So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  Conor has a smidge more self control. He pulls back, breaking our lips apart, but his breaths are as ragged as mine.

  “This could be a problem.” He’s staring at my mouth.

  “Oh?” I lick my lips innocently. “How so?”

  “You are a dangerous distraction.”

  “Is that right?” I sidle toward him, craning my neck back to maintain eye contact. “I’d apologize, but I’m not really sorry…”

  His jaw clenches with restraint. “Keep teasing me, you will be later.”

  “Is that a threat, Gallagher?”

  “A promise, Hunt.”

  Our gazes hold, full of heat, and I know we’re both thinking about that elusive later, counting the hours until we’re back in bed with nothing to concern us but moans and sighs and bare skin.

  “Keep looking at me like that, I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” he mutters.

  “Is that supposed to deter me?”

  “Only if you’d like me to actually catch Petrov and his boys before they do more damage to our lives.” His brows lift. “If not, by all means, let’s tell the world to go to hell and go back to bed.”

  “Fine.” I sigh melodramatically. “I see your point. I suppose I’ll let you off the hook so you can go save the world now. But later…”

  “Later,” he echoes.

  We both grin like two giddy kids.

  First step: save the world.

  Next step: all the scorching hot sex we can handle.

  I must say, I’m not entirely hating this plan…

  “Hey.” My head tilts as a thought suddenly occurs to me. “How’s Sykes? Any change in her condition?”

  He shakes his head, jaw clenched tight.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Grab your coffee and come debrief. We’ll fill you in on everything that happened while you were sleeping.”

  “Psh! A gal catches six measly hours of shut eye and she misses everything…” I grumble as Conor turns and walks back into the living room. I watch him go, my eyes glued to his ultra-fine ass. Say what you will about the man — he fills out a pair of jeans like nobody’s business.

  Coffee mug in hand, I follow after him. The men are gathered around the coffee table — laptops open, thick manila folders scattered across every square inch of the glass surface. Catching my eye, Conor jerks his chin toward the open cushion beside him. I sink down onto it, take a large sip of my coffee, and peer at the bevy of documents. There must be thousands of printed pages here.

  “What is all this stuff?”

  “The Petrov case files,” Conor tells me, flipping through the folder on his lap.

  “All of this is about Petrov?!”

  Evelson glances over. “There’s more back at the Bureau — this is just what we thought might be important to revisit now that he’s in the country. Key intel on his business operations, his past criminal activities, the work your husband did for him…”

  I tense up a bit at the mention of Paul.

  “Speaking of your husband…” Conor looks at me. His eyes are suddenly remote, unreadable. “That was part of what we wanted to brief you on.”

  “Is he…” I trail off, bracing myself for bad news.

  “Kaufman,” Conor prompts. “Show her.”

  The blond agent leans forward and hits a few buttons on his keyboard. A second later, a series of images pop up onscreen. “These were taken by a traffic camera in Brookline late last night.” He hits zoom on one of the photos, and it comes into clearer focus. The quality isn’t great, but I manage to make out three figures on the sidewalk, exiting a white van. Two are quite large and almost identical.

  The Evanoffs.

  As for the third figure… They appear to be carrying him between them, his feet dragging along the ground as though he’s unconscious.

  Paul.

  My stomach twists in an uncomfortable mix of guilt and horror and vindication.

  He’s merely reaping the seeds he sowed, an unforgiving voice whispers from the back of my mind. Don’t you dare feel sorry for the man who’s done you more damage than anyone else on this earth.

  “Here, this one is clearer,” Kaufman murmurs, skipping forward a few frames. The next photo he pulls up is far better quality, taken by a different camera. It shows the three men in an alleyway, illuminated by an overhead streetlamp.

  I gasp audibly when I see Paul’s face. Or… what’s left of Paul’s face. He’s almost unrecognizable — two black eye sockets, a fat lip, his nose broken and swollen to twice it’s normal size. It looks more like an eggplant than a facial feature.

  Again, the Evanoffs are dragging him between them like a sack of potatoes. I wonder if the extreme damage extends to the rest of his body. If he’s unable to walk on his own volition.

  “My god,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. I’m gripping the coffee cup so tightly, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hands. “Please… don’t show me any more.”

  “Nothing more to show,” Kaufman replies. “They entered this building around 3AM and haven’t been spotted since. We think there’s a good chance they’re still inside.”

  “What’s the building?”

  “Officially? It’s a Russian deli,” Evelson informs me. “Unofficially? It’s been a mob front for the local Bratva cabal for years.”

  “And,” Kaufman adds, smiling wide. “It’s been closed for business all week. Interesting coincidence.”

  “So you think it’s where the Evanoff brothers have been staying? Where they’re keeping Paul now?”

  “That’s definitely a working theory,” Evelson says.

  I glance at Conor, who’s being suspiciously silent on this matter, and find his eyes are locked on my hands. More specifically, on my white-knuckled grip around the coffee mug. When his face lifts to mine, his expression is unreadable.

  “Hey.” My brows furrow. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he says, but his jaw is so tight I don’t believe him for a second. “And Paul will be, too.”

