“Oh—speaking of impressions, please tell me you aren’t planning to show up there in a variation of what you wore to dinner at CUT.”
She sank into the driver’s seat and almost moaned. Recovering, she said, “Not quite. Jeans and tank. There are no practices tonight, so I imagine your men will be unwinding. I thought it’d be more strategic to keep things casual tonight while they’re relaxing with their guards down and reserve the business attire for a more professional impression at orientation tomorrow.”
“Well. That makes sense. Startlingly so.”
That was no compliment. “I have a way of making sense sometimes. Your shock is disconcerting if not off-putting. Are you surprised that Eliza Dolittle might be competent, after all?”
“It wasn’t the kindest comment I could’ve made, I’ll agree,” Joan acknowledged, but she didn’t seem all that contrite.
“Why did you choose me, then?”
“It’s very practical, really. Since you’re ex-DEA, you have an in that can benefit my company. That you’re Waverly’s closest—and I’d venture to say most loyal—friend, makes you an excellent choice. You wouldn’t see our team face the embarrassment of media outcry if it would negatively impact her. It’s simply your way, and your way is of use to us.”
How would Joan react to learn that Meg’s loyalty to the Greers came with dangerous consequences? Would she still consider Meg of use or rather an unnecessary liability? From what she’d observed when each of J.T. and Joan’s daughters had slipped into a messy situation, the patriarch and matriarch tended to favor Villains damage control over all else—so chances of seeing them defend her in any fashion were pathetically slim.
But, as Meg had insisted to Remy, she didn’t ask for protection. Nor would she. Meg had acted in the right, knocking over the first domino that brought down the unregulated gambling network and game-fixing Antony Grimaldi was running with Jeremiah Tarantino’s father, Luca. Grimaldi had a duty to operate his businesses within the confines of the law. Tarantino had a duty to protect the Las Vegas Villains under his ownership. Their machinations were to blame for Grimaldi’s crumbling empire and Tarantino’s choices to first sell the franchise to the Greers and then attempt suicide while hiding from the law in Italy. Grimaldi remained under federal scrutiny and Tarantino’s current residence was a psychiatric hospital, but if either man had grievances against her, then she would manage them on her own.
Somehow.
Grimaldi had been arrested for putting a price on Tarantino’s head, but then the guy had slit his wrists before the hit could be executed. And disturbingly enough, only a few weeks ago the would-be hit man had recanted his confession before killing himself.
Meg glanced down the street in one direction then the next. Damn Remy for eliminating the hope that she was safe, for opening the Pandora’s box of debilitating fear that had her checking her home security system and taking her sidearm out of storage for cleaning.
“Drive safely, Meg.”
“Fine, no Die Hard high-speed chases.” This time the other woman gave in to a chuckle. “Joan, I do intend to complete this job successfully. I’d advise you to rest assured, but I know you won’t.”
Neither will I.
* * *
“At least there’s a full-size bed.” Meg wasn’t expecting an answer. She stood alone in her ten-by-twelve standard single room at the Villains’ training facility, Desert Luck Center. Considering very little expense appeared to have been spared in the design of the state-of-the-art buildings and striking outdoor space, she’d counted on a hotel vibe but found the sleeping quarters utilitarian and dormitory-esque. The rooms had been painted in neutral tones and decorated with a decidedly masculine scheme in mind. She was grateful that housekeeping had made an attempt to personalize the space before her last-minute arrival. The vibrant bouquet on the dresser was almost captivating enough to mask the woodsy scent of the plug-in air freshener, which she tugged out of the electrical outlet before stretching out across the silver-and-Villains-red plaid-covered bed.
The mattress could benefit from a pillow top, but it would suffice for one night. She supposed working a desk job for four years had spoiled her. While in DC she’d kept a pillow and blanket on site to nap on the floor, and during field assignments she’d taken sleep wherever she could find it. On the nights she was with Remy, the comfort of his body had been all she needed to sink into deep, undisturbed dreams.
