“So you declined?” Dawson asked.
Bastard had already apprised them of it. “Yep. Sorry. Did he bring you both out here just thinking I’d say yes?”
“No, we had to debrief,” Laurel said.
Dawson sighed. “And debrief some more. And sign confidentiality agreements. West scares me.”
“They sent some boring suits to my place last week for my debriefing and paper signing,” I said. “Thankfully I avoided him in that instance.”
“I can’t believe he’s PTI,” Laurel said with the shake of her head.
“Am I the only one who didn’t know they even existed?” I asked.
“A lot of Pulse conspiracy and underground networks have mentioned them,” Dawson said. “But they’re not mainstream. But yeah...” He slipped through the doorway into the foyer ahead of us. “All this time he was one of the good guys.”
Laurel cleared her throat, and something about it chilled my veins.
“What?” I asked as I glanced at her.
“It’s just...” She looked back and I did the same, but West still wasn’t following. Regardless, she lowered her voice as we walked through the foyer. “I know the kinds of things he did as part of this job. None of that was an exaggeration. You don’t hire a good guy to go undercover for someone like Ashford.”
I sucked in a breath, my stomach twisting again.
She wasn’t wrong. If you want someone to lie and betray, you don’t send in a Boy Scout. You send someone with no moral qualms about getting the job done. And I was quite glad I hadn’t accepted anything from the PTI—with any luck, this would be the end of my association with them. West...West intrigued me. But when he held that knife to my daughter, undercover or not, I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t’ve used it if mission called for it.
And I had a problem with that.
We stepped outside the villa and down the front stairs. Emaleth continually tugged on my hand, being drawn back to me as she started toward damn near everything she saw. Em didn’t see big houses like this as my brother and his boyfriend came to my place over the holidays—everything was new, interesting, and waiting to be explored.
It would be nice to offer that to her, but...not yet.
One of the cars was gone—probably Moti’s. Laurel went toward an SUV and Dawson started for the passenger side.
“I’ll give you a call when I land,” he said with a bright smile.
It was too bad he was going home—him, I’d definitely keep around. Ah, hell, maybe Laurel too—she was still here, not even blinking at West’s suggestion, so maybe the treasure hunting bug had bitten her somehow after all. I stepped off the bottom stair, let go of Em, and went straight over to give Dawson a hug. He returned it, squeezing me hard enough to break a rib and lifting me briefly off my feet, but I could only chuckle.
“We’ll chat soon,” I promised.
“You bet.” He climbed in the passenger seat.
Laurel was about to head into the front when I threw my arms around her and gave her a hug as well. She let out a sudden awkward squeak, patted my back, and all but froze like she didn’t know what to do.
Which of course just made me hug her a beat longer.
“Maybe vet future employers a little better next time,” I suggested.
“Definitely. Try not to get arrested for a while.” She popped open the door and slipped inside.
“No promises.” I stepped back and watched the car speed off; beneath the sound was footsteps on the stairs and I wasn’t surprised to see West there.
He paused on the bottom step, tracked the retreating car with his eyes, then looked at me. “I don’t get a hug?”
For fuck’s sake... “Em, go get in the car.”
She did so without argument, even shutting the door so any conversation would be muffled on her end.
I stepped slowly toward him and he made me go the entire distance, not offering to make a single move toward me. Just a grin. The cat waiting to snatch up a mouse. I didn’t know where the trap was or when I’d see it, but I was sure I’d be snapped in half eventually.
Though I climbed the bottom step to face him, I kept my hands in my pockets. “There’s something that’s been bothering me.”
“Can’t imagine what.”
I chewed at the inside of my mouth. Scrutinizing the expression of a trained, professional liar was pretty much impossible. “The Pulse happened four years ago. But if you’ve been undercover for three...that means your organization is at least three years old. I’ve done a lot of committee work and I used to date a politician’s son—government-like departments, councils, and committees do not form overnight, and do not gain any sort of organization in one year or less. Or even ten. Care to explain if there’s some factor in this equation I’m missing since my math isn’t adding up?”