  Since when does Conor care about Paul’s welfare?

  Is this the same man who punched him in the face mere days ago?

  “Conor—”

  “I know the photos looked bad, but it’s actually a very good sign he’s still alive at this point. If our intel plays out, we’ll recover him.” He sucks in a breath. “And… you can go back to your life.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I murmur, thinking of how good it’ll be to have all of this behind us. To start living again. To get to know a certain indigo-eyed FBI agent outside interrogation rooms and cheap motels and safe houses.

  My lips turn up in a small smile at the thought.

  Conor’s still staring at me with that strange look. When he sees the smile, his face clouds over into a scowl.

  I tilt my head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be, Hunt?”

  His tone is sharper than I’ve heard it in ages. Maybe ever.

  My mouth opens to reply, but he’s already turned away from me. Rife with confusion, I stare at the back of his messy black head as he questions Evelson about the activity on Petrov’s credit cards since he entered the States. I try to pay attention to the answer, but bank statements seem suddenly less vital than the man sitting two inches from me.

  And a whole world away.

  Something is definitely bothering him. He’s acting strangely. Closed off and cold — like he used to be, the first day I met him. I try to figure out what could’ve possibly triggered his shift in mood from our playful banter in the kitchen ten minutes ago to this unexpected brooding anger… but I’m drawing a complete blank.

  You’re just reading into things, I assure myself. He’s under a lot of pressure with this case. But he’s still the same man who held you as you fell asleep last night. The man who said you’re more important than this job.

  As soon as Petrov and his thugs are off the streets, t
hings will be fine.

  Better than fine.

  You’ll see.

  And yet, as I listen to the agents making plans to further surveil the deli in Brookline, I can’t shake the strange, unsettling suspicion that I’m missing something so obvious, it’s staring me straight in the face…

  After a few hours, Evelson and Kaufman disappear to do… whatever it is they spend their days doing. Conor is fielding calls from the bedroom, helping coordinate the deli surveillance operation. After the Eastie incident, they’re taking extra precautions. Planning a strategic strike. They can’t just storm in, guns blazing, and hope like hell the Evanoffs haven’t rigged the place with another homemade explosive.

  Not without putting more agents lives in danger.

  I suck down my second cup of coffee as I flip absently through the files on the coffee table. Most of them are stamped with big, bold CONFIDENTIAL notices on top, which means I probably shouldn’t be reading them… but there isn’t exactly a lot else to do here at the safe house.

  My eyes snag on the name HUNT sticking out the top of one folder. I yank out the page, my eyes widening as they scan down a crib sheet of Paul’s criminal activity. I knew he was in deep shit with both the SEC and the FBI for his myriad financial blunders… but this is far worse than I’d imagined.

  Fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, insider trading.

  The list goes on, predating even his involvement with Petrov. Some of these charges are for crimes committed while he still worked at LP Consulting, dating back nearly a decade. Which means, even he makes it out of this alive… he’s not going to be a free man for a long, long time. There are so many federal felonies listed here, he’ll make Bernie Madoff look like a freaking Boy Scout if he ever goes to trial.

  “Not quite the perfect future you were expecting, is it?”

  My head whips around at the sound of Conor’s voice. He’s standing behind me, staring at the sheet of paper in my hands. I set it down carefully on the table.

  “When it comes to Paul, I learned pretty early on that expecting perfection was a surefire way to wind up disappointed.”

  Conor’s eyes narrow on mine. His arms are crossed over his chest and he appears to be debating whether or not to say something.

  “Look,” he says finally in a strangely empty voice. “I know I made you a promise that I’d get him back for you. And despite what happened between us… despite what I feel for you… I will do my best to honor that promise.”

  Confusion spirals through me. “Huh?”

  “I want you to be happy, Hunt. Even if it’s not with me.”

  “I repeat… Huh?”

  He shakes his head, not hearing me. “But you saw that rap sheet. And that’s just a draft. Preliminary charges. Once he’s in custody and formal charges are filed…”

  I simply blink at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. I’d be less lost if he started speaking in Swahili. “Um…”

  “Shelby, you have to know… even if I manage to extract him from this, to get him away from Petrov and the Evanoffs… there’s no way you’ll ever have him back. Not in the way you want. Not as a husband or a life partner.”

  “But..” I splutter, utterly dumbfounded. “But I don’t want him back.”

  Conor tenses. “What?”

  “I don’t want Paul,” I tell him, eyes wide.

  I want you, I think but don’t say.

  Scrambling to my feet, my hands plant themselves on my hips as I level him with a severe look. “What, exactly, led you to believe I’d ever in a million years want to get back together with my ex?”

  Conor’s face is a flat mask, his tone is carefully cool. “My observations over the past few days, mainly.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Back at your house the other night… you were crying as they led him away in cuffs.” His jaw clenches. “Then, after the firefight, your reaction when I told you he’d been grabbed by the Evanoffs. Again when you saw him earlier today in those photos… It’s pretty clear to me. You’re not over him.”