The easy way her mind drifted to the man had her sitting up and shaking her head as if to reorganize her thoughts.
So carefully she had conditioned herself to shut down every beautiful memory of him and who she’d been when she had him in her life. He’d been her man, her love, the strength she felt elated to know was there should she need him.
That man didn’t exist anymore. Had he ever?
It was a question she wasn’t in the mood to contemplate. She was Quantico trained, had exceptional intellectual ability, and wasn’t weak-willed enough to allow him to distract her from the work she’d been hired to do at Desert Luck Center.
Meg unpacked quickly and devoted a few necessary minutes to reviewing the information she’d collected about NFL policies and the Las Vegas Villains specifically. Since agreeing to help the Greers identify the recreational drug users on their squad, she had been digging into research from player files to social media profiles to training regimens.
Because the Villains’ random drug testing historically was quite predictable for any weed-smoker who didn’t want to be found out—once a year, typically during training camp when the full roster was first gathered before the start of a season—she suspected all men would wait until midcamp to get high. It wasn’t unheard of, certainly wasn’t the only means to beat a drug test, and across the league there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that this was a common practice.
Though she’d remain watchful, she didn’t expect to have names at the ready until after the Villains’ testing commenced in August. That allowed her time—not much, a few weeks—to build a rapport, as Joan Greer had said.
If any players were to host a weed party to celebrate pissing clean, she needed to be on that guest list. In a manner of speaking her new employers had informed her of precisely this.
Meg touched up her makeup before locking her room and hazarding a sly tour of the building. She made it a priority to memorize who bunked with whom and tried to isolate the earthy smell marijuana left lingering in the air and on fabrics. Sniffing cologne and that fucking sandalwood that must be wafting out from every room in the building, she eventually sought the source of noise on the main floor.
The floor plan she’d reviewed previously informed that there were separate recreation rooms designated to players and staff. The one that held over half a hundred males and a sprinkle of female staff members was the players’ lounge.
This was the hot spot for the night. Noting the basic surroundings—luxurious leather seating, a spacious kitchen, computer stations, and flat-screen TVs offering a range of showings from ESPN to a sitcom to porn—she joined the gathering in the kitchen.
The men who’d let her through closed the space behind her and she felt as if she was lost in the woods. Most of the players she matched to roster photos were tall with intimidating muscular bulk, but the same could be said for many of Villains’ coaching and training staff. Testosterone pinged off the walls and vibrated in the air.
Catching the eye of another female, this one wearing an employee ID tag, she gave a friendly wave and received an impersonal once-over in return. Okay, so much for girl-to-girl friendship. It wasn’t a major loss, as Waverly was the only friend she expected to encounter at camp anyway. Waverly had made an appearance here this morning and after reporting to the Clark County Library to be Meg’s pillar of support, she’d said she was going home to her fiancé. That meant Meg was essentially on her own with strangers, which was a better scenario for what she hoped to accomplish.
She
didn’t need Waverly lingering and questioning her motives.
To no one specifically, she mentioned, “I was torn between watching the threesome on TV and coming in here for whatever’s baking. Guess I made the right choice.”
Grunts and laughter answered her, and someone said, “Coach’s making cookies.”
That would be… Meg peered around wide backs and thick arms as the men jostled each other and turned up beverages. The chef had blond hair, a ruddy suntan, and had hooked a pair of sunglasses onto his apron. Finn Walsh, the head coach. She knew the man had been brought on board when the Greers acquired the team and that he had a tendency to cuss and break sunglasses.
Looking again at the pair dangling from his apron, she noticed they were missing an arm and one of the lenses was cracked.
Giggling, she crossed her arms, poking the man in front of her. “Oh, sorry,” she said when he turned around. “Tight fit in here.”
“Nah, it’s cool. Hola, chica.”
Meg kept her eyes in the forward position, though they begged to roll to convey how unimpressed she was when men attempted to use Spanish—and dreadfully pronounced Spanish, at that—to hit on her.
