by Layla Reyne
Crouching, Nic skirted from one pillar to the next, closing in.
Only to have his quiet approach shattered by squealing tires and shining LED headlamps. Nic thought for sure he was headed for a repeat of Tuesday night. But then the lights swung and a car pulled into a spot on the other side of the pillar. Black, sleek, with Irish punk rock bleeding out of the windows, louder even than the car’s roaring engine.
Aidan.
Secure on that side, Nic whipped back to the other, only to see another car rolling down the ramp. A police cruiser from the pool parked a floor above. The officer drank from a travel mug as he drove past, like it was any other absurdly early morning. Was that all he’d heard before? An officer getting into his car, maybe knocking away a stray piece of metal pipe? But what about the click? Locks on the car, maybe? He made a mental note of the cruiser’s license plate tag. He’d have Lauren run it, find out which officer had checked it out, and whether his accounts had any errant deposits. If it hadn’t been the officer, whomever it was had surely dropped back by now, as the garage came to life.
“Dominic,” Aidan called behind him. “Why’s your gun out?”
He holstered his weapon and turned around with a tired half smile. “Not enough sleep, too many shadows.”
Good enough, it seemed, because Aidan had bigger issues, judging by his thunderous expression. “Let’s go.”
Nic grabbed his briefcase and rushed to catch up, Aidan halfway to the elevator already. “What’s happened?”
“Got a call about a robbery last night. Car dealership two blocks over from the club where the meet was supposed to be held.”
No coincidence there. “Cam?”
Aidan nodded as they stepped into the elevator. “Left us a fingerprint.”
Nic didn’t bother punching the button for his own floor. “She had him boost a car?”
“Same security system as the museum. You wanna guess the model of vault door they lock the money, papers, and keys behind each night?”
He didn’t need to guess. “AmSec 8000 series.”
“Case closed, Attorney Price,” Aidan replied, missing his usual flair of excitement at those words. They were both attorneys by training, Aidan getting more out of the trial part of a case than most agents.
“It was a test run,” Nic surmised.
“A try-out.” Aidan led them off the elevator onto the thirteenth floor. “Though now I have to explain to the very angry car dealer and SFPD why a federal agent broke into a car showroom and vault last night.”
Both their phones dinged at once. Nic scrambled for his, disappointed it was a message from Lauren, even if it was a valuable one.
“I’d say he passed.” Ten thousand had just hit Brady Campbell’s bank account. “When do you think they’ll move on the artifacts?”
“Fund-raiser soft open is Saturday night. Opens wide Sunday.” Aidan tossed various bits of pocket detritus on his desk—phone, keys, badge. “I’d say tonight or after the soft open Saturday. The latter would give them more time to plan and integrate Brady.”
“Not much time for Cam to find out who Becca is working for.”
“Byrne’s good. Don’t lose faith yet.” Aidan shucked off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his door. “When’s your motion for continuance?”
“Ten o’clock with Judge O’Donnell.” The preliminary hearing for Scott and Mike was scheduled for Monday. Nic would prefer to try all the defendants at once instead of piecemeal, but that assumed he had all his defendants in custody. If they couldn’t make that happen by the end of the weekend, a continuance would give Aidan and Cam more time to work. “Hopefully we won’t need the delay.”
“Better safe than sorry.” Aidan gestured at the visitor chair as he circled behind his desk. “Have a seat.”
“I thought you had cops and car dealers to appease.”
“I do.” Aidan pulled out his laptop and opened it on his desk. “But there’s something else we need to discuss first.”
Wary at Aidan’s sudden shift in tone, his frustration seemingly redirected at him, Nic debated whether to take the offered seat. Had Aidan realized Nic and Cam were flirting with being more-than-friends? Hell, more than just flirting with the notion. Any judge would laugh him out of the courtroom if he tried to argue otherwise. Did Aidan have a problem with it? Was he going to shut Nic out of this case because of it? Determined to make sure that didn’t happen, because no way would he go blind with Cam out there, Nic sat, unbuttoning his coat.
