by Fiona Quinn
Holy wow! “Modesty is one of Orion Blackburn’s children?” I asked. Kudos to her for escaping such a setup.
“Exactly,” Finley said.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a picture of Modesty?”
Finley tapped at his computer then turned the screen in my direction.
“She’s calling herself Destiny, now.”
“Noted,” Finley said.
I caught Prescott’s eye. He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Lynx, we worked that case in Syria last December. The horror of women slaves who were offered as prizes to ISIS fighters. Is this going to be too much for you? Are you okay with working this case?”
Finley flicked a look of concern toward Prescott. He must have heard the exchange.
“Spyder wants me involved,” I said. Yeah, the enslavement of women was a real, contemporary global issue. It had been so hard to be in Syria and see what that looked like firsthand. It was the reason why Angel had gone black ops—he was willing to suffer and sacrifice, to be tortured and endangered to save these women.
Angel was a hero.
Anything I was experiencing from not having a divorce from him was so small and petty.
I needed to remember that.
If, as Prescott suggested, the papers were held up because Angel was off-grid…yeah, his work took precedence. Those women’s lives were much more important.
I felt some of the combativeness recede. The heat was removed from my pressure cooker thoughts.
But what in the world could The Grove, Modesty Blackburn, and Spyder have in common?
And what did the FBI want from me?
Chapter Nineteen
I’d left the FBI, my head spinning with questions.
Sitting in a Lyft that smelled heavily of lilac room refresher, I’d processed all the way over to Dr. Carlon’s office. The driver was aggressively maneuvering through late afternoon traffic after telling her I was heading to the doctor for an emergency medical appointment.
She kept looking over her shoulder, perhaps fearful I might pop like a balloon and leave my insides all over her spotless upholstery.
Dr. Carlon said I needed to be more careful. I told her I could easily trip on the stairs at my house and bonk my head. I was always in danger unless I was flat on my back in bed, and that was no way to live.
Once again, Dr. Carlon suggested I adopt wearing a motorcycle helmet as a fashion statement.
When I finally met Striker at his car, I opened the door and climbed in, saying, “Dr. Carlon cleared me for field work. She thinks I’m fine.”
Striker said nothing, waiting for me to get my door shut, and my belt pulled across me and fastened tightly.
“I hope you’re more comfortable with my medical status now.” Leaning toward the car’s radio, I flipped around the radio stations looking for some music that would take the edge off.
It wasn’t a long drive to my house unless it was this time of day, and we were inching along with the rush hour traffic.
“That’s it?” Striker asked. “I bet Dr. Carlon said to keep an eye on things. She’d never say you’re a hundred percent.”
“Right, well, I’ll never be a hundred percent, we know that. Good enough is going to have to be good enough.”
Striker flicked a glance my way, then pulled out into traffic. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you.”
“And you’re feeling aggressive?”
“I’m…not aggressive. Protective.”
I reached for his hand. Pressing a kiss into his bicep, I rested my head on his shoulder with a sigh. “Thank you. It’s nice that you care.”
He tapped my head with his cheek, then turned to press a quick kiss into my hair. “You said Finley was there at the FBI meeting?”
“Yup, and Prescott. Finley’s domestic terror. Prescott runs that joint task force. But there’s an international flavor to their case load. Rowan Kennedy was there.”
Striker looked my way, then merged into the oncoming traffic. “Kennedy’s focus is psychological warfare out of former USSR countries.”
“Interesting, isn’t it? I asked Finley about that. Dr. Gupta was the guy giving us a lecture—a fascinating guy. I liked him a lot. You know, he reminded me a bit of Spyder.” I bobbled forward as Striker had to use evasive moves to avoid a crash with the overly zealous driver to our right. “Not in his physical capacity,” I continued, “but his general demeanor. Centered, unflappable—well, unflappable until he had to mention women’s menstrual cycles and sexuality.”
“He was talking about that in your meeting?” Striker sent me a quick glance. “Why?” he asked with a laugh.
“Just background on this secret society that Modesty Blackburn comes from. She’s the daughter—amongst dozens of offspring—of their charismatic. I’ve been given permission to speak to Strike Force about the case, so I’m not breaking any laws here. But Kennedy added to what Gupta was telling us about secret societies. It seems that in some cases, charismatics are losing control of the narrative—the Internet age. The average Joe gets a lot of power. They can spin off the charismatic and enhance it. I think about it a little like fanfiction, right?”
“Keep going with that idea.”
I settled back in my seat. Traffic was aggressive, and I didn’t want to impede Striker’s driving. “Yeah, so you have an author who develops their characters and the world the story takes place in. Everything we know is what the author wants us to know. An author, if they’re good, really does manipulate us, don’t they? They decide what emotions we should experience, everything from the gasp of discovery to sobbing heartbreak to book hangovers when the story is done. Yet, we’re not ready to let go of the characters who became our friends…our family, even.”
Striker sent me a grin. “What did Kate call it? Her book boyfriend?”
“Ha. Yes. I’ll admit, it’s fun to have a hunky hero to fantasize about.”