  My eyes press closed as puzzle pieces click together in my mind. This totally explains why he’s been acting so hot and cold. Freezing up whenever the conversation shifts to Paul.

  He thinks I want to get back together with my shithead husband.

  I’d laugh, if I could summon even one ounce of amusement over this ridiculous misunderstanding.

  “Conor, no. No.” I shake my head. “You’re completely off base. What you saw… the way I’ve reacted when talking about Paul… it’s…”

  “What?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, your reactions look a lot like you’re still in love with him.”

  “Are you serious?! Did you forget about the fact that I’ve been attempting to divorce the man for six months?”

  “A legal separation isn’t the same as an emotional one.”

  “I cannot believe this! You have lost your damn mind, Gallagher.” I laugh ludicrously, taking a few steps in his direction. “And I suppose the fact that I’ve filed a restraining order against him, and kicked him out of my house, and done everything physically possible to move on from him… that doesn’t count for anything in your book?”

  His jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically. I can see he’s conflicted — torn between trusting my words and listening to his own instincts.

  “Conor.” His name is a plea. “Do you honestly think, after everything that happened between us last night, that I still…” I trail off, too hurt to even finish the sentence.

  “I don’t know what to believe, Shelby. You’re not exactly an open book when it comes to your emotions. You don’t confide in anyone — least of all me. You don’t let anyone in behind that wall you’ve built around yourself. And you know what? That wall might keep you protected, but it leaves everyone on the outside flying blind, having to guess everything you’re thinking and feeling.” He exhales sharply. “I like to think I can read you pretty well by now. But when it comes to this, I can’t rely only on instinct. I can’t play some guessing game with you until you’re finally ready to trust me. It’s too important. And it’s bigger than just you and me and your idiot ex.”

  “Oh, that’s rich! You, Mr. Closed-Off, lecturing me about keeping people at arm’s length.”

  “And yet, I’m not the one keeping secrets.”

  “No, you’re the one throwing false accusations!”

  “Look… if I’m off base, if I read things wrong… I’ll own it. Hell, I’ll throw a fucking parade to celebrate it.” He shakes his head and a lock of dark hair falls into his eyes. “But this situation isn’t exactly clear-cut. To put it bluntly, it’s a fucking mess. You and him are—”

  “There is no me and him!” I snap. “Except, apparently, in your delusional alpha male brain!”

  “You think I like thinking about this? You think I don’t hate the idea of you being with him? You think the thought of you going back to him doesn’t make me sick to my fucking stomach?” His words are ragged with emotion. “But Shelby, you were married to the man for ten years. That doesn’t just end because you take off your wedding ring and file some paperwork.”

  I flinch back, deeply offended. “You don’t know a damn thing about what my marriage was like! About what he’s done to me! And, based on this conversation, I’m starting to think you don’t know a damn thing about me either!”

  “Maybe I don’t.” He takes a step toward me, until only a foot remains between us. His eyes narrow dangerously. “Or maybe you’re just too embarrassed to admit you could ever want him back in your life after everything he’s done. Maybe you don’t want to be one of those weak, stand-by-your-man wives who never grows a backbone, even after being treated like a piece of property rather th—”

  My hand flies out and slaps him clear across the face. It’s not a conscious action. It’s more of a reflex to hearing all those awful things — the same ones
I’ve whispered to myself over and over in the mirror for years — coming out of his mouth instead of my own.

  I just… I snapped.

  And slapped.

  I’m not sure who’s more stunned by the strike — me or him. My mouth falls open as I watch a bright red handprint blooming across his skin.

  “Conor…” I breathe, instantly remorseful. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

  “I think we should hit pause on this discussion,” he growls tightly, turning away from me and striding from the room.

  “Wait!” I call. “Conor, hold on!”

  He keeps walking.

  “Conor!” I yell, racing after him through the kitchen. I beat him to the door and plant myself against it, blocking his path.

  “Hunt. Move.”

  “No.” My chest is heaving. My eyes are locked on his. “Not until you listen.”

  He’s watching me carefully. “You planning on slapping me again?”

  I shake my head.

  “You planning on evading with a cutesy dodge? Hiding behind more walls? Because I don’t have any interest in that.”

  “Okay. How about the truth, then?” I swallow. “Do you have any interest in hearing that? Or are you only concerned with your skewed version of events?”

  An angry muscle ticks in his jaw, but he doesn’t try to push past me. I take that as a sign he’s listening.

  He wants a peek inside these high walls?

  He wants me to trust him with my secrets?

  Fine.

  Here goes.

  “The reason for the tears when they led Paul away wasn’t because I was sad to see him go. It was because I was ashamed,” I say haltingly. “Not of him. Of myself. Of the things I was feeling in that moment.”

  Conor’s mouth opens, but I cut him off.

  “No, not the feelings you accused me of. Not love or regret or sadness. Not some wifely duty or spousal obligation.” I shake my head. “You once asked me why I have this need to be perfect all the time. Why I like order and organization. Why I’m such a control freak.” My voice gets smaller, softer. “It’s because, for most of my marriage, I wasn’t the one in control. I was the one being controlled.”

  His eyes darken. “Shelby—”