Aidan grabbed a file folder from his briefcase and tossed it on the desk in front of Nic, some of its contents spilling out. On top, a black-and-white crime scene photo showed the sniper’s nest from the raid a week ago. “You didn’t tell me he was shooting at you.”
Nic schooled his features, staying silent.
Aidan pushed the file forward, the rest of the way off the desk and into his lap. “What’s going on, Price?”
“Not your problem, Talley.”
“Beg to differ, when my agents are caught in the crossfire.”
Nic started to argue—the shooter was only aiming at him, the car only struck him—but then he recalled Lauren in the van that day, recalled the other agents on the scene at South Park, and bit back his retort.
“And I beg to differ,” Aidan said, tone softening, “when my friend is being shot at.” Nic glanced up, meeting Aidan’s sincere, concerned gaze. Aidan wouldn’t let this go, if Nic didn’t give him something. And Nic needed him to let it go, before it got back to Cam.
“My father made some poor business decisions,” Nic hedged, maintaining walls, professional and otherwise. “His lenders want to be sure they recoup their investment.”
“That’s lawyer-speak for he’s in hock up to his eyeballs.” Standing, Aidan walked around the desk and dropped into the chair next to Nic. “Are you tangled up in any of it?”
“No,” Nic answered. “I’ve been estranged from Curtis twenty-seven years. I haven’t taken a cent of his money, and they can have it all, for all I care.”
“Look, you never mentioned your father, so none of us said anything, and you probably don’t need or want this, but I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand, laying it on Nic’s forearm. “And I don’t mean that you’re estranged. If you made that decision, I trust that it was for a good reason. I’m sorry he made you feel alone then and is doing so again now. And that whatever this is, is blowing back on you. That’s not fair.”
Aidan was right; Nic didn’t want sympathy for having cut ties with his father. There’d been no other choice, if he wanted to be who he was and make a stand for everything his father wasn’t. Sympathy, or regret for that matter, were wasted emotions. But what Aidan was offering was more than he ever thought he deserved. He swallowed, hard, forcing out a “Thank you.”
Aidan withdrew his hand and slid back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. “Do you need protection?”
Nic snorted, and Aidan raised his hands, a smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. “They’re just threats,” Nic said, and ignored Aidan’s eyebrow racing north. “No one’s actually trying to kill me. I don’t think. That wouldn’t serve their purpose. And I’ve got help handling it, in addition to Lauren.”
“Cam?”
“No,” he snapped too quickly. “I don’t want him involved in this.”
Aidan’s other brow raced after its companion.
“He’s got enough on his plate,” Nic said. “So do you. I’ve got this.”
“Tell me who’s helping you, and I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Cruz.”
That seemed to appease him. “Fine, but if it gets out of hand, you tell me.”
“Thank you,” Nic said, as he pushed to his feet. “Now, don’t you have calls to make?”
Aidan rose as well, raking a hand through his auburn hair. “Yes, God forbid Sa
n Franciscans be deprived of their luxury cars for a day.”
“Says the man who drives an Aston Martin.” Chuckling, Nic headed for the door, only to be stopped by Aidan’s hand around his biceps.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’re family, Dominic. And we take care of family.”
All the moisture in his mouth evaporated, worried he’d never be able to live up to that gift. “One day, maybe, I’ll tell you all just how much that means to me, but right now, Cam’s the family member in danger. He needs to be our primary concern.”
“Agreed.” Aidan released his arm. “So go to court and do your thing. Buy him and us some time.”
That he could do, for his family.
* * *
Face buried in the crook of Nic’s neck, Cam lapped up the salt and sweat, the hint of beer, and inhaled musk, hops and man, the heady mixture making him groan with need.
Everything he wanted was beneath him, around him. All of it hot. Under his hands, on his tongue, around his cock. Cam roved his hands over ink, so much fucking ink. Over painted skin and hard muscle, over broad shoulders and under Nic’s body, bowing his back. Pulling Nic closer, needing him skin to skin, as their hips ground together, pounding toward the edge.
