by Reid, Penny
She moaned.
Her ragged breathing was the sexiest sound in the world.
“I sneak in the window, which you leave open.” My heart still hammering in my chest, my hand covered in my release, my brain foggy, I needed to hear her come. “I wake you up by peeling back your covers and sliding up your shirt, exposing your breasts.”
Simone made a soft, strangled sound.
“My mouth is on you, sucking. My fingers move inside your underwear and I tell you I’m going to make you feel so, so good. We take off your shorts together.”
“Yes.”
“I spread your legs—”
“Yes.”
“I climb on top and rub my cock against your clit.”
“Yesss,” she cried.
“I ask if you want me to fuck you hard or—”
I stopped speaking, because she was coming.
Closing my eyes, saying no more, I listened, memorizing every moan, sigh, and cry. A symphony of seduction, fireworks in my chest, and an overwhelming sense of arrogant satisfaction.
But then arrogance and satisfaction turned into frustration, because as much as I loved hearing her come and being the one responsible for it, I wanted to hold her afterward. I wanted to stroke her body, feel the fever of her skin cool, watch her stretch and arch.
I wanted her here. Now.
Or I wanted to be there.
I cursed silently, sitting up, listening to her soft sigh and wishing I could capture it with a kiss. This being apart business wasn’t going to work. Tonight had been great, no doubt. We’d come together, but we’d be going to bed alone.
Sooner rather than later, no matter what it took, we were moving to the same city.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.”
Mark Twain
*Roscoe*
I’m not great with details, usually by design. Too many details makes for a cluttered memory. This was especially true when attending events with a large number of people.
Approximately one hundred and sixty thousand people—give or take a few thousand—attended the Kentucky Derby. Which meant, on Derby Day, Churchill Downs becomes the third largest city in Kentucky behind Lexington and Louisville (pronounced “Lou-ah-ville” for all y’all not from around here).
Speaking of which, now you know how to pronounce the capital of Kentucky . . . Frankfurt. (That’s one of my favorite jokes).
Anyway, I’d been told around eighty thousand of the fans entered via general admission tickets and basically threw a huge party on the infield all day. I had a friend from college who attended the Derby every year of undergrad and told me he never once saw a horse, but he did drink a quarter of his body weight in mint juleps.
Simone and I wouldn’t be partying on the infield. The tickets Dr. Yi gave me were for a private box in the clubhouse—the covered stands overlooking the finish line—with full access to Paddock Plaza, where folks can watch the horses get prepped for each race.
The original plan was for us to meet just inside the Clubhouse Gate, which I’d been warned had formerly been named Gate 10, around 2:30 PM. But Simone had texted me earlier in the week, requesting instead that we meet past the metal detectors and ticket scanning lines, both new features since the ’18 Derby, and we moved our meet-up time to 2:45 PM.
Regardless, I arrived three hours early, anxious to see Simone again. I missed her something fierce, and though my recent memories of us together were vivid, and our nightly phone calls had been spectacular, I went to bed each night far from satisfied.
I wanted her with me. I wanted to have dinner together every night. I wanted to hear about her troubles, her worries and fears, and be a big part of her life. I wanted her to be a big part of mine. I’d never anticipated creating new memories so much in my entire life.
Which meant I was also anxious to ensure the day would be a great one, with no hiccups or unforeseen unpleasantness. With all the recent changes to Churchill Downs—from traffic flow to renaming of gates, etc.—I planned to message her ahead of time, providing explicit instructions on how to park and enter the track. So, yeah. I arrived super early to scope out our box, how to get there, and the folks who would be sharing it with us.
I introduced myself, sized them up, and indicated my girlfriend would be joining me later. I did this to make sure they were the right sort, who wouldn’t be giving a white boy and a black girl together stares. Maybe it was overkill, but I didn’t want any small-mindedness ruining our day.
As it turned out, most of them were veterinarians from out of town, and I was relieved to see two other mixed couples already present.
Breathing easier, I checked out what kind of food was being served and debated whether or not Simone would like it, or would want to visit the concession area instead. There were a few new bars since the recent renovation, all of which had clever names: the Behave Yourself Bar, the I’ll Have Another Bar, the Spend a Buck Bar, the Regret Bar, and so forth. I thought it might be a good time to visit each over the course of the evening, when the bar name suited our situation.
Finally, I scoped out our designated meet-up spot—near the mutuel windows where bets were placed—and sipped my newly acquired mint julep while I tried to get a feel for the flow of traffic.
After a short time, or what felt like a short time, I was surprised to discover my drink empty and my attention absorbed with the general ambiance of the event. This was my first time attending the Derby and the people watching wasn’t half bad. Or rather, more precisely, the clothes watching.
I didn’t have to concentrate on details to notice how many men wore light colored linen suits, with blue and white striped shirts and silk ties, or how many ladies wore fancy dresses and outlandish hats. Both were so plentiful, only those people who didn’t subscribe to tradition snagged my attention, sticking out like dark spots against an ocean of brightly colored hat brims, feathers, fabric flowers, and tan suit jackets.
