“So? Are you going to see him again?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She looks disappointed, but shrugs it off. “Oh, well. There’s always that Cuban hottie.”
I give a choked laugh that’s just shy of hysterical. How perfect that I finally go out, only to find myself caught between a DEA agent and the son of a Cuban crime boss. God, my life. I look at Jess and am suddenly dying to unburden. I want to tell her everything.
But I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her not to tell Ronnie, and so of course she would. And then he would tell the other mechanics about it. And they would tell their grease monkey friends about it… and so on and so forth, until wild whispers and rumors flooded the entire neighborhood.
As if to underscore that point, the bathroom door opens and Ronnie strolls out in a cloud of steam, naked except for the towel draped around his waist. His entire torso and both arms—wrist to shoulder—are blanketed with tattoos. A couple of them are actually good.
He pulls Jess into his arms and begins to nibble her neck.
“Ronnie!” she chides. “We’ve got company.”
He doesn’t stop. “Kylie’s not company. She’s here all the time.”
I don’t miss the jibe, but decide to ignore it. This is how my relationship with Ronnie works. Lots of surface neutrality and back-handed digs. We may not like each other, but we both love Jess and Dally. Our truce is as fragile as spring ice.
I watch him tighten his grip around her waist, pulling my sister away from me. Just like that, I make a decision.
“Hey,” I say. “I’ve got some news.”
Jess is leaning back in Ronnie’s embrace. Her eyes are closed, and a drowsy smile of contentment curves her lips. “Hmmm?” she says.
“Remember that study grant I applied for last August? That really important one that I thought I’d never get?”
Jess gives a vague nod. “Sure.”
The truth is, there never was a study grant—not that I expect her to know that. She pretends to be interested, but I know she’s not. School was never her thing. But it’s the best excuse I could come up with for a sudden influx of heavy cash in my checking account.
“I got it,” I say, desperately trying to inject a note of excitement into my voice. “Can you believe it? I thought I didn’t make the cut, but they just announced the finalists. The grant covers my tuition, and I’ll actually get paid to go to school.”
“Really?” I’ve finally got Jess’s full attention. “See—I knew you were brilliant!” she declares loyally. “It’s about time everyone else saw it, too.”
Ronnie lifts his head and studies me. A spark of interest lights his eyes. “How much?”
I bring up my chin. “Five thousand a month.”
Jess lets out a shocked breath. Ronnie releases her from his embrace and steps toward me. His eyes narrow as he calculates.
“So that means… fifteen thousand by December one. Thirty thou by March.” Ronnie can’t add two plus three. But put a dollar sign in front of any number, and suddenly he’s a math genius.
“Wow.” Jess looks happy for me, but also confused. “What do you have to do for the money?”
Excellent question. I scramble to answer it. “Well, it’s a federal grant. So I’ll be working for the federal government, I suppose. It’s an ongoing research project, primarily based in New York, but I’ll be stepping in to help with the work here in San Francisco. Mostly observation and reporting, I guess. There are a few other students who will be involved in the project, as well.”
I’ve never lied to my sister before. Now I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m appalled at how easy it is.
Ronnie looks at Jess. She frowns and shakes her head, but he ignores her. “Hey. Jess told you we’re trying to buy the garage, right?”
“Ronnie—”
“I’m just sayin’, babe.” He silences her with his hand, then swings back to look at me. “You could be an investor, if you want.”
“Oh, yeah?” I give a nonchalant shrug, running my hand along the kitchen counter. Of course I’ll lend them as much as I can. I know that, and deep down Jess knows it, too. But Ronnie doesn’t, and it’s fun to leave him hanging.
“I don’t think we’ll need it,” Jess blurts out, breaking the silence. She looks at me. “Dad said he’s gonna pitch in. He says he’s got twenty thousand tucked away in his retirement account, just doing nothing.”
I don’t say anything at that. Instead, my gaze locks on Ronnie’s. For once, he and I are on the same page. He’s only met our dad a few times, but he understands him as well as I do. That twenty thousand is pure fantasy. It doesn’t exist. And even if it did, it would never go to Jess and Ronnie, no matter how desperately they need it. Jess has a better shot paying off the garage with Monopoly money.
