Man in Queue

by Shandi Boyes

  “Already on it.” Brandon’s reply is barely heard over the clicking of a mouse. “I sent duplicate photos to the printer at The Manor’s reception desk. They’re a little grainy, but not any worse than they are on screen.”

  “We have a printer at the main desk?”

  When Brandon makes an agreeing noise, I balk. One, how does he know where I am? Two, how does he have access to our printers? And three, how the fuck can I get him on my team permanently? Having someone this quick off the mark would be a brilliant move. I’ve had techies who knew their way around a computer, but none have been this skilled. Brandon must have flown under the radar at the academy, because he would have been nabbed by a more senior supervisor than Theresa if they were aware of his skillset.

  After logging me out of the Bureau mainframe and removing any traces of my steps from Regan’s computer, Brandon logs out of her device. I need to get the printouts before they disappear into the sinkhole that apparently eats paperwork owned by my family, so I shout to Regan that I’ll be back in a minute before hotfooting it into the hallway.

  I dip and weave between guests preparing to spend their day viewing the monuments in Washington before taking the servant stairs two at a time. Halfway down, the reasoning behind the perp’s familiarity smacks into me. He’s the man who flew with us business class to Texas. The smirking fucker who picked a seat across from Regan when there were four better options at his disposal.

  My pace slows even more as the knocks keep coming. I thought telling Regan I loved her way too early in our relationship was my most worst fuck up this week. Clearly, I overlooked my previous incidents. Theresa had footage of Regan and me on the plane, photos that could have only been taken by someone nearby, i.e. the chairs opposite us. Then the “janitor” who smacked me over the head entered HQ without notice, meaning he was there before everyone left. . . or he never left.

  That can only mean one thing.

  The man stalking Regan isn’t a stalker.

  He’s one of us.

  He’s an agent.

  15

  Alex loves me.

  He loves me.

  I thought the shrilling of my pulse in my ears made me mishear what he said, but the instant our eyes connected and held, I knew what I heard was true. His eyes were brimming with vulnerability, and his jaw was in a firm, determined hold.

  They weren’t the only telltales signs, though. It was the impact his words caused my heart that was the biggest indication. Luca told me he loved me all the time. He expressed it with words, without words, and sometimes even in writing. I thought it was true love, the type that makes it hard for you to breathe, but only after hearing the same words spill from Alex’s lips do I realize they weren’t the right words for Luca and me to use.

  Don’t misunderstand me. We loved each other with everything we had; we just weren’t in love with each other. We had mutual respect, understanding, and the ability to destroy each other—just like Alex and I have.

  I tried to say something back to Alex. With my tongue and heart twisted up in knots, it would have never been the words he wanted to hear, but it would have been better than silence. I care for Alex. I have wild, crazy feelings for him I’ve never felt for anyone, but until I’ve had the chance to sit and reflect, my emotions will remain unvoiced.

  I was hoping to explain to Alex that I needed some time to think before responding, but unfortunately, I lost the opportunity when he stood from the bed and headed for the shower, taking me and my exhaustive post-climaxed body with him.

  His playfulness in the shower as he removed traces of our fun night from my body had me believing we successfully dodged the awkwardness of his confession. Regrettably, his quick dart from the shower ten minutes ago dampened my hope.

  I take my time shampooing my hair, hoping a little distance will lessen the sparks that forever fire between us. When I step back and evaluate things with a level head, I can understand Alex’s blurt of affection. The tension that bristles between us is phenomenal. I’ve always wondered if instant attraction was a thing or something romance authors made up to sucker readers into believing their characters fell in love on the very first page.

  Now. . . now I need my head examined.

  This kills me to admit, but I want to say it back. Like, what? Who the fuck am I? The only time I’ve fallen in love the past five years was when they redesigned the butterfly clip. Now instead of just giving you a little buzz, it sends you rocketing toward orgasm within seconds of switching it on. I don’t fall for people, much less a man I know is lying to me.

