So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  “You think I don’t know that?” I try to laugh but it comes out as a sob. “You think I don’t know how very fucked up life can be? You think I don’t know that Prince Charming sometimes turns out to be the villain? You think I don’t know that sometimes the princess winds up getting totally screwed over?” I shake my head. “What story have you been reading that has a happy ending? Or a happy beginning and middle, for that matter? Because it’s not mine. If you think it is, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  “Except I have been paying attention — for six long months, in fact! Which is why I’m not about to let this case fall to pieces just because you might get your goddamned feelings hurt in the process!”

  My spine snaps straight. “Thanks so much for clearing that up!”

  “Anytime!”

  “Perfect!”

  We both fall silent, too angry to say another word. The only sound in the room is our equally ragged breathing. Conor’s mouth is so close to mine, I can feel each puff of air on my lips. The animosity is so thick between us, you could cut it with a knife.

  My eyes narrow. “I’m so glad we’re in agreement, then.”

  “That’d be a first,” he mutters. “What are we supposedly in agreement on here, Hunt?”

  “That there’s no need for us to interact anymore.”

  “Woman, what are you—”

  I cut him off. “Seeing as we aren’t anything to each other besides agent and asset… surely it doesn’t matter who debriefs me. So, I’d prefer to deal with Sykes from this point forward.”

  “Too fucking bad.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” he spits. “You don’t get to push me away just because you’re pissed at me.”

  “Push you away?” I scoff. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “I think has everything to do with me.”

  “Oh, you are more full of yourself than a damn Russian matryoshka doll!”

  “Nice dodge.”

  “I’m not dodging anything, you jerk. I don’t need to. Sykes told me your analysts are tacking down that bank account as we speak. And once they do… the case is just about closed. Filed, finished. Over.” My voice drops to a low, angry whisper. “Which means so is this god awful chapter of my life. And so are we.”

  Conor is glaring at me like he’s never hated anyone on the planet as much as he hates me. His mouth opens and I brace myself for his reply, knowing it’ll be something truly terrible. Something that’ll hammer the final nail in the coffin of this antagonistic work arrangement we’re both so desperate to escape.

  It’s almost funny — after everything we’ve already screamed and shouted and sneered at each other, I think I’m well prepared for whatever he might say to me in this moment. Yet, when he finally retorts…

  I’m thrown for a loop.

  Because he does something far worse than anything I ever could’ve imagined. Something that brings my whole world crashing to a stop. Something that makes those words I uttered to him in anger entirely obsolete.

  “We aren’t over, Shelby,” Conor mutters darkly, eyes burning into mine. “We haven’t even begun.”

  And then he kisses me.

  Chapter Ten

  IT’S LIT

  Conor’s mouth slams down on mine — hard and hot and possessive.

  At first, I’m so stunned I can’t do much more than hang on for dear life. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed, I’ve almost forgotten how. But as his hands slide into my hair, as his chiseled body presses me into the wall, as his stubble scrapes against my cheeks and his lips move with mine…

  A long-forgotten spark inside me flares to life.

  It doesn’t take long for that spark to become a flame… for that flame to become a blaze… for that blaze to become an unstoppable inferno.

  I am combustible, I think as I begin to return his kiss in earnest. I am burning up, burning out of control.

  Who knew immolation would feel so damn good?

  Leaning into Conor, my mouth opens beneath his to grant him access. Our tongues brush and he growls low in his throat, a thready sound of desire. Pent-up passion explodes between us. It’s a ravenous flood of lust, a fiery torrent of unleashed need so strong it threatens to drag me under.

  If it does, I worry I’ll never find my way back to the surface.

  I’m not sure how they get there, but suddenly my hands are around his neck, sliding up into his hair. I drag him closer, desperate to hang onto this feeling for as long as it lasts, to hold him in the circle of my arms for every possible second before we inevitably realize this is wrong, that it shouldn’t be happening, that we’ve crossed an unspoken boundary. Before we snap back to our senses and stop this madness and return to hating each other’s guts.

  Except… the thing is…

  It doesn’t feel like madness.

  It doesn’t feel wrong.

  It feels right. So right, I can’t believe it took us this long to get here, to this moment — devouring each other with no regard for the rest of the world, without a single care about the case or the crazed men after us or even the small fact that we can’t stand each other.

  He pins me harder against the wall, every delicious plane of his muscular chest pressing into mine through the fabric of my sweatshirt as he strokes his way down my body. When his fingers find the bottom hem, they slip beneath it. I can’t help the gasp that flies from my mouth when his hands hit the bare skin of my hipbones.

  God, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched this way.

  With desire and passion and need.

  With big hands and rough fingertips.

  I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, like I might explode outward into a thousand pieces, my body unable to contain all the emotions firing through my nerve endings as his hands slide around to the small of my back. He tugs me closer, until we’re flush together, his mouth never breaking from mine.

  The sensation is sinful. Criminal. So good it should be illegal.