And “Hey, girl” in English or Spanish never got her hot.
“Damn,” the man said, openly appraising her and doing a double take when he found her cane. Then, upon ultimately deciding the accessory was a nonissue, he turned on what he must define as charm but she’d call sleaze. “You’re sexy as fuck. Baby, what that mouth do?”
“For you, nada.”
The people whose attention had been on them hooted and catcalled, and she moved along until she’d wiggled her way to the massive counter where the head coach was setting out baking pans.
“Let them cool a few minutes. They’re hot enough to burn,” he cautioned, but she saw a sea of hands reach out anyway and promptly heard yelps and exclamations of “Ow, damn it!” and “That’s hot!”
“Do you suppose next time they’ll believe you, Coach Walsh?” Meg asked, amused.
“No, don’t think they will,” he predicted with a grim look. The crowd began to separate as some moved into the next room to wait for the cookies to reach a temperature that wouldn’t cause bodily harm. “You’re Meg, right?”
“’Fraid so.” She smiled, compelled to see if it might be contagious and could break up the man’s frown. “Who warned you about me?”
“J.T. and Joan did. Good to meet you.” He wiped his large hands on a napkin and in lieu of shaking hers, he gestured for her to join him where he stood near the double oven. Draping an arm over her shoulders, he shifted close to murmur, “I’m aware of why you’re really here. They looped me in.”
“Then you won’t interfere?”
“Do what you gotta do.” To the room at large he said, “Yo, everyone. This is Meg Fuentes. Emails went out about the drug prevention program we’ve got going through camp. If you didn’t get one, find somebody who did. Meg’s from the Office of Diversion Control and she’s in on the prevention program with the Good Samaritans of Nevada. So any questions, she’s your go-to person. But please, don’t ask her where to score the good shit. That’s not what she’s here for.”
“Actually, Finn,” she said sweetly, “I’m not official until the presentation at orientation. So at the moment I’m a woman who’s eating your food and enjoying free satellite TV.”
The response was a mix of friendly laughter and complaints that the front office had implanted a narc into their space.
Finn started lifting cookies off the baking sheets and onto pans. She picked up a chocolate chip cookie and took a bite.
And now for a little test. “Oh, that’s good. There are recipes floating around that incorporate alcohol. Rum, bourbon, Guinness—whatever you’re after. Not as potent as pot cookies, but they’re recreationally legal.”
The head coach started to send a frown her way but covered and continued his task. Meg was in tune with everyone in the room, her eyes performing a panoramic scan for changes in expression or stance that indicated interest that hadn’t been present before she mentioned pot cookies.
It was a subtle way to send out feelers and see what they’d turn up over the course of the night.
Three cookies and several conversations later, she made her way to the staff lounge and took the liberty of downing half a bottle of water to dilute some of the sugar and caffeine. Finn Walsh and the head athletic trainer—Whitaker Doyle, she believed—were inside consulting schedules over cold beer.
Meg reconsidered her water but opted to stay faithful and finish it.
Finn introduced her to the trainer, who was on his way out, then stood and stretched, looking at the twilight outside the windows. “Ballsy, what you said in the kitchen. Pot cookies.”
“I don’t know if anyone will bite. No one’s made up their mind about me yet.”
“To be on the level here, I haven’t made up my mind about you.”
“No?”
“No.” He strode past her to look out the door, then, leaving it open, he returned to the recesses of the room and signaled her over. “I’ve been working with the Greers for a year and I like to think I’m familiar with their…managerial style. Maybe they don’t cross the line to get things done, but they sure as hell will walk on it.”
“What does your judgment say should be done?”
“Eat up the expense of a second random drug test during the season, but the Greers want to avoid midseason lineup changes. They don’t want sponsors and the media scrutinizing how our team might handle things if the player happens to be someone we depend on to win games. Now, before game one, is the time to tidy up. If these men are smart, they’ll stay clean until after the annual test. Then we could be looking at dealing with somebody who’s getting high through the season or potentially putting them in a probationary program for a few months and facing the possibility of more fucking drama. So what I’m asking you is if you intend to use entrapment to bump a few high risks off my roster.”