Striker shot me a look. “Uh-huh. Is that a jab? I need to step up my game?”
“Book boyfriends keep me satisfied while you’re downrange. Are you seriously jealous right now?”
“Changing the subject back. Writers are the masters of their created universe…”
“Exactly. But then a fan comes along. They have immersed themselves into the culture and the personalities of the book, and they add their own twists and turns. Their own understanding. Fifty Shades was hugely popular. It was written as fan fiction. And good on her for writing the story that was in her heart. It gets panned for its writing style, but it touched on something in the zeitgeist, or her series wouldn’t have exploded that way.”
“I haven’t read that. Are we back to talking about book boyfriends?”
“Not mine. BDSM isn’t my thing. No judgment, just I have to be careful with my head.” I batted my eyelashes at Striker saucily. “You know what? That’s not a great example. Here’s a better one. Did you know that there are whole sites that are dedicated to Harry Potter erotica? What the fanfiction writers do is use J.K. Rollins Hogwarts world, her characters, and they create elf orgies and magical orgasms.”
“Interesting. Do you read Hogwarts erotica? Are you interested in moaning with the ghosts?” He was laughing. It was such a good sound.
“My point here is that someone becomes co-creators of the original thoughts. When they do it right, the fanfiction author creates branches of the tree. Spinoffs beget spinoffs. Power is already there for siphoning. In the case of fanfiction, I don’t have an opinion. I’m using it as a metaphor. Like, if I have an established campfire, and you want a fire of your own. Over you come, taking a burning log from mine to start your own. Now we both have a fire, though mine might suffer from losing some fuel. And as I say that, I can see that my metaphor got away from me. It’s been happening all day. Ideas are clear to me, but when I try to explain them…I’m tired. I want to stop thinking for today.”
“We’re almost home, Chica. A hot bath, some cuddle time on the sofa, early to bed.”
“Agreed. Now, in this case, we have a secret society, we add in a criminal genius mind, and I’m assuming that this somehow has a terror component that they didn’t reveal to me. I’m not part of that piece. I’m working on the piece that tries to find out how to hook Destiny into being a resource.”
“Puzzles.”
“Yes, indeedy.”
“Did they say when you’re to start?”
“I told you this. I start at the diner tomorrow.”
“Undercover.”
“Yes.”
He was chewing on the inside of his cheek. Displeased. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes, I guess. Hopefully not long. A lot of that depends on how well I do figuring this out. Interesting point, though…” I waited for him to finish his turn into my neighborhood.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Finley asked if I was going to be at the party for Gator and Christen on Thursday night.”
“How would he know about that?” Striker aligned his car with Kate’s, put on his blinker, and draped his arm across the back of the seat.
“Good question.”
There was a moment of silence while Striker backed into place and cut the engine. “Why would he care?”
“Also, a good question.”
“Did you ask?”
“It wasn’t a good time. Too many ears.”
“What did your spidey senses tell you?”
“Felt like tightrope walking. I think since they’re keeping a watch on the Assembly and this party is on their radar. Since all roads lead to Rome, I'm guessing that this case I’m working on for Spider and the FBI also includes the Assembly. Maybe a guest will be there who might run into me as I’m working on the case. Finley might have been afraid I’d blow my cover. I’m sure, as we’re getting closer to next Thursday’s party that he’ll take me aside and tell me the issues if he thinks I’m going to blow the op.”
“Huh.”
“Or, maybe he thought some Assemblyman would have a dagger out for me.”
“The Assembly doesn’t know your role in taking them down.”
“No. They’re not supposed to, anyway. But the Assembly permeated every aspect of the political and economic power grid in America. I think my role is secret. Spyder and I worked under the radar as we brought them down. Indigo’s death happened when they’d have no way to identify my role. And all of the records were burned when Omega torched their own headquarters. Some minion along the way…” I glanced around the empty street. I didn’t even like bringing it up here in the car.
“Are you thinking of someone in particular?”
“No.”
“What about that guy that came to your father’s funeral.”
I slid a hand down first one arm, then the next as if I was scraping off a film that had settled on my skin. “I don’t know. He and Spyder had some symbiosis at the funeral. They communicated with a glance. They were teamed up to help get mom to the car when her wheelchair mired in the mud. At that point, Spyder was fine with him. Today, Seth Toone was confused when he saw me. He didn’t know mom had died. If he was paying attention to my parents or me, he would have known.”
Double whammy: My parents crowded forward. Pay attention!
And at the same time, I heard a knowing blare, “Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady.”
Chapter Twenty
When I opened the fridge, dinner fell on the floor.
I balled my fists and growled my frustration.
“Lexi, sit.” Striker said, all calm and shit. “Let me handle this.”
“I’ve got it,” I spat out.
“Do you need me to remind you, you aren’t a superhero?”
“I’m very clear on my human frailty, thanks, Striker.” I grabbed up the broom and dustpan to scoop the remains of my casserole.