Maybe if I’d been anywhere else, at any other event, the three men dressed entirely in black—each standing in a different betting line—wouldn’t have caught my eye, but they did. Instinctively, my gaze lifted to their faces and, mesmerized, I was shocked to discover I recognized them.
Tattoo Mike from the Talons MC club over in Georgia. I’d met him once when I was six, the last time my momma had allowed us to go to a family picnic at the Dragon Biker Bar.
Hawk from the Chains MC club, out in Texas. I’d also met him at an Iron Wraiths family picnic the summer before kindergarten. He had two sons—twins—my age and they’d played too rough.
Gunner from the Snakes MC club in Kentucky. He’d come over to our house with my father once when I was five. They’d worked on their bikes in the Quonset hut and sent our momma out for more beer when they’d run out.
Those were just the first three. Over the next several minutes, while I stood transfixed, I spotted seven more. Of the ten total, I recognized five, but that didn’t matter. It was clear as day, all of them were from a motorcycle club. Without meaning to, I began noticing details, likely because the details formed a pattern.
Each man carried a large bag strapped to his chest. When the man approached the window, he placed a bet quickly, apparently knowing exactly what to say. He then passed over a quantity of cash—by the looks of it, from where I stood and what I could see, it seemed like a significant amount for each of the betting men—and then he collected his ticket, turned, and left.
But none of the men went very far, nor did they cluster together, nor did they watch the races they’d just bet on. Even the two guys from the same MC club—Tattoo Mike and another fella I recognized named Cueball, also from the Talons MC—didn’t talk to each other.
However, after each race, one of the men—only one of the ten—approached the window to collect winnings. This part seemed random, not the same man twice, giving me the impression that the betting part had been done in some organized fashion, and that the win
ner actually won.
I didn’t usually have hunches like Simone, but after watching this happen four times, even I—with my tendency to gloss over details—knew something weird was going on.
Which was why, when I became aware of a tall man walking towards me, dressed in a blue suit with a white pocket square, I wasn’t as surprised as I should have been to see my father.
A smile curved his mouth and I watched as his eyes moved over me, taking in my attire.
“Nice suit,” he said, drawing to a stop a few feet away. He was also holding an empty mint julep glass. Unlike mine, his ice hadn’t melted. “Light gray with a matching vest. Is that tie pink?”
Glaring at him, I blinked once slowly, doing my best to suppress the rising tide of aggression simmering in my stomach, along with the parade of horrible memories clamoring to be relived and re-experienced.
I didn’t want that.
I didn’t want to spend any of my time today fighting against and sorting through shitty memories.
And I’d be damned if this asshole ruined my day with Simone.
Therefore, my tone was cold as I asked, “What do you want?”
His smile didn’t waver, but his gaze did seem to sharpen. “Haven’t seen you in a month.”
“So?” Glancing at my watch, I saw with some alarm that it was almost 2:45 PM. Simone would be arriving any minute. He needed to be gone before she came.
“Roscoe.” The edge in his voice had me looking at him again. “Son,” he said, and much of his laisser-faire façade had crumbled, leaving his eyes rimmed with fear, the worry lines on his forehead in stark relief.
Scowling at his expression, I took a half step forward and lowered my voice. “Listen, I don’t know how this works, but one of my stipulations for helping has to be that you’ll leave me alone.”
He flinched, like I’d thrown sand in his eyes, and his brow knotted itself into a mess of confusion, followed by relief. “You—you’re helping me? You’re going to help your old man? My boy—”
“Don’t do that, don’t fucking do that,” I said through gritted teeth. “You know I’m not doing this for you.”
Darrell stared at me, watching me closely for several seconds. “Then who are you doing it for? Because you’re lying to yourself and cheating us both out of the time we have left if you keep letting Billy—”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “This isn’t about Billy. This is about you making a deal with the feds, handing over critical information, if and only if I donate my bone marrow. Like I said, I don’t know how any of this works, but you leave my family out of it. I don’t want them to know.”
“A deal with the feds . . .” My father rocked back on his heels, his features a mess of wonder and curiosity. He looked so much like Ashley—the unaffectedness of his eyes, the shape of his mouth—I had to look away.
I heard him clear his throat and sensed him move closer. He hesitated just a second before placing his hand on my shoulder, blocking our conversation from the rest of the room.
“I haven’t made a deal with the feds, Roscoe,” he said, his voice an unsteady whisper. “Because I didn’t know you’d agreed to help.”
I tensed, but I didn’t move away, my mind working overtime.
“But now that I know, now that you’ve agreed, I need you to pass along some information for me to your contact.”
Shaking my head, I was just about to say that I didn’t have a contact, only Simone’s loose connection with a friend, when we were interrupted by someone tugging on my arm.
I turned, finding Simone standing there in a light pink dress. Her eyes, wide and worried, darted between me and Darrell.
She was a vision.
I took in the low scoop of the neckline, the way the material hugged her breasts and torso, and puffed out past her waist to a full skirt that fell to her knees. On her feet she wore pink and white checkered stilettos, on her head a small white hat covered with calla lilies tilted artfully to one side. Her hair had been pulled up and beneath the frothy concoction of fabric flowers, and her lips shimmered pink.