Nic hitched his knees higher, ankles crossed behind Cam’s back, heels digging into his ass, as he urged him to thrust deeper, whispering, “More, Boston,” in his ear. That unaccented California voice, rough with sex and the screaming Cam had drawn out of him earlier, begged and moaned, “Harder, please.”
Cam angled his face in, chasing the lips he couldn’t get enough of, the taste he’d dreamt about for months.
And woke with a mouth full of pillow.
Groaning, not the good kind, Cam pushed himself out of the mound of pillows and flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Gripping either side of the bed, he held himself back from the call of his cock, which had made a fort of its own over his lap. Nic was at least two dozen city blocks from the condo Becca had led them back to last night, and yet he was everywhere inside Cam’s head and body.
Not that he didn’t want or need Nic there, at minimum occupying the spot in his brain stamped Agent Byrne. Cracking the security systems last night had sent adrenaline racing up Cam’s spine, a thrill at putting the forgotten talent back to use. He’d channeled that adrenaline more constructively, more legally, the past two decades, but last night he’d been reminded of its original purpose. Nic’s voice in his head, and the card in his wallet, had reminded him to connect the two, to make the original purpose constructive.
For the mission.
Rolling his head on the fluffy down pillow, Cam squinted out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Forty-five floors up, nothing blocked his view of the midmorning sun shining over the Bay. It was a beautiful, breathtaking sight, bright sun over glistening water, the suspended span of the Bay Bridge, and the busy Embarcadero below.
Hand in the mattress, he shoved himself up and rested back against the padded headboard, surveying the bedroom. The view inside was breathtaking too. Plush white linens, ebony furniture, an ebony wall hanging with the San Francisco cityscape carved in gold flake. All of it was too neat, too much like a hotel room; not a condo someone actually lived in. And definitely not befitting Becca’s punk rock aesthetic. A rental, then? Whoever was bankrolling this heist had shelled out a pretty penny, if this was their base of operations. That said, Cam had been in the Bay Area long enough to hear this building referred to as the Leaning Tower of Frisco, so maybe Deep Pockets got a good deal on it.
The slight lean helped as he reached for his phone on the bedside table. He should check in. Text Lauren at the untraceable number he’d memorized before leaving the office yesterday. He stopped midreach, however, catching sight of his jeans on the floor. That’s where he’d left his phone. In his pants pocket with his wallet; not on the table beside the bed.
Someone had checked it. Maybe—probably—also tampered with it.
Was his wallet still even in his pants? Had they rifled through it too?
Without warning, the door swung open, and Cam retracted his hand, leaving the phone where it lay. Becca sauntered in, Abby tucked under an arm against her side. In the light of day, the coziness between the two gave him greater pause. Same purple dye streaking their dark hair, though Becca’s was long and straight compared to Abby’s curls. Same leather, denim, and lace punk attire. Fresh kiss bruises on each of their necks. He wondered again about their CI, whose eyes were skipping around the room, searching, assessing. She was still playing both sides against the middle, where her sister stood.
Becca perched on the side of the bed, her hip next to his. She propped a booted foot on the bed rail and hauled Abby into the V of her thighs, the both of them angled toward him. “You passed out on us last night, Hot Stuff.”
He’d put on a show after they’d returned. Pretended the multiple Irish car bombs he’d partaken in at the bar downstairs had done him in. Please, he was Irish, from Boston. It took a lot more than a few beers and whiskey shots to knock him on his ass, but the lie had kept him out of Becca’s clutches. The multiple days with little sleep were what had actually knocked him out, hard enough that someone had managed to enter his room and tinker with his phone without him waking.
“Long day and night,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But profitable.”
Becca’s eyes zeroed in on his chest again, then drifted down to his abs. She traced a similar path with her nail. “At least you lived up to that hype.” Her nail dipped farther, trailing along the top of the sheet bunched around his waist. “Someone seems hyped this morning too.”
Damn Nic-fueled morning wood. And damn dick with a mind of its own, even if Cam’s heart and mind weren’t interested.
“Thought you had a girlfriend,” he said, gaze shifting meaningfully between Becca and Abby.