  Ugh! I can’t even blame my stupidity on tequila. I had a few scrumptious cocktails last night, but I steered clear of any that bring out my stupid. It was probably a combination of sugar, heartache and a hot, virile man.

  Learning that Luca had a second life that excluded me stung like a thousand bee stings. Instead of giving me solitude to deal with my hurt, Alex kissed every welt, patched up every scar, then made me forget I was hurt to begin with by cherishing me as I’ve never been cherished.

  Now his dropping of the “L” bomb makes sense. Our exchange last night was filled with so many emotions, they were bound to spill over to this morning. I’m shocked it didn’t occur earlier. That’s how perfect last night was.

  Not feeling as deflated as earlier, I rinse out the last of the conditioner from my hair before switching off the faucet. Just as I grab the towel Alex left for me, I hear him shout that he’ll be back in a minute. The urgency in his tone returns my heart to the frantic rhythm it thumped when he said those three little words, except it isn’t leaping with worry. It’s bounding with hope.

  It spikes even more astronomically when I enter the main area of his room. My laptop is sitting on the edge of the bed, open and switched on. My steps slice to half their natural stride when the cursor suddenly bolts to the top right-hand corner.

  What the fuck?

  I sit next to my laptop before dragging it onto my lap. The dampness of my finger makes the touch pad a little unresponsive, but even after drying it, the curser doesn’t move as randomly as it did earlier.

  After a quick glance at the door separating Alex’s room from the hallway, I fire up my internet browser and log into the search history. It shows no new results for today.

  My lungs saw in and out when I drag my cursor to the locked file hidden between folders of useless photos and documents. I don’t know why I’m being so pedantic. I doubt anything on my laptop would be of interest to Alex, but I have a moral obligation to uphold. Nothing in this file could hurt me, but the man I’m paid to protect. . . in the wrong hands, this file could spell disaster.

  I suck in a relieved breath when it shows my last login to this secure file was four months ago. That sounds about right. Four months ago was when a woman with half a brain decided to submit her third request for child support. Hell will freeze over before Isaac pays a dime for a child that isn’t his. This isn’t a standard case of a naughty weekend gone wrong. Despite Theresa Veneto’s claims, the paternity of her child is not in question—not with my client, anyway.

  Her underhanded tactics to deplete Isaac’s fortune of millions of dollars have already caused her to lose her position at Ravenshoe PD, so she’d do best to tread carefully. Isaac let her off easy the first time. She won’t be so lucky the second time around. After the stunts she pulled, he should have had her prosecuted. Instead, all he got was a forced resignation. There were no charges filed, no record of conversation, or steps put in place to stop her from pulling the same tricks on another unsuspecting fool. She just packed up and left town, taking her illegitimate child with her.

  Excluding Isaac, Jeremiah is the only one I feel sorry for in this situation. He doesn’t deserve to be thrust into the middle of an ugly custody battle when the woman who has his blood knows who his real father is, but Theresa doesn’t care. She uses Jeremiah against Isaac every chance she gets. He couldn’t even walk down the street without her harassing him. I’m so glad he final
ly accepted my advice early last year, or he’d still be dealing with her harassment to this day. When you have a leech like Theresa Veneto trying to drain your blood, you must remain cautious. Those little suckers attach to you in places you’d never suspect, weakening you with every suck until you no longer have the will to live.

  I shut my laptop screen a little hard. I blame Theresa. Anytime she enters my mind, my thoughts turn sullied. I never knew it was possible to hate someone you’ve never met. Theresa proves that is a lie. Hate is too nice a word to describe what I feel for that lady. She’s scum—and a million other derogative words.

  Pushing aside my dislike of Theresa and a niggling doubt in my stomach that just won’t quit, I don a semi-casual dress and cute jacket. While dragging a brush through my freshly washed hair, I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any calls from Isaac. His contact the past two days has been very sporadic. Usually, he’s on the ball when it comes to communication.

