“Yes, exactly. You are the chief.” I happen to be wearing my hair in a loose braid. To underscore his point, he reaches for the tip of my braid and gives it a soft tug.
He is definitely not Beckett. If Beckett played with my hair, I would dissolve into a shivering, quivering puddle of need. Irritated with myself, I push the thought away. I cannot, will not, compare the two of them.
“Tell me what you like to eat,” I say.
He speaks with rapturous delight of hearty Cuban stews, black beans and rice, mojo pork chops, spicy shredded beef, and Havana style eggs.
This time I shudder. I’ll admit it: I’m a picky eater. “That sounds really, really... interesting.”
We both laugh. “That’s it,” he declares. “We are at war. We can no longer be friends.”
“You’re right,” I breezily agree. “It’s over.”
He releases a sigh. His gaze softens as he looks at me. “Kylie Porter,” he says. Just my name.
“Ricco…” I say, then let my voice trail off. I tilt my head in quizzical invitation.
“Ricardo Diaz,” he supplies.
“Nice to meet you, Ricardo Diaz.” I hold out my hand and we shake. Although we’ve been lab partners for weeks, we are finally getting to know one another. “Tell me about Cuba. I’ve never been there.”
He pulls back slightly, shrugs. Although it’s subtle, I read a slight tension in his body language. “It’s a small country,” he replies flatly. “Not like this city. There it’s very warm.”
“And beautiful, right? I picture miles of beaches and brightly colored houses. Swaying palm trees, vintage cars, lots of clubs, hot Latin music, and dancing all night.”
He relaxes slightly at the fantasy I paint. “Yes,” he says. “But there is more to Cuba than music and dancing. That’s like imagining America full of speakeasies and jazz, with gangsters like Al Capone running through the streets.”
“You don’t have gangsters in your country?”
His eyes shutter. “Yes. There are gangsters in my country.”
Idiot, I silently scream. Slow down. I am pushing too hard, moving too fast. I know better. This isn’t supposed to happen in just one night.
The waiter drops off our check and Ricco insists on paying, even though I invited him. We leave the restaurant and step outside.
The light, playful mood we enjoyed earlier is gone. Ricco’s eyes are hooded, and there is an edgy restlessness about him. I can’t help but feel guilty. It was beyond stupid to directly ask him about Cuba, about gangsters.
I wish Beckett had never shown me the photo of Ricco lying in that hospital bed. I wish I didn’t know anything about his past. But I can’t unknow it. That’s like trying to unscramble an egg. I look up at him now. He’s shifting uncertainly, clearly hopeful that our night is not over. Neither of us wants it to end on a bad note.
“Which way?” he asks.
My bus stop is to the right. We should head in that direction. But the moon is full and the night air is crisp and dry, with no hint of fog. On impulse, I direct Ricco to the left, and we follow the sidewalk until we reach Grand View Park. There the sidewalk ends and a well-worn trail begin.
It’s late, and ominous shadows lurk behind every scrubby bush. But Ricco is bigger than the average guy. I feel totally safe with him by my side. We follow the trail’s circular route, hiking uphill until our thighs are aching, our lungs are burning, and we reach the summit.
We round a corner and Ricco draws in a sharp breath at the unexpected beauty of the panoramic view. The moon hangs fat and low in the sky, a brilliant silvery orb. Beneath it, San Francisco is aglow with thousands of twinkling lights. Lights cascade up and down the city’s hills with the undulating rhythm of a magic carpet. Glittering lights shimmer in the sky, silhouette the bridge, and reflect off the bay. Ricco and I stand side by side, silently drinking it all in.
“Beautiful,” he says at last.
“I know.” I’m a native San Franciscan. Born and raised here. But I never get tired of looking at my city—or of showing it off. “My sister and I used to come here all the time. We’d sneak out of our room and stand here for hours, sharing secrets and dreaming about the future.”
He doesn’t miss the wistfulness in my voice. “You and your sister no longer come here?”
“No,” I admit. “She has a husband now. A job and a baby. Her life is very busy.” Jess and I were once inseparable, but that feels like a long time ago. I turn and look at him. “I’ve never brought anyone else here before.”
I wanted to even the score, to reveal something personal about myself, since I know so much about him. That’s all this is about. But the second the words are out, it occurs to me that Ricco might misconstrue them as an invitation to make a move. He doesn’t. He slips his hand in mine, gives it a soft squeeze, and then releases it. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” he says.
I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat. After my dinner with Beckett, I went home and Googled Miguel Diaz. He didn’t take long to find. His organization is credited for hundreds, maybe thousands, of violent crimes. The internet is littered with gory photos of his alleged victims—bloody corpses belonging to those who betrayed him. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up with him for a father. It gives me shivers just to think about.
I study Miguel’s son. Ricardo Diaz looks dashingly handsome in the moonlight. Despite his American clothing, there is something distinctly foreign about him. He doesn’t belong here. This isn’t his city, and as much as he enjoys the view, I can tell he’s thinking of other vistas, other places. The space between us suddenly seems too huge to fill. But because he’s making an effort, so will I.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say.
That’s probably the first truly honest thing I’ve said all night. I want to be his friend. I get the sense he desperately needs one.