Here’s the thing about our dad: he means well. He never intends to hurt or harm. His neglect is always benign. Good-looking, blue-collar guy. Nice smile, firm handshake. One bullshit promise after another. He’ll be at the soccer game. Pay the electric bill. Pick up groceries for dinner. Never his fault the car broke down, his boss fired him, his buddy wanted to meet him for a beer. Who knew the supermarket closed at midnight, anyway?
My parents were together for ten years. They never married. My dad simply drifted in and out of our lives, a shadowy presence always just out of reach. A happy-go-lucky smile on his face after he missed the one and only performance of our school play. Our concert. Our graduation. “Hey, no problem, right? I’ll catch it next time.”
I glance at the clock. “Oops, I don’t want to miss my bus.”
But first I have to say goodbye to my nephew. I stride over to the playpen and lift Dally. I pull up his shirt and plant a raspberry on his soft baby belly. He squeals and kicks his legs in delight.
I can feel Ronnie watching us. He’s silently working things out. If he wants my money—and of course he does—he’s gonna have to be nice to me. It’s killing him.
Day Five
Afternoon
Stephanie has dropped out of chem lab. This leaves Beckett without a lab partner, so he’s assigned to a pair of hard-working Asian students. From what I can tell, this arrangement suits him beautifully. No more distractions, heavy perfume, or push-up bras. Just the three of them bent over a lab table, analyzing cell samples.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. Not once. Never even looks in my direction. It’s been two nights since our dinner at Romano’s, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Maybe I blew it. Maybe he found someone else to work with.
Ricco has cooled off, too. He seems distant, preoccupied. I find myself constantly verifying the numbers he gives me before recording them in our field log. He’s transposed the temperature and weight readings twice. When the class ends, Beckett bolts. I make a point of loitering outside the science building with Ricco, just to see if he suggests we go grab a coffee. Maybe I’ve turned him down one time too many, because even though I’m doing my best to look available and interested, he doesn’t take the bait.
Instead, a girl strides up to us. She’s wearing a SF State sweatshirt. She has her hair in a ponytail and a backpack slung over her shoulder.
“Ready for lunch, Kylie?” she asks brightly. “I saved us a table. I am sooo glad you offered to walk me through that bio assignment. It’s a nightmare.”
I stare at her stupidly. I’ve never seen her before in my life. Fortunately, she doesn’t wait for a response. She turns to Ricco and smiles. “Hi. I’m Sarah. You look familiar. Are you in Dr. Greene’s anatomy class?”
Ricco shakes his head. Sarah gives a perky shrug, then she turns back to me. Although she’s still smiling, her eyes are sending me an unmistakable message. Move. “Ready, Kylie? I’m starving.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, playing along. I have no idea what’s happening, but I strongly suspect it has something to do with Ricco. What else could it be?
As she and I stride across campus, Sarah chatters on without pause
, not allowing me to slow my pace or interject a single question. When we reach our destination (an Asian noodle place off-campus), she ushers me inside. Like turning off a spigot, her flow of words abruptly stops. She ditches me without a word and stations herself on a single stool by a window overlooking the street.
Beckett stands. He’s got a booth near the back. With a nod, he invites me to join him.
I realize I’m going to have to get used to this. To the unreality of strangers like Sarah suddenly popping into my life and acting like we’re best friends. Of never quite knowing where I stand, who I can trust and who I can’t. Of having every move I make watched and analyzed. I am swimming in murky water.
The current carries me directly to Beckett.
He’s got on jeans and a pale blue t-shirt. His hair is a bit too long—it’s brushed away from his face in thick, dark waves. In the filtered light of the noodle house, his eyes are so intense they nearly glow. His cheeks are sculpted, his waist is lean, and his forearms are strong and tan. Don’t ask me how it’s possible for him to get sexier every time I see him. It just happens.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Peachy.” I slide onto the vinyl bench across from him. “I got a ninety-four on last week’s quiz. How’d you do?”