“Not even close to my point. I was going to say that it’s been a hell of a day, and I’d like to help you relax. And, Dr. Carlon said that you have to get a good night’s sleep. The alarm is going to be sounding way too early for your liking. Why you accepted that crazy schedule—”
“I took the schedule that the quitting waitress already had on the books.” I dumped the food into the trash and moved to the sink to get a rag and wipe up the last of it. “I love you,” I said past the blast of water. “I appreciate you. You know that, right?”
“We take care of each other. The appreciation is mutual. Now, shall I call for some pizza?”
I pulled my hairband from a hook by the soap dispenser, bent back, gathered my hair up into a loose bun, then moved toward the spill.
Striker took the rag from my hand and pointed to a chair. I sat gratefully while he sopped up the mess. “I could make breakfast for dinner,” I suggested. “Do you want eggs?”
“I’m fine with a bowl of cereal. I’d rather you sit.” Striker finished up, tossing the cloth in the pail to go down to the washing machine. “Sometimes, you find solace in cooking. If that’s the case here, then make whatever you want. If this is a chore on your to-do list, let me do it.”
I caught the way he was assessing me. I knew I wasn’t fooling him at all. I didn’t even feel up to this much. I certainly didn’t want to eat. I was just play-acting to get to the point in my day when I could fall into bed, hopefully early and by myself, so I could just lay there and cry. Let my body release this sucky day. I stood up to get myself a drink of water.
“What do you need right now, Chica?”
I swept my hands over my face. “Just being here with you is pretty darned good.”
He reached out and pinched the edge of my dress between his thumb and forefinger, his mind working the problem. He was a SEAL, through and through.
Releasing the cloth, Striker reached under my arms and lifted me onto the counter, so we were eye to eye.
I rested my hands on the broad expanse of his shoulders and just felt the latent strength. These arms had the capacity to do great harm and the ability to take up great burdens. I loved Striker’s shoulders. I leaned in and laid a kiss on the rounding dome of his muscle.
When I lifted up, Striker’s lips met mine in a slow kiss.
Gentle and sweet, I felt my stress slide to the side. There it was, crouching on the floor, watching for another opportunity to grab my attention.
I was determined to leave the stress there, ignored.
As my body softened, Striker pressed my knees apart and stepped forward, snuggling into the space between my legs that was all his.
I flexed my feet to make my flats clatter to the ground. Wrapping my legs around Striker’s waist, I crossed my ankles behind him to keep him there in the place where he belonged between my thighs. To keep him doing the things he was doing with his mouth. A swirl, and a lick, a nibble, and a dance with my tongue.
He brushed at a wisp of hair that found its way to my cheek and was tickle-itching me. And as he did, he sent a look of curiosity toward the dining room. “What I think you need is a distraction.”
“Yes.” I sighed out. That was exactly what I needed. A concentration of this energy and then an explosion of release. “That would be wonderful.”
He drew my hands to his neck, then wrapped his arms around me. “Hold tight,” his voice carried a smile.
What is he up to?
Lifting me up, he walked me to the dining room. There he held me fast with one arm while he scooped my skirt up and out of the way before he set me down on the white paper-covered table.
“It’s the Nancy Drew dress that’s got you heated, isn’t it?”
“That’s turning me on? It’s you. All you.” He gave a slow tug to my zipper. “I think we could have some fun in here.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm.” He lifted the dress over my head and cast it to the side.
Every move, sensually slow.
Striker in play mode.
“Is this what you want?” he asked as his lips found the delicate bones beneath my neck, tracing a string of kisses from o
ne side to the other. He stopped and looked up to catch my eye.
“This is exactly what I want.” All day, my muscles had been banded and ready for a fight, physical, intellectual—moral, even.
I had learned over our years together that Striker had a magical ability to shift my consciousness.
It was like hypnotism.
With the tone of his voice, the strokes of his hands, the world fell away.
I was sensation.
Connection.
My life’s experiences had taught me that I could blow the now by allowing the ugly and violent world to encroach on sacred space.
I purposefully and consciously put up an etheric do not disturb sign. I would focus on nothing but Striker.
Making love with Striker had many moods.
But mostly, it was about allowing a bubble to surround us, a partition, a designation. This is now. Here is where my focus lies. This is my body, my mind, my soul, and I share it with you.
I released my legs from encircling him. With my hands pressing into the tabletop, I scooted farther back on the paper, wondering what Striker was concocting in that creative brain of his that kept our sex life so passionate.
He lifted his chin. “A little more.”
I complied.
“A little more.” Striker kicked off his boots and toed off his socks. He whipped his belt from the loops of his tactical pants and let it drop with a thunk to the carpet. Then slowly, making sure I was watching, he tugged his uniform shirt over his head.
I licked my lips.
A demigod worthy of being a sculpture. An underwear model on a five-story billboard in Times Square. He was beautiful. And the way he looked at me made me feel beautiful, too.
He popped the top button of his pants.
Room to grow, I thought as my body warmed.
He reached across his chest, tucking his hand under his arm. The fingers of his other hand stroked at his chin. Contemplating.
He angled his head this way, then that, then walked to the dimmer switch on the wall, adjusting the light up, then down. Squinting his eyes, fussing with the brightness until I was illuminated just the way he wanted.