We leave the park and Ricco escorts me to my bus stop.
“Maybe it’s not too late for a drink?” he asks as we huddle inside the bus shelter. “A little rum?”
I shake my head. “Sorry. School night.”
It’s clear he’s never heard this expression. “School night?”
“Yes. That means we have class tomorrow. All the good little boys and girls go home and do their homework.”
A mischievous grin curves his lips. The light of challenge sparks in his eyes. He rests his hands lightly on my hips, leans down, and whispers in my ear, “What makes you think I’m good?”
I raise myself up on my tiptoes to whisper back, “What makes you think I’m not?”
He smiles at that. “I like you, Kylie Porter.”
My bus rumbles to a stop in front of us. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and climb inside.
I flash my Muni pass at the driver, grab a seat, and look out the window. Ricco hasn’t moved. He’s waiting—wanting to make certain I’m safely underway. I give him a wave as the bus pulls out into traffic. Then I lean my forehead against the window. My breath softly fogs the glass pane. “I like you too, Ricardo Diaz,” I murmur.
Damn. This would all be so much easier if I didn’t.
Day Nine
Late Afternoon
Beckett is waiting for me outside the Karma Café when I finish my shift. Just leaning against a streetlight, his arms folded across his chest, looking as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be there.
I wish I could say the sight of him standing there didn’t cause my heart to slam against my chest and start drumming at double its normal tempo. But that’s what happens, and I can’t control it. It sucks. I want to be as indifferent to him as he seems to be to me. Unfortunately that’s not possible. All I can do is try to arrange my expression into something that I hope resembles cool nonchalance.
I stroll over. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He tilts his chin toward the café. “How was work?”
“Not bad.” The place was mobbed. Huge lunchtime crowd, and the other wa
itress called in sick. That left me covering the floor—taking orders, running plates, pouring drinks, cashing out, and bussing tables—all by myself. Insane, but highly profitable. My pocket is bulging with a fat wad of tips.
“Feel like taking a walk?” he asks.
I cast a dubious glance at the sky. They predicted rain this afternoon, but so far it’s holding off. “Sure,” I say. Why not? I’m still running on adrenaline. We head west on Haight Street toward Golden Gate Park.
We don’t talk until we’re actually in the park. It’s an enormous space, actually larger than New York City’s Central Park. My favorite part is the bison paddock. The bison don’t do much—they’re just these huge, shaggy, smelly beasts—but I love the fact that they’re here. It’s just so improbable that it always makes me smile. So San Francisco. Even when you think you know what to expect, you don’t. Cable cars, the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island… and a herd of bison lumbering through the middle of the city.
But they’re on the western edge of the park, and Beckett and I are on the eastern edge, so I know I won’t see them today. Not unless we want to hoof it across the park, and Beckett seems to have a different purpose in mind than sightseeing. The crowds are light. Just a few bicyclists and joggers trying to get in a little exercise before the rain lets loose.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
He’s referring to my evening with Ricco, of course. He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t slow his pace. Just focuses on the path ahead as we walk.
“Fine,” I reply.
“Fine?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Great. That’s helpful.” He shoots me a glance. “Kylie, I’ve got a report to write. A supervisor I have to convince you’re worth paying 5k a month to. I need you to do better than that.”
He’s right. I agreed to do this, but it still feels wrong. I’m annoyed, frustrated, guilty. I’m not a back-stabbing kind of person. If I have something to say, I’ll say it to your face. This—playing up to Ricco and reporting the details later—feels unnatural. I like Ricco. I remind myself that I’m not betraying him. He’s not the target of the DEA’s investigation. His father is. Still, I have to force myself to continue.
“We met for pizza.”
Beckett nods. “All right. How’d it go?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It was one of those dates where—”
“Date? You told him it was a date?”
He’s looking at me with an intensity that doesn’t make sense. “I… No. I didn’t tell him it was a date. But I think he thought it was.”
He lets out a breath. Turns away and drags a hand through his hair in a gesture I’ve come to recognize as one of frustration. “Right. Go on.”
“Anyway, it was one of those nights where nothing seemed to go right, but in the end it worked out okay.”
“What happened?”
“Well, he doesn’t like buffalo chicken pizza… and I sort of asked him if there are any gangsters in Cuba.”
Beckett gives a choked laugh. “Holy fuck. You did what?”
“Yeah, I know. I guess I got carried away.”
“How did that even come up in conversation?”
“We were just kind of talking. He mentioned Al Capone and I sort of pounced on it. It seemed like a perfect opportunity.”
“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head and laughs again. “That’s so bad, it’s good. He’ll never suspect you. No way would somebody who actually worked for the DEA be that stupid.”
He’s right, so I don’t take offense. I can’t help but smile back at him. “It’s your fault. Next time screen your CI’s more carefully.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Our gazes meet, and the laughter in his eyes changes to something else. Warmth becomes heat. Heat becomes fire. Fire becomes flame. We are standing in the middle of Golden Gate Park, burning.
“You’re not dating Ricco.”
The comment seems to come out of nowhere, just like the wind that whips around us and rain that begins to fall. In my mind, they are both connected somehow. Pending storms I chose to ignore.