  I’m surprised there are no voicemails, but there are four unopened text messages. The first few are the standard check in ones Isaac conducts three to four times a day. The last one. . . I fan my suddenly heated cheeks.

  I’m the first to admit, I’m a sexual explorer. If there’s experimentation to be done, and it has an adrenaline-laced orgasm attached to it, you can be assured I’ll be the first person to sign up. That’s where Isaac’s final message comes in, the one giving me permission to have a load-bearing beam installed in my bedroom.

  For years, I’ve toyed with the idea of having a sex swing installed in my apartment. For just as many years, I realized there wasn’t much use. I don’t—didn’t—date, and for the rare occasions my battery-operated boyfriends weren’t cutting the mustard and I branched out to oxygen-fueled ones, our hookups never occurred anywhere near my home turf.

  Up until recently, I held a permanent reservation at a generic hotel, similar to the one I tried to check into after the incident at my house Friday night. But with every new adventure comes a need for new equipment. Although my rules on dating haven’t altered, I’m not against bending the rules to cross a few items off my wish list. Inviting Alex for a sleepover doesn’t mean anything. We’re two consenting adults who occasionally drop immature words like “love,” “boyfriend,” and “forever” into our exchanges. It’s perfectly normal.

  My finger freezes halfway across the screen of my phone. Did you hear the deceit in my tone like I did?

  Yeah, figured as much.

  I don’t want to date. I just don’t want Alex to either. That doesn’t mean we’re exclusive. It just means we’re. . .

  I’ve got nothing. Not a single fucking thing.

  Just the thought of Alex with anyone but me annoys the shit out of me. That’s the reason I got all alpha-possessive earlier. His love of frosting was displayed in the most brilliant manner last night, but even if he ate it by the tub-full as if it is ice cream, he’d never amass as many containers as I saw in his pantry last week. Thank god the reason behind his obsession was legitimate. I love frosting, even more so now, but I would have hated it if I discovered I wasn’t the first woman he’s lathered it in.

  My wicked thoughts stop as I dial Isaac’s number. He might be too busy to talk to me, but I’ve missed hearing his voice. Excluding family, Isaac has been the one constant in my life the past five years. No matter what happens with Alex, no matter how far we do or do not travel, Isaac’s position in my life will never alter.

  To an outsider, plucking me from the pool with demands of exclusivity before I had attended law school may seem excessive. To me, it’s Isaac. He saw what he wanted and ran for it. I wouldn’t necessarily say he molded me into an ideal candidate for his empire, but others may. Do I care about their opinion? Not at all. Isaac has made it very clear I am free to pursue other opportunities at any time I see fit. All he requests is a month’s notice.

  With how well he pays, you can be guaranteed I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. But even if he paid me in peanuts, I still don’t see the facts altering. I love my fancy apartment, designer clothes, and heels like every other red-blooded American woman, but those are materialistic things. They’ll never make me happy. Alex’s abrupt entrance into my life proves that more than anything.

  I’m drawn from my naughty thoughts when Isaac’s deep timbre sounds down the line. “It’s about time you called me back. I nearly sent out a search party.”

  I roll my eyes. “By search party, do you mean Hunter?”

  Hunter Kane is Isaac’s head of security. He’s also a brilliant hacker. If you want to know anything about anyone, Hunter is your man—although he came up empty-handed when I requested surveillance from outside of the warehouse Isaac and I are hoping to turn into a bustling nightclub.

  Isaac’s laughter joins mine. “He’s already been called in. Did you want me to call him off?”

  “Yes!” My girly screech bounces around Alex’s bedroom. “You’re such a worrywart. I told you I was heading out of town.”

  “At the same time you asked if you could have a sex swing installed.” He’s more shocked at my admission that I want him to yank Hunter off my tail than my request.

  “I didn’t ask to have a sex swing installed. I requested a load-bearing beam—”

  “Which every man with half a cock knows is code word for a sex swing.”

  It is lucky I can hear the mirth in his tone or I’d be suspicious he was jealous. Even though I know he isn’t, I can’t help but ask, “Jealous much?”