He scowls at me. Apparently sarcasm is not appreciated. “I meant, how’s it going with Ricco.”
So he’s just assuming that I’m in. A big assumption. But since it’s also true, I can’t act offended.
“So far… nothing,” I admit.
Beckett shrugs. “He’ll come around. Don’t be afraid to make the first move if you need to. Keep it subtle, though. Maybe a study session or something like that.”
Perfect. Beckett’s my new dating coach. Just what I wanted.
I glance away and my gaze falls on Sarah. She’s sipping tea and gazing out the window, studying the faces of anyone who comes near the restaurant. Although she looks like just another college student, there’s an alertness to her stance that I don’t miss. I imagine what might happen if Ricco were to approach the restaurant. She’d signal Beckett. He’d disappear through the kitchen, exiting out the back alley. Before I could blink, she’d be sitting in his place, chatting away, biology textbook open and notes spread out over the table. A perfectly orchestrated DEA dance.
That thought spins into another. I wonder how much of the world is real, and how much is simply fabricated to look real. Federal agents—CIA, FBI, DEA—placed among us as bus drivers, bartenders, college students, all busily operating on an entirely different level, responding to entirely different cues. Sort of like ants, with miles of hidden, linking tunnels connected beneath the surface.
“Why me?” I ask. “Why not Sarah?”
He shakes his head. “She might look young, but she’s thirty. She’s married with two kids. It’d be too hard to construct a plausible backstory. Too many holes if somebody decided to check up on her.”
His words are telling. I get a chill, immediately followed by a flash of red hot anger. I’m pissed, but I manage to suppress it. I look at him long and hard. “You checked up on me?”
To his credit, Beckett doesn’t deny it. “We had to.”
“What’d you find out?”
“The usual stuff. Family connections, work and school history. No incidents of drug or alcohol abuse, no run-ins with the law. You’re clean. You’re exactly what you say you are: a local girl working her way through college.” He cocks his head, studying me curiously. “It’s funny, though…”
“What?”
“You’re also smart as hell. Straight A’s, off-the-chart test scores. You could have applied to any school you wanted. Stanford, for example. I bet you would have gotten a full ride. So why San Francisco State?”
I don’t expect this. I’m suddenly flustered, embarrassed. Yeah, Stanford was a dream. But then Jess got pregnant and my mom needed help paying rent. “It wasn’t just about me,” I say. “Sometimes the choices we make go deeper than that. Especially when family’s involved.”
For some reason, that strikes a nerve. Beckett clenches his jaw and nods once. He can’t seem to hold my gaze. I think of the photo of Ricco, stretched out on a hospital bed. For just an instant, Beckett radiates the same shattered pain. What’s his backstory, I wonder. What happened in his family to send him on the road he’s on now? I ask him directly.
He looks at me, obviously surprised by my perception. Then he gives a slow smile and shakes his head. “Christ,” he says, “I’m gonna have to remember just how smart you are.”
That’s not an answer, but clearly it’s all I’m going to get. He holds out his hand. “Can I see your phone?”
I pass it over and watch as he adds himself as a contact. When I check the name, I notice he’s not Beckett, Thomas, or even Smith.
“Jane?” I quirk a brow at him.
“It’s safer that way—in case your phone is ever compromised.”
Compromised? Sounds like cop talk to me. Exactly how does a phone get compromised? Will it dance around a pole and peel off its protective plastic case? Will my phone sleep with Ricco’s phone? The whole thing’s ridiculous, so I let it go. “What happens next?”
“Has Ricco said anything at all that might be of interest?”
I shake my head. “Actually, he’s been pretty preoccupied the past couple of days. Not really there, you know?”
He nods. “Maybe something’s worrying him. See if you can find out what it is.”
He looks around the room. It’s three-fifteen, an odd time of day. The lunch crowd has evaporated, but it’s way too early for dinner. Aside from Sarah, we’re the only customers. Beckett and I are tucked away in a booth at the back of the room. The waitress dropped off a pot of tea and a plate of crispy pot stickers, but as neither of us is interested in the food, she’s left us alone.