He remained locked on my eyes and if any of this had made him nervous, he of course didn’t show it. “The trouble, Olivia, is that you’re assuming the Pulse four years ago was the first.”
A chill crawled up my spine, my heart hammering wildly. Like the blinders were shifting, a new world was opening—one I tried desperately to clamp back down again, despite my natural curiosity, because I wasn’t ready for all this.
And because I didn’t think he’d tell me more about it anyway.
I bit back questions, closed the six inches between us, but still didn’t remove my hands from my pockets for an embrace. Instead I leaned forward, on my toes, and pressed my lips to his jaw in a brief peck.
Just as he shifted to look down at me, I pulled back and stood flat on my heels again, my heart thudding like I’d run a marathon.
A moment of silence struck and wind stirred my loose hair, cutting strands across my face. “Goodbye, Mr. West.”
Still, I couldn’t read his expression. Nor did I bother trying. Instead I pulled my keys from my pocket and continued on to my car where Em waited.
“So is it going to be another no to dancing?” he called after me.
I pursed my lips, fighting a grin as I climbed in the car. “Not gonna happen, Buttons.”
❇
After dropping off the tuition check at the front desk, Emaleth and I rushed down the hall toward Miss Jennings’ first grade class.
“I’ll pick you up as usual.” My heels clicked on the tile floor at a steady clip, Em’s hand in mine. “After homework, maybe we can get pizza.”
She said nothing, but the closer we got to the classroom door, the more she dragged her feet.
At last I paused a meter from the door where her teacher and classmates were in the middle of a lesson, spun, and knelt in front of her. “What is it?”
Her big eyes seemed lighter than usual, and fat tears brimmed around the edges. “I don’t like school.”
“No one likes school, baby girl.”
“But they’re mean to me.” She nearly tipped into a wail and I winced.
“Who is? The other kids?”
She nodded.
This wasn’t the time or place for this discussion, and I truly blamed myself—I’d kept her home for so long, of course she didn’t want to go back. And the words were ready on my lips, the usual spiel about going in anyway, and putting up with it, and...
And it all rang hollow in my head—I couldn’t say it. Because my daughter was genuinely upset and I didn’t want to be one of those parents who patted her on the head and sent her on her way, pretending what she was feeling wasn’t valid. She’d been through things. Bad things. Things a six-year-old shouldn’t have to. And I wasn’t going to stuff her feelings under the proverbial rug, like my father would’ve.
I pressed my knees down on the tile to steady myself as I knew I might be crouched there for a few minutes and took her shoulders in my hands. “Kids are mean, sweetheart. Kids always have been and always will be. They say bad things to hurt your feelings, and they make fun of others, and I know it sucks. Kids will be mean now, and they’ll be mean when you’re a teenager. And one day,” I spared a
glance at Miss Jennings, where I could see her standing at the front of the room talking, no smile passing her lips, “they’ll grow up and be mean adults.”
Her bottom lip was trembling now.
“But,” I continued, “here’s what I want you to remember: they’re just trying their best. They have parents who weren’t very nice to them, or ignored them, or didn’t talk to them. They don’t know how to not be mean. When they say horrible things, and act stupid, it’s not because of you, it’s because of them. And at the end of the day, their best isn’t half as good as your worst.
“You’re a Ferrari, baby. And those mean kids? They’re not. They’re not built for speed. They can’t go as fast as you, can’t make the same turns, and aren’t flashy and awesome. It’s not their fault you’re smart and sensitive and fabulous—that you’re going faster than them. So they’ll try to slow you down, but no matter what—and no matter how badly you want to punch someone in the face—you have to remember you’re better than that, and you can’t let them get to you.”
Her tears had stopped but she still sort of looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “A Ferrari?”
“Yep.”
“Denny has a racing game with a Ferrari.”