Becca paid him no mind, inching the sheet down so she could trace the sex lines on his hips. He fought not to shiver, a potent mix of mental disgust and bodily desire.
“We’re not opposed to a third, and I think my girl likes you.” She dropped the hand on Abby’s waist to her ass, squeezing and tugging her closer. Bringing them closer. “She can’t stop talking about you.”
Cam’s eyes darted back to Abby, worried she’d given too much away, but her eyes weren’t skeptically assessing any longer. She seemed interested, for real. He had to put a stop to this seduction, now. “We should save it for the victory celebration,” he suggested.
“But we have a day off.” Becca palmed him through the sheet, and Cam dug his teeth into his bottom lip, biting back a curse. “And I’m not a fan of delayed gratification.” Neither was his dick, apparently.
She lifted her hand, and he could breathe again, but only a minute, until she pried his lip free from his teeth and caught it between her own, drawing him into a kiss.
His insides churned, caught between his body’s wants, his heart’s desires, and his head pulling two different directions. Railing that this was a betrayal, while screaming back, in Nic’s voice, of all people, that he should use it for his cover. He took a breath, ignored the scent of Becca’s perfume, and separated mind from body, focusing the former on finding an excuse out of this. He caught a lucky break when a knock sounded against the door, giving him a momentary reprieve.
One of the bruisers, Jared, leaned his head in. “Call for you, Bex.”
“I’ll call them back.” She pushed Abby closer to Cam. “Your turn, baby.”
Abby looked ready to take her up on the offer, and if kissing Becca had caused Cam a near white-out of cognitive dissonance, it’d be worse with Abby, their CI. This was the job, but it felt like betrayal on a whole other plane. Did Abby really want to do this or was she playing a role, like him?
And if Becca didn’t stop stroking him through the damn sheet, his body was going to put up a louder argumen
t than everyone involved.
Another knock at the door, thank God. “He won’t wait,” Jared said.
Sighing, Becca held out her hand.
“Don’t you want to take it out here?” Jared said, scowling at Cam with thinly veiled hostility. And suspicion.
Becca snapped her fingers. “Give me the damn phone.”
Reluctantly, he handed it over and Becca shooed him to the door. She waited for him to pull it shut, then brought the phone to her ear. “Yeah?”
Cam couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but whatever the speaker said, caused Becca to straighten and remove her hand from his crotch. Playtime was over, thank fuck.
“We weren’t planning to move until tomorrow night, after the soft opening like we’d discussed.” Another pause, forehead wrinkling. “Yes, we know the museum layout but we just brought in a new B&E guy.” Her eyes cut to Cam, staying there as she spoke. “Double my fee. Half now, half on delivery.” After a couple seconds, her mouth stretched into a satisfied smile. “Tonight it is.”
She ended the call and pocketed the phone.
“No day off, then?” Cam said, thankful for the extended reprieve. It didn’t last long, Becca kissing him hard. “I’ll be holding you to that victory celebration,” she said, once she pulled back.
“And I’ll be expecting a similar deal. Up my fee, half now.”
She considered him, eyes searching, then believing whatever she saw. She nodded and stood, drawing Abby toward the door with her. “You drive a hard bargain, Brady.” She eyed his still interested cock. “Will expect you to drive something else hard tonight.”
She pulled the door closed, with a wink and “Downstairs in ten,” and Cam fell sideways onto the mattress, muffling his frustrated groan in the pillows. At least this would be over tonight. Much longer, and he was afraid even Nic wouldn’t be able to pull him back over his line.
Line.
He needed to let the team know the estimated timeline had been accelerated, and that Becca was definitely taking orders from someone. He grabbed his wallet first, though. Everything was in its place, just as he’d left it. More likely than not, his cover held. Snagging his phone next, he turned it on, and the picture on the screen flickered, like it was shorting out. Maybe Brady Campbell wouldn’t know what that meant, but Agent Cameron Byrne, best friend of former Cyber agent and hacker, Jameson Walker, knew exactly what that brief interruption meant. He’d make no calls and send no texts, messages, or emails from that phone.