She pitched her bottle into a recycling bin and took the seat Whitaker had vacated. “I’m not going to solicit drugs to anyone.”
“The guys noticed you. And the one who said that disrespectful comment to you is a new recruit, drafted as a tackle. I’ll handle him.” He relaxed, linking his fingers behind his head. “Correct me if I’m way off base here, but a lot of men are willing to take on certain personas if it means drilling a beautiful woman. Tread carefully if your plan is to put it out there that you smoke, snort, or shoot, whatever. A guy who’s ruled by his dick will make you think he’s into using, too, if it gives him an edge over the rest of the pack.”
“Finn, I’m trained to know the difference.” She paused as he sat forward and swiped up his MGD for a swig. “You seem unconvinced.”
“This team has seen unprecedented crises. A lot of it was inherited from Luca Tarantino’s reign, but some came from our own team members. I’m over that and don’t want more of it this season.”
“And that’s why I was hired. Tread carefully, sir, if you’re looking at me and seeing only weakness. I’m stronger than I look.” She’d need to be to complete this job, return to ODC where she belonged, and, of course, keep herself out of a billionaire thug’s reach.
Beer finished, Finn crumpled the can and tossed it. “Look, Miss Fuentes—”
“Call me Meg.”
“Meg. Some of the staff’s heading into Vegas for a bite. Why don’t you come with us?”
It was an invitation into an inner circle. Not the players’, but that would come and this was progress. The Greers had not specifically asked her to put staff under suspicion but doing so would offer her a more detailed picture.
“Tempting,” she said, getting up and squeezing his biceps. “I’ll have to pass, though. I heard someone issue a foosball challenge. Can’t miss that.”
“Jesus,” he said, scratching his forehead. “They don’t stand a fucking chance.”
&nb
sp; “What’s that mean?”
“They’re going to fall in love with you.”
Watching him leave, she hoped he was wrong. Gathering the hearts of men, nearly all of whom she’d venture to guess were in relationships, was not part of her agenda. Parker Brandt was the last man who’d figured he was in love with her, and their breakup had been messy to the point that they could find no friendship between them anymore.
Besides, the gladiator-like professional athletes she found here seemed to be interested in shallow sexual attraction, and she would do nothing for them in that respect. The Greers had been clear and she wasn’t aiming to strike up anything new.
Not after her adventure in blind dating had resurrected her ex.
Don’t think about him. Don’t let him get to you.
Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, and if it was, Meg didn’t particularly care as she forewent the foosball game kicking off in the players’ lounge and returned to her room. The blooms’ fragrance was stronger now than it’d been when it was competing with chemically engineered sandalwood.
It was after eight, over an hour past the time she’d told Remy to show up at her place. She’d trashed the disposable phone and though she knew with certainty he had her cell number, she found no calls or texts on the screen.
Taking the phone to the dresser, she breathed in the bouquet’s gentle smell and thought it’d neutralize the impact of realizing Remy wasn’t trying to get through to her. Maybe his Rhett no longer gave a damn about her Scarlett.
In the end, she would save herself, so why should she entertain the thought that she might want closure after he dropped off the grid five years ago?
Rubbing her nose against the petal of a gardenia, she closed her eyes. Perhaps she wasn’t heartsick for a lover, but homesick for loved ones. She dialed a familiar number.
“Hello?” a masculine voice as rough as unsanded timber greeted.
It was late but Meg pictured Hector Fuentes still tinkering around in the flower shop he shared with his wife.
The family business had been a single store within their small town outside El Paso during Meg’s childhood but had since opened locations throughout Texas. The family had the means to allow both Hector and Anita early retirement, but neither would give up their careers.
The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5) Page 6