“So you know what I mean. You know how some of the cars don’t go as fast while others do? That’s you, babe. You are a motherfucking Ferrari.” Her eyebrows damn near shot into her hairline, but some words are necessary for emphasis. “You are. Say it: I am a Ferrari.”
Em took a breath. “I am a Ferrari.”
“Good girl. And you don’t slow down for anyone. Are you ready to head back out on the road now? Work hard, speed past those other cars?”
She nodded and when I opened my arms to her, she flew into them. I gave her a tight hug, enjoying it for a moment—for now, I could tell her she was awesome and she’d believe me. Eventually, she wouldn’t. Eventually she’d be like every other little girl and have to find worth on her own. But for now I was Mommy, parent and deity in equal measure, and if I said she was a badass car, she’d believe me.
At last I let her go and stood. She gave me a nod and we walked up to the classroom door. This time I knocked as I was trying to set a good example.
Miss Jennings sharply turned our way, stared for a moment, then gestured for us to come in.
I took a breath, tried not to feel like I was the child in trouble, and then opened the door. A gentle nudge sent Em in ahead of me, knapsack thumping against her back. “Sorry we’re late,” I said. “I had to—”
Jennings gave me a dismissive wave. “It’s fine.” Immediately she looked away, focusing once more on the class.
Em gave me a sad look, then kept going.
I softly closed the door behind her, stepped back, but still watched. I should leave. She’d be fine, I knew. But my stomach twisted nervously and I couldn’t walk away. Not until she was settled and looking okay with things.
Emaleth took her seat, second row, third from the window. Miss Jennings turned toward the blackboard, jotting down notes like it was high school lit and not the ABCs they should be learning.
A kid behind Em poked her back with her pencil.
Two little girls snickered. I clenched my hands into fists—what the hell was this shit? I glanced at Miss Jennings, but if she noticed, she didn’t acknowledge the disturbance.
Again, the kid poked my daughter.
Em jumped and I strongly suspected the horrible brat used the pointed end of the pencil. My daughter turned back to glare at her and the girl made a face, saying something I had no doubt was snarky.
My protective instincts were overwhelming, suffocating as I stood there—how could her teacher not notice? These kids were in first grade, for Christ’s sake. Beginning of the year. This shit should be nipped in the bud.
I was reaching out to knock again when Emaleth suddenly stood and spun, her face painted crimson.
“You will leave me alone because I’m a motherfucking Ferrari!” Her voice carried straight through the door to me.
Oh...fuck.
Miss Jennings slapped a yardstick across the desk and Em jumped, swung around, her eyes wide and face still red. I caught a sharp reprimand and mention of the principal’s office.
This was bullshit. I opened the door before Em had taken one step.
“Ms. Talbot—”
I cut the teacher a look that silenced her on the spot. “Save it. Because you know what? This is a shit school, you’re a shit teacher, and my kid is too good to be here. She’s a motherfucking Ferrari! So you can bite me and my stripper ass.” I snapped my fingers and glanced at Em. “Get your stuff. Now.”
Emaleth didn’t waste time and the sound of her collecting her book bag was the only noise in the otherwise silent classroom. Even Miss Jennings stared, shocked to silence.
I should’ve dropped the f-bomb during our last parent/teacher meeting.
Em scurried past me and I slammed the door behind her. My pace toward the front of the building was just shy of a sprint and she struggled to keep up.
Truthfully, I wanted to get out before they called security.
“You said bad words in front of the teacher,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Yeah, well. You did it first.”
We paused by the office, where the receptionist held a telephone receiver to her ear and looked at me like I’d turned into a drakon. I plucked the check off her desk where she hadn’t filed it yet, tore it into eleventy-million pieces, then tossed it on her desk.
“Have a great motherfucking day,” I called, and hoofed it straight outside with Em behind me.
I kind of felt like ice cream.
