Seamless

by Griffin, R. L.

  Although everyone in the United States knew her whereabouts and the fact her life was being threatened, no one at her firm or any of the firm’s clients had any idea of the emotional turmoil that bubbled just below the surface of her perfectly straightened hair, exact makeup and designer outfits. She performed her job seamlessly. She wrote competent legal arguments, handled the media with ease and perfected several different fake smiles. The fake smiles were particularly important—they were all smiles for different situations, but covered up her real emotion. Her life was in chaos, but she could do her job. She was happy to be good at something.

  “Good morning,” she said into the microphones. Fake smile one, gratitude. “Thank you all so much for taking the time to come and hear Senator Miller’s statement today. The Senator regrets that this statement is even necessary, but as we are all aware, there are some things that the media cannot help covering.” She smiled and the reporters chuckled at her. Fake smile two, amusement with the situation. “Senator Miller is having personal issues that have nothing to do with his duties and responsibilities as a Senator. He’s guilty of having bad judgment, which we all have from time to time, but this in no way compromises his position in the United States Senate.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “That is all we have to say at this time.” Fake smile three (into the cameras), thank you for coming and we’re done. She turned to walk away, confident in her statement. That’s when all questions started.

  “Stella! Stella! How are you? Any other death threats?”

  “Where is George?”

  “How is your hand?”

  Stella sighed and counted to ten before she made an off-hand comment about getting injured on the treadmill. Fake smile four, dumb me falling on the treadmill. It was painfully obvious that this was her job—distracting the media from the story they were clambering after and give them herself. Bait and switch. Her story was always way more interesting to the media than anything else going on. She initially thought she’d been hired as an attorney, but she now knew she was hired to be a decoy and it was invaluable to have that big of a story in front of the media. Waving her in front of reporters was like giving a hungry dog a steak; they forgot about the dog food they’d been devouring a second earlier. She turned on her six inch heel and walked toward her car parked on the street near the cathedral.

  “Ms. Murphy?” a female called from behind her.

  Stella didn’t turn and switched the alarm off on her car. She opened the driver’s side door and got in as elegantly as possible.

  “Stella? Ms. Murphy? Do you have a minute?” The reporter made it to Stella’s car before she shut the door.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m not doing any interviews right now.” Fake smile.

  “Can you tell me about an undercover agent named Jack Ryder?”

  Her fake smiled slipped for just a few seconds and Stella felt a flash of fear travel through her body before she arranged her face back into her placating fake smile. “I’m not doing any interviews, but I’m unfamiliar with the name Jack Ryder.”

  “Jack Ryder,” the reporter shoved a recorder in Stella’s face, “the undercover ATF agent that you traveled with to Montana before the explosion. Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just not sure I can answer your questions.” Stella slammed her car door and took off as quickly as possible. She couldn’t believe that he’d travel from DC to Montana using his own name. If this reporter knew they flew together, then it is possible Jamie’s cover had been blown in Montana. Fuck. What an idiot.

  She pressed one of her favorites on her phone. “Greg. I’m getting questions about Jack.”

  “Who’s Jack?” her lawyer answered distractedly.

  “Jamie’s name after he went under. A reporter just asked me where he was and knew that we traveled together to Montana. She had his full fake name.”

  A loud breath sounded through the phone. “This shit keeps getting deeper and deeper. Who was running the operation in Montana, Stella?”

  “I’m not sure, but Patrick would know.” Stella racked her brain to see if she could recall the name of the agent who’d talked Jamie into going undercover. “I’ll ask him.”

  “Okay. I mean, I just don’t get what sort of operation is going on where they’re letting agents use their own name to fly back to DC to inform on…” he trailed off. “It doesn’t really matter. We just need to make sure we protect you.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything. I said I couldn’t answer her questions.”

  “That’s an accurate answer. Jack Ryder is a name that’s top secret, unless he fucking flew to DC using it.” Greg cussed under his breath. “You did well. Let me do some digging. Did you get her name?”

  “No.” Stella inwardly chided herself for that misstep.

  “It’s okay, Stella.” Greg cleared his throat. “Have you heard from Harris lately?”

  “No, but I have a couple of ideas and I still think he’s the way to get this thing settled.”

  “What do you mean?” Greg asked.

  “I think if I get Agent Harris to ask if I would be willing to wear a wire, then all I have to do is get Jamie to talk about what he did. I already set it up for him and he said that’s the only way that he’d believe what I told him anyway. I honestly think it’s just a matter of time before he sets it up.”

  “Oh, so all you have to do is get him to talk about what he did and not incriminate you in the process.” Greg’s voice was amused. “That sounds easy as pie.”

  “You don’t know him. He’s been talking my ear off for a year.” And she was used to being underestimated.

  “You can certainly try, but we need to have other contingencies in place if that doesn’t work.” He’d stopped laughing, realizing she was serious.

  She smiled into the phone. “Oh ye of little faith.”

  “Oh ye of protect your ass.”

  “You have a tough job.” She laughed. “I appreciate you.”

  “I’m sure you do. That’s why you pay me as much as you do.”