  That cuts his laughter in half. “I wouldn’t say jealous, more concerned. You’ve been a little off the past few months. At first, I thought it might have been family issues.” The way his tone dips at his last two words reveals whom he was referencing: Luca. “But your uneasiness didn’t weaken as usual, not even after a visit home.” He pauses, exhales deeply, then asks, “Are you homesick?”

  I shrug. “A little.” Not how he’s thinking, but with me having no better explanation for the crazy emotions bombarding me, I don’t have any other words to offer him. Except perhaps, “I’ve met someone.”

  Isaac inhales a sharp breath. “The same someone you mentioned earlier?”

  An agreeing murmur drones through my lips. “We’re. . . uh. . . kind of seeing each other?” That came out as immature as it sounds.

  “Wow.”

  Isaac only says one word, but it’s the words he didn’t express I hear the clearest. He knows I’m a one date then dump them girl, so hearing me admit I’m possibly dating was as shocking for his ears to hear as it was for my mouth to say.

  “It’s nothing serious; it’s just. . .”

  Once again, I’ve got nothing.

  After a prolonged awkward silence, I mumble, “I like him.”

  A puff of air expels from Isaac’s lips. “I’m glad. That’s good. As long as he’s treating you right, I’m fine with this.” His words grow more convincing with each one he speaks. I laugh when he adds on, “I think it might take me a little to adjust.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  Another stretch of silence passes between us. Thankfully, this one is more endearing than the first. Isaac rules his business with the rueful reputation he amassed during his college years, but the one sitting in silence on the other end of the line, the one whose breathing is as labored as mine, he’s the sole reason I’ll never leave his empire. He’s more my friend than my employer.

  An office chair squeaking into position sounds down the line. “I’ve got to go. Morgan ordered lime yellow booths instead of the standard black.” I giggle like a school girl when he gags. “They remind me of the hideous floral print on my grandmother’s couch.”

  “Aww, don’t be too hard on her. She could have ended up with the original flamingo print she ordered.”

  Isaac growls. “We barely survived that disaster.”

  Nodding, I laugh. “We still had a lot of fun that weekend, though. Your grandmother kept us on our toes.”

  “She did. We’ll have t
o go back. . . when you’re not gallivanting around the country with random homeless guys.” He grumbles his last statement.

  “Isaac.”

  I could say more, but I don’t need to. The way his name exited my mouth with a sharp and precise breath exposed everything I needed to express.

  But in case it didn’t, I add on, “Back off. He’s a genuinely nice person—”

  “Who’s never heard of a razor.”

  “Thank god for that!” My voice has the country twang I try to hide. “You have no idea how good it feels when he—”

  “Regan.” Isaac growls my name as seductively as Alex does, except his is laced with disgust instead of unbridled lust.

  “Hey, this is what happens when you stick your nose in places it isn’t wanted. If you want details, I’ll give you details. Big. Juicy. Details!”

  I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot when Isaac snaps, “Fine. I’ll stay out of your private life if you promise never to put that image in my head again.”

  “Deal.”

  I grin like the cat who swallowed the canary. Isaac must be off his game. He’s usually as stubborn as me. I’ve never seen him succumb so quickly before—if ever.

  After requesting that I return his calls more diligently than I have been, Isaac disconnects our call. It is only after dumping my phone next to an empty canister of frosting do I recall exactly what he said. He requested I return his calls, as if he called me.

  That can’t be right. There were no voicemails or missed calls on my phone, just text messages. If it were anyone but Isaac, I would assume he was mistaken, but Isaac is as pedantic about accuracy as he is about protection. This isn’t something he’d get wrong.

  The desire to shower for the second time this morning rains down on me when I spin on my feet to face the bed. First, my laptop was open and unlocked, now my voicemail messages have been deleted. This can’t be a coincidence. It can only mean one thing.

  Alex isn’t a spy; he’s just spying on me.