  Not that I’d really mind him breaking out the handcuffs, sometime…

  Conor’s mouth drops to my neck. He’s kissing the sensitive hollow beneath my ear and my whole spine is arching with pleasure and things are really starting to get good when…

  RIIING.

  RIIIIIIIG.

  RIIIIIIIIIIIG.

  He groans as he rips his lips from my skin. Fishing his cellphone from his pocket with one hand, he glances at it with such annoyance, I half expect him to hurl it across the room. Before he has a chance, it rings again — flashing SYKES across the screen.

  With a low curse, he lifts it to his ear. “Someone better be dying.”

  He stares into my eyes as he listens to whatever she’s saying. We’re still pressed tight together. Beneath my hands, his chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to regulate his breathing. I’d bet his pulse is racing just as fast as mine.

  “You’re sure?” he says sharply, eyes going alert.

  My brows arch.

  Whatever Sykes called to report is not making him happy. In fact, based on that expression, it’s making him decidedly unhappy. Which shouldn’t exactly be a surprise. In my experience, calls that come in after midnight generally aren’t conveying good news.

  “No. No, you were right to inform me.” His body tenses, every muscle tightening as though he’s preparing for battle. “I’ll handle her extraction personally.”

  Extraction?

  My mouth opens to interject but there’s little point. Conor is already stepping away from me, all his attention absorbed by Sykes’ words. I swallow down my protests as he walks across the room, ignoring the lance of hurt that shoots through me at the abrupt loss of his touch. Slumped back against the wall, I try to slow my breathing as I watch him sling the strap of my duffle over one shoulder.

  I never even got a chance to change.

  “Keep me apprised of the situation as it develops, Sykes.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the dar
k locks. “I want everyone working on this. Yes. I’m aware of that.” He pauses. “I don’t care. She’s priority number one.”

  My heart flips.

  Conor’s eyes meet mine. “I want hourly reports on his movements.”

  His?

  “Yes. I will.” He blows out a sharp breath. “See you there.”

  He disconnects the call.

  From opposite sides of the room, we stare at each other. It’s clear neither of us wants to break the silence first. It’s even clearer that something between us has changed, shifted like a tectonic plate beneath our feet — and I’m not referring to whatever situation Sykes just told him about on the phone.

  I search for the right words and come up pathetically short. What can I possibly say about our unexpected seven minutes in heaven? Besides, of course, the obvious…

  It never should’ve happened.

  We weren’t thinking clearly.

  Momentary insanity.

  Never to be repeated.

  The room is so quiet, I can hear the ice machine just outside the door humming in the night.

  “So,” Conor says finally. I notice his hand is clenched around the phone so tight, his knuckles have gone white. “That was Sykes.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  “Right.” He shakes his head, as though he’s trying to clear a haze from his thoughts. “She had some rather alarming new intel. Intel that concerns you.”

  Okay, so… I guess we’re just going to skip right over the fact that we just made out like two handsy, horny teenagers in the backseat of a car after prom.

  Fine by me, Gallagher.

  Avoidance is my middle freaking name.

  (Actually, my middle name is Quinn. Not that that’s vitally important, at this moment. Or at any moment. Ever.)

  Moving on!

  My brows lift. “More alarming than the Evanoffs taking Paul?”

  At the sound of Paul’s name, something dark flashes in Conor’s eyes. He buries it away so quickly, I’m almost convinced I imagined it… but when he speaks again, his tone is no longer hazy or warm. He’s returned to that typical cool indifference I’ve come to know so well.

  “Alexei Petrov was just caught on camera entering the country at Logan Airport. His private jet landed an hour ago.”

  “What!? You don’t mean…”

  “Paul’s uncle. The head of the Petrov crime family. Yes, that Petrov.” His expression is grave. “He hasn’t been in the USA for years. I very much doubt he decided to take a spontaneous holiday to Boston for no good reason.”

  “He’s here because of Paul.”

  He nods tightly.

  “And the stolen money.”

  “We still haven’t confirmed this is about money. Despite our analysts best efforts, they’ve uncovered no evidence that Paul was embezzling cash on the side.”

  My brows lift. “So you don’t agree with Sykes’ theory?”

  “Petrov just flew halfway around the world.” Conor’s head shakes. “That fact alone leads me to believe this isn’t about money. If it were, he would’ve let his associates handle it without ever stepping foot outside his mansion in Moscow.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s clear whatever your husband stole is not merely valuable. It’s also personal. It must mean a great deal to Alexei. So much so, he’s determined to reclaim it — in person — from whoever has taken it.”

  “And… just so we’re clear… he thinks that person is me.”

  Conor nods again, jaw clenched.

  “So…” My mouth goes dry. I’m afraid to ask, but I force myself to do it anyway. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re not safe out in public. It means we have to get you off the grid. Now.”

  Taking two strides forward, he grabs my hand, laces our fingers together, and starts tugging me toward the door. Hesitating at the threshold, his eyes meet mine. I think I actually see worry in their depths. But that can’t be right.

  Conor Asshole Gallagher never gets worried about anything.

  “He’s coming for me, isn’t he?” I ask before I can stop myself. The fear in my voice is potent.