He takes my hand—the same way Ricco took my hand last night—but Beckett doesn’t let it go. He pulls me along beside him as we scramble toward the closest shelter, which happens to be the Conservatory. It’s a towering Victorian structure, all curved white wood and clear glass, sort of like a mini Taj Mahal plunked down in the middle of the park.
We rush inside. Beckett and I are both wet from the rain—we must look like we’re just there to loiter, because a security guard approaches to shoo us away. They’re closing in thirty minutes. Beckett doesn’t argue or take offense. He pays our admission fee and we head off, following a meandering stone path deeper into the Conservatory.
Basically, it’s a huge indoor garden. Room after room of exotic plants, towering trees, waterfalls, pocket lagoons, birds and butterflies. All light and airy and lush. The sort of place brides book months in advance for their oh-so-perfect weddings. The last time I was here I was on a third grade field trip.
Thunder rumbles and rain begins to pour down in earnest. It’s falling in sheets now. We can hear it drumming on the glass roof above our heads. One of those rare, almost frenzied storms that instantly drives everyone indoors. I move to the edge of the room and watch the heavy droplets strike the glass panes, softening and blurring the outside world.
Beckett comes to stand beside me. “My place isn’t far from here,” he says. He points to a distant blur. “Over on California Street. If it weren’t raining, you could just make out my building.” His arm brushes my shoulder as he moves.
I realize this is the first piece of personal information Beckett has ever revealed about himself (so he is a city guy, after all), but I don’t know how to process it. I can’t think properly with him standing so close to me. I try to focus on the storm, but even that proves impossible. Every fiber of my being is attuned to Beckett. His scent, his height, the broadness of his shoulders, the deep timbre of his voice.
The room we’re standing in is enormous. But we’re alone, and somehow that creates this strange vacuum of intimacy. We are marooned together in this place of ridiculous romantic fantasy, this manufactured Garden of Eden. It’s a mistake, pure happenstance, but here we are. And we’re standing so close.
“Do you have a roommate?” I blurt inanely, just to have something to say to break the tension that hangs between us.
“No.”
“No roommate?”
“No roommate.”
“So you’re all alone?”
“Yup. All alone.”
“Not even a dog?”
His lips quirk. “What would I do with a dog?”
“I don’t know… Walk it. Play fetch with it. Then there would be something waiting for you when you came home at night.”
He cocks his head to one side, as though considering my suggestion. “I get home pretty late.”
“Out chasing the bad guys, huh?”
“Yeah. You know how it is. All that superhero stuff keeps me pretty busy.”
It’s a ridiculous conservation and we both know it. He’s teasing me, but I’m determined to resist him. Resist his smile. Resist the playful twinkle in his intoxicating blue eyes. Resist the urge to lift my hand and push back the chestnut curl that falls so appealingly over his forehead. But it’s hard. So hard. I feel my resolve weakening with every second that passes.
I look at Beckett and a shiver runs through me.
“Something wrong?” His voice is a low murmur in my ear.
I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself.
He’s wearing a denim jacket. He takes it off without a word and tucks it around my shoulders. It’s huge on me, damp and heavy. My hair is caught inside so he gathers it in his hands and gently pulls it free from the confines of his jacket. My hair is probably my best feature. It’s a rich golden brown, thick and straight, completely resistant to frizz, even in a place as sticky humid as t
he Conservatory.
Beckett watches, mesmerized, as the heavy strands slowly slip through his fingers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I thought you might be cold.”
“I’m not cold.” I pause, holding his gaze. “And you’re a bad liar.”
He releases a hoarse bark of laughter. “Jesus, Kylie.”
But he doesn’t deny it. That tells me everything I need to know. Beckett wants me as badly as I want him. He scans my face. My body. I’ve got on my short black Karma skirt, but I left my tie-dyed t-shirt at work. Instead I’m wearing a pale pink blouse with a row of tiny pearl buttons trailing down the front. My clothing is wet, sticking in places where it shouldn’t. He takes in my thighs, my waist, my chest. When his gaze rests on my lips I feel them part in unmistakable invitation.
Kiss me.
What happens next is a blur. Maybe I moved toward him. Maybe it’s Beckett who erases the distance between us. All I know is that our bodies come together. Hard. As though some external force slams us together.
The release is exquisite. Like a coiled spring that’s suddenly snapped free, the tension is gone. Beckett is bigger than I’d imagined him to be. Or maybe I’m just smaller in his arms. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The fit is perfect.
His lips brush mine. The pressure on my mouth is light and gentle, allowing me the opportunity to change my mind, to slip away if I want to. The gesture surprises me. Touching and unexpected as it is, it’s wasted. There is no lingering question. No doubt at all. I want this. Him. The two of us together.
I move closer.
Beckett gives a low moan and wraps one strong arm around my waist, drawing me even more tightly into his embrace. He caresses my lower back, silently encouraging me to surrender. To completely let go. I do. There is no reserve, no holding back. His kiss deepens, becoming hard and unyielding. He coaxes my lips apart.
The touch of his tongue against mine is so incredible my knees go weak.
INFORMANT Page 5