  Stella laughed at the socially inept statement; she wasn’t surprised the smartest people usually had difficulty with communication. She didn’t care if she and Greg could have great conversations or if he thought she was stupid, just as long as he did his job.

  “Talk later, Greg,” Stella said and clicked end on her phone. She immediately voxed Patrick. “Breaker, breaker. Hairy Ball. It’s Magic Box. What’s your twenty?”

  A few seconds later, Patrick’s amused voice came across. “Fuck Hairy Ball. I’m headed home. Why?”

  “You got a few minutes for a drink with me? Finnegan’s?”

  “Anything for you, Magic Box.”

  George leaned back in the chair and stretched his arms above his head. He had a pen behind his ear and Spotify playing on his computer. Papers were scattered all over the hotel’s desk. He was covering the race up to the primary elections and the election was still a year out. The potential candidates ran the gamut from political elite to up-and-comers. He was already bored by all the papers recycling the same stories. Hell, he was bored with his own story. This certainly wasn’t what he thought he’d be writing about when he’d agreed to use El to get back into journalism. He wanted to be writing cutting edge articles about things that mattered, not doing feel-good pieces for political campaigns.

  Senator Ashby had asked him on the campaign trail because Jessica had given him the nod. George didn’t know what to think about the fact that she vouched for him after all these years. He’d thanked her when he saw her his first day. She’d aged, just like he had, but overall she looked the same, her wavy red hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and she was wearing a suit, every inch the young businesswoman. During the course of the last couple of weeks they saw each other routinely and were cordial.

  He had the news on mute while he was writing, but he looked up at the TV and saw Stella holding a press conference. He smiled seeing her; he missed her. She was in professional mode and had her fa
ke smile affixed to her very kissable lips. Then he noticed her right hand was in a cast. He sat upright and found the remote to turn up the volume.

  “We appreciate you respecting his privacy right now,” she said soberly.

  “Stella...how’s the hand?” a reporter called.

  “How long will you be in a cast?” another asked.

  “What happened?”

  She looked down sheepishly. “I lost a fight with the treadmill yesterday.” She shrugged like “what are you going to do, you know?” and he almost bought it until she used her fake smile again. She was getting good at lying through her teeth. It made him very nervous.

  George ran a hand through his unruly hair. He was pissed. He’d talked with her last night and she hadn’t mentioned breaking her hand. He sighed. “What the fuck am I going to do with you?” he asked TV El.

  She smiled another fake smile and walked off the screen with reporters still yelling questions.

  George pulled out his phone and voxed Stella. “You need to fucking call me.” He looked out his window. “Now.”

  He selected Patrick next. “Hey, is Stella staying with y’all this week? What happened to her arm?”

  His phone dinged immediately. It was Patrick, voxing.

  “She’s staying on and off, why?”

  “Because I just fucking saw her on TV with a broken hand or arm or...”

  “Jamie,” Patrick responded immediately. “She punched him.”

  George stared at the phone. When the fuck was she going to tell him that? Jealousy crept up his spine and settled in his throat. Of course she’d told Patrick.

  “10-4,” George said and voxed Stella again.

  “Stella Eugenia Murphy. I will come back to DC and spank your ass. Call me NOW!” He didn’t keep the anger out of his voice—he wanted her to hear it loud and clear.

  “Okay. So I’m trying to get Jamie to admit to everything, but I need to get him somewhere where he won’t suspect that’s what I’m doing.”

  Stella and Patrick were sitting at their old stools at Finnegan’s, knocking back beers. It was almost like old times, except that Owen was behind the bar. When they’d come in, he’d given her the third degree about Patrick as well. Stella was positive George must’ve said something to Owen about keeping tabs on her. It was ridiculous, but she understood it, especially after hearing his latest vox, which she was ignoring.

  “Okay,” Patrick said, taking a sip of his beer. “How’re you planning on doing that?”

  “I’ll get him to meet me somewhere and record him telling me he did it.” She honestly didn’t think it would be that hard; he liked to hear himself talk.

  “I don’t know, El.” Patrick shook his head skeptically while examining the cracks in the bar. “You’re going to have to make sure when you’re recording that you only get the parts you want. If it’s clear that you knew he shot you earlier, you’ll be in trouble. If it seems like you knew he was part of the bombing, you could be charged with being an accessory after the fact. I mean, there are so many things that could go wrong.”

  “But, it’s really the only way I can get Agent Harris to act on this. I mean, if I’m taking Jack Ryder down, I’ve got to give him this admission. I want him arrested.”

  “Well, I guess if you record him there’ll be proof that he told you, but…” Patrick doubted she’d be able to pull it off; it was all over his face.

  “Come on, Patrick, give me some fucking credit. I can coax people to talk about what I want them to.” She shrugged. “I’m good at distracting boys.”

  “Oh, really,” Patrick mocked, running his fingers up and down his pint of Bass.

  “Yeah, really,” Stella said, grinning. “My job of distracting people from what’s really going on will be helpful in this adventure. For example, my current client, who’s fucking a dude even though he’s married to a woman and has two kids—send me in there and the media forgets all questions about him, but wants to talk about death threats and string bikinis. It’s fucking easy.”