❇
Em managed to drip some of her chocolate sundae on her white school shirt, which meant I probably wasn’t going to be able to sell it even secondhand to the poor parents like me who tried to send their kids to Norwood. Oh well. I’d let her tie-dye it and write “School Sux” or something on the back. She carried her sundae in one hand, Pru’s with a lid on it in the other, and I had a banana split in a container myself. I took care of closing the car doors, and then letting us into the house when we got home.
“Pru, Pru, Pru!” Em shouted, skipping taking off her shoes to run into the living room where Prudence waited. “We brought ice cream!”
“Um...” drifted out. I kicked off my boots and followed, finding Pru sitting on the couch with her laptop and a frown. “What?”
“We staged a rebellion.” I set my ice cream on the coffee table and slipped off my jacket. “I’m open to suggestions regarding one of your hippy schools, if you want.”
Prudence blinked at me. Oh, I couldn’t wait to give her this full story.
Em handed off the ice cream, stripped off her blazer, and sat in front of the coffee table to finish eating. “It was awesome.”
Pru shook her head. “Looking forward to hearing it. Did you get paid?”
“No.” Plastic crackled as I pulled the lid off my ice cream. “West offered me a villa.”
Em blinked at me. “What’s a villa?”
I stuffed a scoop of banana and vanilla ice cream in my mouth and mumbled around it. “Eat your damn ice cream before I send you back to school.”
“She also got Date Face,” Emaleth said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“West?” Pru guessed.
I shook my head and swallowed enough ice cream that I thought my brain was going to freeze. “Moss. Don’t judge. I know he’s...”
“You said McStalkerpants.”
“Yeah, but...the thing I want you to realize...” I sighed dramatically. “He’s really tall, Pru.”
She grinned and poked her spoon around the ice cream. “You’re terrible. By the way, Martin called.”
“Again?” I groaned and stared longingly the approximately five thousand calories of ice cream I really felt like I earned and needed.
“He said it’s urgent.”
Ugh. Well... I glanced at the phone. I was in a mood. A pretty decent
one, since I hadn’t started panicking yet. Dumped the oppressive school, scored a date, was offered—and turned down—a goddamn villa. Everything’s coming up Livi. “Fine. I’ll call him.”
I grabbed the phone and left the pair of them as Em tried to commandeer the television. Pru could handle her but would cave, I knew, because we both loved that little girl and enjoyed spoiling her. I carted the phone to my room where I could both change into comfy clothes and keep Em from hearing any more expletives, which tended to pop up when I talked to my brother.
His number was the last to call, so I cycled to it and hit dial. While it rang, I dug yoga pants and a T-shirt out, and started stripping out of my dress slacks.
“Hello?” Martin answered just as I was hopping on one foot, trying to get my pants off.
I lost my balance so plopped onto the end of the bed to finish. “You rang. I have a date with ice cream, though, so—”
“We need to talk.”
“We are talking.” I cast the pants behind, pinched the phone between my shoulder and ear, and reached for my yoga pants.
“I mean in person.”
“Martin, the last time we spoke, you had me arrested—”
“This is serious—”
“And you have thirty seconds. Ice cream melts.” I got my left foot into my pants, started with the right—
“Dad’s dead.”
I froze.
Silence ticked on, Martin’s steady breathing on the other end, but I didn’t really hear it—nothing was registering. The yoga pants dropped from my grip, crumpling on the floor.
“Livi?”
The phone was loose in my hands and I couldn’t make my fingers work to hold onto it any tighter. I blinked at the dresser ahead of me and try as I may, I couldn’t get my brain jumpstarted.
“Livi?” Martin repeated.
I still stared.
“Liv?”
❇❇❇
Acknowledgements
I’ve been working on Livi Talbot’s adventures since 2012 and there are numerous people I’d like to thank.
First, to the early readers of this book, Melissa Hayden and Danielle Kendall—West’s sister-wives—for their constant enthusiasm and support. They love these characters and this world like I do, and they encouraged me every step of the way.
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