Beckett removes a large manila envelope from his backpack and leans forward. He doesn’t wear cologne, I realize with a jolt. That incredible masculine scent is just his skin.
He sets a grainy, black-and-white photo on the table. The sort of photo that might have been cropped from a surveillance film: a man in a gaudy tropical shirt leaving a restaurant. Beckett gives me the guy’s name, and goes on to describe his height, weight, identifying marks, and how he’s connected to Miguel Diaz. “Let me know immediately if you see him, or if Ricco talks about him,” he says.
The process repeats six times. Obviously I won’t be keeping the photos (hard to explain that to Ricco, should he happen to find them in my backpack), so I try my best to commit everything to memory.
Beckett sets out the seventh and last photo. One look at the guy’s crooked smile, at his dark, soulless eyes, and a shiver runs through me. He looks like Ricco, if Ricco was a sociopathic sadist. “Miguel Diaz,” I say.
He gives a grim nod. “Yeah.” He studies the photo for a minute too long. Suddenly I understand something that I didn’t before. Beckett isn’t just doing his job. Taking down Miguel Diaz is deeply, deeply personal. He is committed to this in a way I cannot begin to fathom.
Good to know, because that tells me something else. Beckett is not going to let anything get in his way. Especially not me. He is not my friend, not my confidante, not my crush. I am nothing but a pawn to him. A means to an end. I cement that fact in my brain and slide out of the booth. I’ve had enough for today.
“Thanks, Jane. I think that’ll do it.”
Beckett stands as well. Our bodies are just inches away. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “That reminds me,” he says. “CI’s use aliases to protect their identity. Something gender neutral. It can be anything really, I just need an identifying tag to put on a report. Do you have a preference?”
I tilt my chin and look directly into his brilliant blue eyes. “Blue,” I say. The word comes out before I can stop it.
A beat, and then he gives a nod. I reach for my backpack at the same moment he reaches to pass it to me. Our hands brush and a jolt of sexual
awareness—like a zap of electricity—rushes up my arm. At an accidental touch. I can’t breathe. What would happen if we touched each other with actual intent?
Beckett feels it, too. This rush, this heat, this burn between us. I watch it register on his face. Then I see him brush it off, compartmentalize. Rationalize. I am an informant. Nothing more, nothing less.
I have to leave. Get away from him. I pivot and head toward the door.
His voice stops me. “Kylie.”
I pause, turn around.
“Be careful,” he says.
No shit.
Day Eight
Night
Wood-fired buffalo chicken pizza with Ricco. He accepted my invitation to grab a bite to eat. I am all aflutter. In full-on Confidential Informant mode. If I knew what it meant to be a CI, that is. I don’t, not really, so for the time being I’m faking it. I’m bright and attentive, but not too attentive. I want this to work.
After my last meeting with Beckett, I gave myself a firm talking to. If he can compartmentalize, so can I. This is a job. That’s all it is. If I’m smart enough, careful enough, I might just pull it off.
I slide the last slice toward Ricco. He hesitates, then picks it up.
“You like it?” I ask, watching with satisfaction as he polishes it off. I told him I wanted to introduce him to an American specialty.
He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “Awful,” he says. He reaches for his glass of water and gulps it down.
I laugh, thinking he’s kidding. I slowly realize he’s not. “No… really?”
“Horrible,” he says with a shudder. “How can Americans eat like this?”
“If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He playfully bats his eyes—his lashes are incredible—and leans closer. “Because I am big, handsome Cuban man,” he replies, exaggerating his accent. “And I do not want to insult my pretty American friend.”
I ignore his use of the word ‘pretty’ for now. That’s not the direction I want this to go. “Ah-ha,” I say. “I get it. You’re being polite. Like when an explorer sits down with a group of natives and is served a bowl of monkey brains. He has to eat them, or he risks insulting the powerful chief and touching off a war.”
INFORMANT Page 4
