Prince Charming

by CD Reiss

  I told myself he would never be fully honest with me unless I forced his hand. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. What I couldn’t deny was that the little sleight-of-hand specialist inside me had been sleeping for a long time and was wide awake now that Keaton Bridge was in her life.

  And he’d either known I’d steal his wallet or he carried around a lot of useless shit.

  Between the last five and the first single is a small yellow Post-It with a note written in pencil.

  You will return this to me in two nights.

  My blood turns to ice. My fingertips go numb and tingly. He knew. He tested me and I passed, or failed. I have no idea which. I pull it off the five and turn it over.

  Artful Dodger.

  It sounds as if he approves, at least if he approves of a master pickpocket in Oliver Twist. And who doesn’t approve of Dickens?

  In some twisted way, he wants me to know him, but he wants me to take the information from him.

  That kiss. His body. The control and command of him, even when I was throwing him against a car. His hardness against me. His scent is on the collar of my coat. He’s a good kisser. A fantastic kisser. In the kissing department, he’s king.

  I close the wallet and notice a circular worn patch, beige against brown, a size smaller than a dime. I run my finger over it. There’s something in there, but I didn’t see it when the wallet was open.

  I never got caught before, but this time will be different. The time I had the wallet in my hand outside the airport parking lot doesn’t count. I cried and claimed I found it. Mom slapped my wrist, and we laughed when the cop let me go. The law’s disapproval would never weigh on me with the same force as my mother’s approval lifted me.

  I turn the wallet around in my hands, looking for the place where the coin sits regularly enough to wear out the leather. I find a place in the billfold where the lining isn’t stitched and take out the silver disk. It’s heavier than I expected, marked with raised lines that adhere to the shape of the circle. The lines are broken in places that seem random. It’s like a fingerprint, a labyrinth, a code pressed into metal. The other side is the same, but with a different random pattern. I click my fingernail along the surface.

  I’m going to have to answer for this, and I stop my nail.

  My relationship with Keaton is impossible to define, but it’s something. It exists. It’s a living thing, growing, changing, becoming a part of my life whether I want it or not.

  And having stolen his wallet as if this was a game? How’s that going to affect it?

  I may not trust him, but what have I done to earn his trust?

  I question myself, naked, sitting on my toilet, with a stolen wallet in my lap as if I’m seven years old again, when my phone rattles across the vanity.

  If it’s Keaton, I’m going to apologize right away, even if he calls me Artful Dodger with all the respect and approval in the world.

  But it’s not Keaton.

 

 

 

  I shut the phone, turn the shower to cold, and am out the door in eight minutes.

  18

  cassie

  We converge on the hospital in Springfield. I’m running like a dog to keep up, collect crime scene evidence, take notes, get the story straight. With no access to a secure channel, the Post-It does no good in my pocket. I can’t even tell anyone about it until I know where it leads.

  The sun is just about up when we’re called into a briefing. No one’s tired. Our blood is infused with adrenaline and caffeine. Three agents have been hospitalized. None are in critical condition, but nevertheless, the very idea that someone shot at federal agents is not going down well.

  We’ve taken over a small education room on the first floor of the hospital. The blinds are open onto the parking lot. The chairs are kid-sized and the walls are decorated with the letters of the alphabet. Frieda sits next to me. She’s dug her notebook from the bottom of her bag, and she taps her pen on an open page.

  “They’re going to want to wipe these guys from the face of the earth now,” Frieda says softly as I get out my own notebook.

  “Any intel on how they were tipped off?”

  “Nope.”

  You’re at greatest risk of being attacked when you attack, and greatest risk of being seen when you seek.

  Was it me? Everyone knows I’ve been trying to access Third Psyche for months. Did my single-minded pursuit of Third Psyche cause the ambush?

  I turn away, looking out the window. I hear Orlando quite clearly. I catch every word he’s saying, every fact he states, and take notes. But I’m completely distracted by what part I may have had in this.

  A black Lexus pulls into the lot, going too fast, screeching into a spot. I’m not the only one looking out, but I’m the only one who knows who’s driving before the car’s in park.

  I shut the blinds. “Focus, people.”

  Orlando nods his thanks, and I nod back. So I’m sure it looks strange when I slip out of the briefing into the hallway. When the room’s door clicks shut behind me, I bolt through the double doors.

  “No running!” a nurse calls as I pass.

  Fuck her. I burst into the empty ER waiting room just as the doors slide open for Keaton.

  He’s a wreck. Shirt untucked. Hair uncombed. A wild look in his eye that’s not hungry or sexual, but violent; as if he came to settle scores. His gaze lands on me and I freeze in place, watching his hands go from fists to question marks. Feeling the tension crack and break.

  “Sir?”

  A man’s voice. To my right.

  Security or police.

  If he’s waylaid, he might be seen, might be held or questioned.

  Nope. Not today.

  I reach for my back pocket and take out my wallet, flipping it open so the badge and ID show. “Federal agent.” I don’t take my eyes off Keaton as he takes heavy breaths, chest rising and falling as if he’s run a mile. “I need a secure location.”