I wanted to lick them.
I wanted to taste the silky brown skin over her collarbone and whisper into her ear, telling her how gorgeous she looked, how much I’d missed her, how I needed her.
But I couldn’t, because Darrell was there, and all I could think to say was, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would be here.”
She waved away my apology and asked tightly, “Are you okay?”
Grinding my jaw, I nodded and gently pulled her hand from my sleeve. I kissed the back of her fingers. I then tucked them into the crook of my elbow and faced my father.
“We’re leaving. Don’t follow us, don’t speak to us—either of us—again.”
“Wait.” His hand on my shoulder tightened, his voice strained and desperate. “You have to pass along a message for me, to your contact at the feds.”
I felt Simone stiffen at my side and I grunted, frustrated with my father. I’d been so careful, arriving early to ensure the day would be perfect. Here he was, ruining everything.
“I don’t have a contact at the feds,” I whispered harshly.
Darrell’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Then what are we talking about? What did you mean, ‘deal with the feds’?”
The urge to shake him off strangled me, and I struggled to remain calm. “Remove your damn hand right now.”
“No. Not until you tell me what you know.” His gaze floated over to Simone before returning to me. “I have a number of associates here, right now, and I know this track like the back of my hand. We may be in a crowded place, but if you want Miss Simone to leave here as untouched as she is now, then you’ll—”
“I told him.” Simone stepped forward and in front of me, her hands coming to my thighs as though to hold me in place, perhaps sensing that my control was snapping and I was seconds away from laying the old man out—nearby associates or no.
“I told him about the deal, and that it was unlikely you would cooperate if he didn’t offer his bone marrow in exchange for information,” she whispered quickly, drawing the full weight of his attention and suspicion.
“And how did you know, Miss Simone?” His tone and blue gaze were remote, and yet both held an unmistakable threat, and both made me want to pound his face until his bones were dust.
“Be-because I have a contact, and that c-contact told me,” she said quickly, her voice strange.
Darrell’s chin lifted as he regarded her, his cool stare seeming to read her face as though there were words on it. He shook his head.
“No,” he whispered darkly. “I don’t think so, Miss Simone. I don’t think you have a contact at all. You’ve always been bad at lying.”
I gripped her shoulders and I tried to move her, but she wouldn’t budge.
Darrell’s eyes came to mine, held, his features devoid of emotion, and he asked, “Does he know?”
“What are you talking about?” I growled, my patience at an end. “He who?”
But then Simone said, her voice small, “No. He doesn’t know,” and I realized Darrell’s last question had been for her, not for me.
I wasn’t anywhere close to recovering from my confusion when Darrell said to Simone, “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to arrest me, right now.”
“What?”
“What?”
She and I spoke in unison.
My father ignored me, all his attention focused on Simone. “You’re going to arrest me, right here, right now. You’re going to flash your badge for everyone to see, real public like, and you’re going to take me out the way you came in.”
“That’s not necessary,” she whispered. “I also have associates nearby, and—”
“No, you don’t.” He shook his head.
Meanwhile, my hands dropped from her shoulders and I tried to take a step back. I couldn’t. Her fingers gripped the fabric of my pants.
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “They arrived wi
th me. We all came together hours ago.”
“They’re after Razor, right?” Darrell’s tone had turned businesslike. “Well, he ain’t here now, but he was here. You don’t think he has eyes and ears in law enforcement? And now he has your associates running around on a wild goose chase. None of them are left at the Derby. Why would they be here if he’s gone? You’re on your own, Simone. It has to be you.”
Her grip on my pants lessened and I was able to step away, but I did hear her ask, “Why now?”
Darrell’s glare grew intense and his words were clipped, “Because if you don’t take me now, I don’t know if I’ll be alive tomorrow to give you the information you need, given that my associates have been watching this entire exchange and—” He stopped, swallowed, his eyes flickering to me for the briefest of seconds before saying, “Razor knows about the cancer and he knows Roscoe is going to donate.”
“How could he possibly know that?” I thought and asked at the same time.
“Because I told him,” Darrell said through gritted teeth. “He found out and I admitted I was sick, but that I had it covered.”
“You’re a damn fool,” Simone hissed. “You thought he’d spare you? Help you? Take care of you? To someone like Razor, weakness makes you a liability.”
I couldn’t see her face, her back was to me, but I sensed her hesitate, knew she was thinking over her options, and that’s when my brain finally caught up with what was happening.
She’s FBI.
Simone was an undercover FBI agent.
I searched my memories, looking for signs, and cursing myself for always endeavoring to avoid details.
The way she’d spoken to Darrell outside of the diner on the last Thursday of March, how she hadn’t seemed to care at all that he’d called her Miss Simone.
“Maybe y’all could come in and have some pie?”
The fact that my father had been the first topic of conversation the next day, when she brought doughnuts to the house, followed me out the back door and onto the porch.
“I have questions. Has your father been bothering you?”