  “He will not lay a hand on you,” Conor growls menacingly. “That’s a vow.”

  I do my damndest to believe him as we step out into the night. The two agents in the SUV flash their headlights at us as we bolt toward the Jeep Wrangler — hand in hand, like two fugitives on the run.

  Bonnie and Clyde.

  I can only hope we don’t meet the same grim end those two did.

  We’re driving so fast, the world is nothing but a dark blur.

  I’m not sure where we are, exactly. Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. I stare out the window, searching for any sort of landmark that might help me narrow it down, but nothing familiar jumps out from the barren urban sprawl.

  The endless stream of looming brick warehouses to either side of the street look half-abandoned, their windows either boarded up or bashed in, their adjacent parking areas full of litter, broken-down cars, and off-duty construction vehicles. We speed under a bridge overpass, fly by a row of round petroleum storage tanks, and careen around a huge lot full of dirt, piled higher than the treetops. At least, I think it’s dirt… until we get a little closer and I see the mound is pure white: a massive mountain of road salt, already being stockpiled in preparation for the brutal Boston winter to come.

  It’s been twenty minutes since we got the call about Petrov, and Conor hasn’t uttered a single word to me since we climbed into his Jeep. His jaw is clenched even tighter than his grip around the steering wheel as he maneuvers expertly around deep potholes and exposed manhole covers, shifting gears so seamlessly I think he must’ve been a NASCAR driver in a former life.

  Thankfully, there aren’t too many other cars on the road at this time of night.

  Or is it morning, now?

  Honestly, I’ve lost track of the hour.

  I’d ask where we’re going, but I doubt he’d give me a straight answer even if he could hear me over the roaring of the wind through the Wrangler’s open roof. I pull my whipping hair up into a high ponytail, then reach into the duffle bag at my feet and dig around until I locate a pair of jeans. It’s past time to ditch the sweatshirt-dress. Comfortable though it may be, it’s not exactly conducive to life on the run. Not unless you plan to distract the bad guys by flashing your lady business before making a swift getaway.

  Hell, you never know… it might just work…

  We drive through the dark, low-rent neighborhood for another few minutes before we turn down a narrow dead-end street and pull into the driveway of a nondescript, single-story house with a very small, overgrown yard. My eyes widen as I take it in. At least, what little I can see of it illuminated in the headlight beams.

  Shabby brick facade, peeling paint, rusted mailbox.

  I think we must be lost, but Conor shuts off the engine and hops out onto the cracked pavement. Before I can so much as ponder what we’re doing at a place that — it must be said — makes me homesick for the glamorous Budget Inn, he’s rounded the front of the Jeep and pulled open my door with an aggressive yank.

  “Let’s go,” he mutters, grabbing the duffle by my feet.

  I decide it’s best not to put up a fuss as I follow him around the side of the dilapidated dwelling, stepping over crushed beer cans and dirty plastic bags. The grass is so long, I don’t think it’s seen a lawnmower since the Paleozoic Era.

  Conor stops at the back door and knocks three times. My eyes widen at the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone’s definitely home.

  I’m not sure who I expect to open the door — a crack dealer, perhaps? — but when it swings inward, I find myself staring at the last person I’d ever presume to encounter in a place like this.

  “Sykes?!”

  She smiles faintly and throws the door wider. “Get in here, you two.”

  My teeth
sink into my bottom lip as Conor ushers me inside, following close on my heels. Given the state of the yard, my expectations are quite low for the interior design of this ramshackle little hovel. Thus, I’m stunned to step into a lovely, updated kitchen complete with granite countertops, modern appliances, and polished chrome light fixtures.

  What the eff?

  My eyes widen further as Sykes leads us into the living room, where two men in all black are waiting on the plush black sofa, sipping styrofoam cups of coffee and typing rapidly into heavy duty laptops that appear to be military grade. I recognize them from last night — they’re the same agents who drove me to the motel. Evelson and Kaufman. I’m not entirely confident which one is which.

  When they spot Conor, they both cease typing long enough to nod and mutter a respectful ‘Sir’ before resuming their activities.

  What the mother-effing eff?

  I feel like I’ve stepped into an episode of Black Mirror. Or a fantasy film. Nothing is as it appears. If they led me into the bedroom down the hall and told me there was a magic wardrobe that opened straight into Narnia, I wouldn’t blink twice.

  “Where the hell are we?” I ask.

  “Safe house,” Conor says flatly, dropping my duffle to the floor with a thud. “May not look like a palace from the outside, but it’s equipped with all the latest tech, a world class security system, satphone capabilities, and bulletproof windows. Should suit our purposes nicely for the next few days.”

  I swallow hard. My brain is stuck on the phrase bulletproof windows and I can’t seem to move past it.

  “Hey.” Conor’s eyes find mine. “I told you. Petrov will not get to you. Not here. This place was designed to hide in plain sight. Blackout curtains, no tenants in either of the neighboring houses, and a pantry with a steel-enforced door that doubles as a panic room in a pinch. You’ll be safe here, Hunt. I promise.”