  In my peripheral vision, the security guard looks at my ID. “This way.”

  I tilt my head to Keaton and follow the security guard without a word. He unlocks a door to a small, utilitarian office.

  “Thank you.” I point at Keaton, who’s two steps behind me. “Sir.”

  He’s in. I’m in. The door is closed. Locked.

  “What the—?”

  I never finish my sentence. He’s kissing me, and I don’t have the alarm bells whistling loud enough to use a defensive maneuver. I let him kiss me, run his hands over my back, take me in his arms as if we’ve just survived something traumatic.

  “I caught it on the scanner this morning,” he says between kisses.

  “What? The shooting?”

  “I thought it was you. I thought they shot you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I thought it was my fault. I thought they saw you on the forum and came for you.”

  I push him off me so I can speak for more than two words without getting kissed. “I haven’t even logged on yet.”

  “Thank God. Thank God, thank God. I would have committed murder if they hurt a hair on your head. Cassie. Listen. “

  “I was looking in your wallet when I got a call. I’m sorry I took it.”

  “You think I care about the wallet? Jesus, woman. When I thought you were hurt… I thought I’d never see you again.”

  I open my mouth to ask him what’s happened? What’s changed? We haven’t even slept together, yet his intensity has a traction I cannot resist, and no words come out.

  “You don’t trust me,” he says.

  The words come out without a thought. Instinct speaks. “I don’t.”

  His hand goes under my skirt, between my legs, over the fabric of my underwear. He presses against me. I’m swollen and wet already.

  “Should I touch you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper in the shape of a groan, leaning back on the desk.

  He presses my legs open
. “Say my name.”

  “Keaton,” I gasp as he rubs against me.

  He’s fierce and demanding. His hand has one goal only. To make me feel him through the fabric. “Wrong. Tell me my name.”

  I can barely breathe. I don’t know what he wants, but I sure as hell want to give it to him. “Alpha Wolf, a.k.a.… whatever. You have a million aliases.”

  His fingers swirl, gathering up sensation as if he wants to mold it around me, but he does not get under the fabric, where my deepest want lies. “My real name. Cassandra, tell me my real name.”

  His real name? Is that an option? He has a real name? Of course he does. Of course Keaton Bridge isn’t his real name. I knew this, and he knows I know this. Is this a test? A trick? I open my mouth to ask what I’m supposed to know and how it overlays what he thinks I know and what he wants out of me, but he finally slides his hand under my underwear and touches me where I’m tender and wet. My back arches, but he only strokes gently enough to push me against my orgasm without pushing me over into it.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No, please don’t stop.” I can only whine and beg at this point.

  He leans close to me until I feel his words more clearly than I hear them. “You don’t know my real name. And you want me to touch you between your legs?”

  I look him in the eye. The twilight blue of them is almost navy in the shadows.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “You want me to make you come?”

  “Make me come.”

  His fingers move along my seam, gathering moisture. I’m so close, and so at his command, that I will say anything. I’ll even tell him the truth that I haven’t told myself. Slowly and deliberately, he slides three fingers inside me. I push against him until they can’t go deeper.

  “First, I’m going to own your pussy, then I’m taking the rest of you. Every day is precious, Cassie.” His thumb brushes against my clit. “I realized today that your trust is too. I want it, and I’m going to have it.”

  His hand works me, pushing inside, thumb giving friction against my slick nub.

  He lets me come, and he stretches my orgasm to obscene heights, watching me squirm and bite back a groan as he touches me only enough to give me more pleasure than I ever thought possible.

  When I’m reduced to panting and pain, he cups his hand between my legs as if he’s protecting what’s under there.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” he says when he pulls his hand out of my underwear.

  “Me too. Next time just call me.”

  He picks a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wipes his hand, smiles a little, then kisses my cheek tenderly. His lips brush the heat away from my skin and replace it with a new warmth that runs hot with passion and warm with comfort. Whatever enflamed him when he arrived had dissipated.

  “What would be the fun of that?” He helps me up, smoothing my skirt.

  “You have a point.”

  He presses his lips to my cheek, lingering over my skin. “Be ready to see me tomorrow night.”

  19

  cassie

  I put Keaton’s Post-It on my desk and fold it so I can see the handwritten link. It’s been shortened. It’ll report back to whoever made it. Keaton will know when I log on. I’m not disturbed. I like that he knows. I feel both protected and aggressive in a show-offy way. I want him to see me.

  I set up the secure VPN so the Bureau can track my activity, but hackers can’t. I’m completely cloaked when I open Tor, the secure browser that manages access to the dark web, and I carefully type in the link. It connects to the log-in page for Third Psyche.

  Thank you, Keaton Bridge.

  Before I can note a single element of the site, it flickers and goes to deep blue with yellow letters.

  —SORRY—

  THIS PAGE HAS BEEN SENT BACK TO HELL

  Fuck. I’m glad I didn’t open it in front of everyone, only to be embarrassed, but fuck just the same.