  “Job kind of sucks, huh?” Patrick ruffled her hair. It was growing out of the bob she had during the trial.

  “Kind of.” She nodded and leaned away from his hand. She hated being petted.

  “Most jobs do.” Patrick took a gulp of his beer. “You want to stay at the house?”

  “Maybe...” She was nervous to stay by herself since she ran into Jamie. While it was hard to have media outside her house at all times, it was also like a security blanket. Agent Gunter had seen her rush back to her house, but hadn’t said a word about it. Everything was so fucking complicated.

  “When does George get back?” Patrick asked, throwing down a bill on the bar.

  “This weekend.”

  “He in Iowa?”

  “Yep.”

  “You better call him. He voxed me and he was pissed.” Patrick smiled and drained his drink. “See you in a bit. I’ll tell Millie to buy some wine.” He kissed her cheek and left her sitting there contemplating whether she could pull off the only plan she’d come up with so far to deal with Jamie.

  “Owen?” Stella called.

  “Yes, Stella?”

  “I need another one before I go.” Stella lifted her empty glass toward him.

  “Of course.” Owen nodded and got her a Snakebite. When he set it in front of her on the bar, he smiled sympathetically. “Rough day?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What’d you do to your hand?” he asked.

  “Broke it. Fell off the treadmill,” she answered, feeding him the same story she’d told the media. Liar. She’d found it easier that once you lied, just keep lying; just fall into the lie and wallow in it. You may end up even believing the story you’ve created for yourself, anyway, and then it will be less likely others will know you’re a liar.

  “Damn, seriously?” Owen’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yep. It was a sneaky bastard.”

  “You know, I don’t care what everyone says about you. I think you and Will are good together.”

  Stella’s mood darkened. She already knew George’s family didn’t like her, but shit. “Thanks.” She shrugged and gulped her beer down, now ready to leave. She waved as she walked toward the door.

  Stella fell into her car, which she’d named Delilah, and headed home to grab her things and Cooper. On the way she listened to her Voxer messages from George. He was pissed because she hadn’t told him about her hand, but she didn’t tell him because she didn’t want him to worry. Then she made a rookie mistake by holding a press conference and not telling him before then. She and Cooper got in Delilah and made their way to Patrick’s.

  She called George and listened to him berate her as soon as he answered.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling and fucking voxing all fucking day. How do you not tell me that you ran into Jamie and it ended in you breaking your hand?”

  She was silent. Stella had no valid reason for not telling him, she just didn’t want to worry him, which was stupid.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry!?” George’s voice boomed from the phone and Stella pulled it from her ear.

  “I don’t have an explanation. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

  “So you’d rather me see it on TV with everyone else when you smile your fake fucking smile and tell your pretty little lies?”

  “George, I’m sorry. I’ll do better.” She wasn’t even putting up a fight and that seemed to take some of the air out of his fight.

  “Stella, I can’t be here and know you’re lying to me.”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “Cut the bullshit.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay....” There was a strained silence. “I was running and Jamie was waiting for me. He wants his money. I punched him in the face.”

  “Pay him,” George said unequivocally.

  “What?”

  “Pay him,” George repeated. “Write him a mo
therfucking check and get him out of our lives.”

  “I bought Delilah with it and some shoes,” she said sheepishly.

  “I have money to pay him; do it.”

  “B-but…” Stella stuttered, not knowing what to think.

  “I’m not asking, Love. Pay him.”

  She continued to make the dumbest decisions. What was her problem? She reluctantly agreed to pay him out of George’s bank account. By the time she pulled up to her old house, she’d told him she loved him as big as the world and he’d laughed because that’s what Finn always told him. Stella thought they ended the call on the best note possible.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bullet to the Head

  She was sitting at the desk assigned to her in the Montana field office, music playing in the background. She couldn’t quite decipher what it was, but it sounded like a Matthew Mayfield song she loved. She was alone, and then all of sudden, the surrounding desks were occupied by Trey Williams, Jeffery Riggins, and Peter Richardson, the agents she was working with. She frantically looked around and tried to get up, but her feet were stuck to the floor. Shouting, she tried to get the agents’ attention.

  “Hey! RUN!” She yelled over and over, but the music got louder and eventually drowned out her screams.

  A figure appeared, dressed all in black. His eyes locked on hers when he pulled the trigger and shot Agent Riggins. She screamed as his head exploded and his blood splattered on the files that were strewn on the floor. Stella shook her head furiously.

  “STOP! JAMIE!” she cried and screamed as loud as she could.

  Jamie’s eyes never left hers when he moved to Agent Williams and shot him at point blank range. Stella closed her eyes and willed them to stay closed. She heard another shot and a body hit the floor. Richardson.

  The music quieted and Jamie was standing in front of her; she felt him. Kneeling in front of her, he pulled her chair flush with his chest, his face inches from hers.

  “You know I have to kill you, right?” He looked like he had in college and it made her insides seize in fear.

  Stella shook her head. He leaned in and claimed her mouth with his. Her mouth betrayed her and fell in sync with his nips, tugs, and licks. He tasted of spearmint and home. Jamie broke off the kiss and kept his lips near her ear.