. “I’m fine.”

  “Because it seems like you’re injured.”

  “Joanne?” Vasily’s partner, Galina, takes a seat next to me, her skinny arm across my shoulders. “No man should treat his partner this way.”

  Vasily settles on my opposite side, and I look to him, like I’m verifying Galina’s reassurances. He agrees.