  Was it shut down by hackers? Anonymous? Did they get a whiff that I was looking? Or did Keaton move the link to protect me?

  I have a feeling it was a version of the latter.

  So what do I want out of Keaton now that he’s ripped the site from under his link? Walking down the hall to the coffee machine, I consider what he has to offer and whether or not it’s the same as what I want.

  The hallway is windowless, and the dull, dead institutional shade of green is the same on the floor, ceiling, and walls. The light over the utility closet has always buzzed. When I think of getting promoted, I think of this hallway. One day I’m going to see it for the last time. On the way out of here, I’m going to say goodbye to that buzzing light and that brain-dulling shade of green.

  At the end, I turn left toward coffee and find Frieda’s beaten me there.

  “Hey, I have gossip.” She blows on her coffee. “We’re getting a pay grade packet next week. I’m due for a GS-12.”

  The packets are sent quarterly from Quantico, and include all our promotions and pay grade changes. I’d totally forgotten to worry about it.

  “You’ll get it,” I say.

  “Keep your nose clean with Smirkypants,” she scolds. “At least until this is cleared up.”

  She knows me. She knows I’m not attracted to a guy that often and she can tell Mr. Smirkypants is different.

  “Promise,” I say, holding up two fingers.

  She pats my shoulder and walks out. She’s a good friend. Something about sisterhood flies across my brain and hooks onto my job before it’s gone. It demands attention.

  There’s another sister in town, and she’s a hacker.

  20

  cassie

  It’s funny watching a millionaire bag groceries, but Harper Barrington was in the habit of helping the store owners before she met Taylor or went to Stanford.

  She has on a masculine plaid car coat with sleeves halfway down her fingers. It doesn’t get in the way of her lightning-fast cashiering, nor does the length of the line get in the way of her small talk with the customers.

  “Hi,” I say when I finally get to the front of the line.

  “Hey.” She does a double-take on my face as she moves the loaf of bread along. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “I think I met you in front of the Barrington mansion?”

  She takes a split second to tap her forehead when she remembers. Behind her, a girl in her twenties comes up behind and puts her bag in a cabinet.

  “Hey, Trude,” Harper says to the girl before she turns her attention back to me and the groceries I’ve come a long way to get. “The day you came for Keaton. FBI. Agent Grinstead. You want a separate bag for the eggs?”

  “No.”

  “I hope he didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

  “I think I caused him more trouble than he caused me.”

  “Good. Twenty-seven forty-nine please.”

  I hand her thirty. “I was wondering—”

  “Trudy, honey,” Harper calls behind her, “the credit card slips are in the envelope.”

  Trudy and Harper go on about bags and cash and rolls of quarters as Harper plucks my change out of the drawer. I’m sure she’s finished when I continue.

  “Thanks,” I start. “Do you think—”

  “Did Johnny go to the bank?” Trudy asks, unzipping a green canvas case.

  “Yesterday,” Harper replies, handing me my change.

  The pimply boy at the end of the counter bags everything efficiently. I decide this has gone poorly and I’m going to have to try something else after I drop the bags of groceries home.

  “You got this?” Harper asks Trudy, pulling the drawer out of the register.

  “Yeah,” Trudy says as I head out with a heavy bag in each arm.

  I’m putting them in my trunk when Harper calls me from the top of the store’s steps.

  “Hey! Cassie!” She clatters down the wood steps.

  “Yes?” I’m pretty amazed that she remembered my nam
e from hearing it once, months ago.

  “You sounded like you wanted to talk to me?”

  “I’ve never met anyone so eager to talk to an FBI agent.” I close the trunk.

  “Here’s what I know. If you want to talk to me, you’re gonna. I can avoid it or just get on with it. But do I need a lawyer or something?”

  Does she need a lawyer? Am I buying groceries in Barrington on official business, or am I here on a personal call?

  “Tell you what,” I say. “If we get into sketchy territory, I’ll let you know.”

  “You hungry?”

  She indicates the hamburger joint next to the store. It had been closed for business until the previous month. Now it’s a hub of activity. It’s already late. I could use dinner, and I didn’t buy anything all too perishable.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Harper trots off toward the restaurant.

  * * *

  She knows the owners, who are long-time Barrington residents. We’re seated in the back where it’s quiet. We both order our burgers rare.

  “So, you go grocery shopping in Barrington often?” She pokes her Coke with her straw, letting the insinuation that I went very far out of my way for a few boxes of pasta hang in the air.

  “Almost never, but you carry Standoff’s Bakery. I’ve been curious about the cupcakes.”

  “Hm.” Poke. Poke. “Where’s the guy you came to the door with? Ken, was it?”

  “Got shot last night.”

  She coughs as if she’s choking on her own spit.

  I wait until she finishes. “It’s nothing you can’t read in the papers.”

  “Here? Barrington? Doverton?”

  “Springfield. He’s going to be fine. Just a flesh wound.”

  She shakes her head. Springfield is as near to an inner city as we get. The mythology is if bad stuff’s going to happen, it’s going to be there.