by Shandi Boyes
“I’m not doing it, Grayson. The last time I stuck my neck out for you, your brother’s girl walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.”
Grayson scoffs. “Exactly! She was in a towel. She wasn’t naked.”
I continue speaking as if he never did. “Then you used the files I found on her computer, which could have gotten your brother in a heap of shit. You know he’s not speaking to his girl anymore, right? Regan moved back to some bumfuckville town months ago, and they haven’t been in contact since.”
“They’ve had contact,” Grayson denies, his tone lowering. “It didn’t go down well.”
“Exactly!” I agree. “I’m not doing that again. If you want info from Alex, ask him for it.”
Alex is Grayson’s younger brother. He’s also my supervisor. He is a deadly marksman like Grayson but with the arrogance of their father, which grew worse after he granted me access to his girlfriend’s laptop. I forgot that any computer accessed by the FBI’s mainframe automatically uploads the hard drive to the Bureau’s servers. By the time I had noticed my error, it was too late, they had everything.
“It’s a bank record, BJ. I’m not asking you to take one up the ass for the team.” Grayson’s voice switches from stern to playful in under two seconds. “If I were, we would have gotten Theresa off everyone’s back earlier than we did.”
I shake my head as my stomach rolls. I should have taken Zayne’s advice eight months ago. Theresa, my previous supervisor, was a nasty piece of work. She belittled agents who had years more experience than her and treated everyone as if they were disposable—even more so when they turned down her offer for a nightcap after a long working week.
I discovered that the hard way my first week under her command.
She was more than friendly when I reported for duty at precisely nine in the morning the first Monday of my shift. She showed me the ropes, pointed out the best places to grab a bite to eat between shifts, and even went as far as picking me up a coffee on her way to work Thursday morning.
It all went to shit when I turned down her offer for a ‘friendly’ drink after my Friday night shift. My polite rejection was quickly chased by a change in my roster. Instead of having the weekend off as predicted, I was required to conduct surveillance on a supposedly high-ranked target.
I was twelve hours into a sixteen-hour shift when I bumped into Alex for the first time. He ‘accidentally’ spilled my tenth cup of coffee onto my keyboard with the hope he could wipe his kiss with an associate of the target our division was investigating. I led him to believe that was what occurred, although it wasn’t close to the truth.
As taught by Grayson, I back up every piece of equipment I use. It was for the best. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have had any footage of the perp who had entered Regan’s apartment to leave her a rather nasty threat. His exit was never recorded.
I had no clue how unfit I had become during my six-month suspension until I ran the stairwell of Regan’s apartment building when I spotted the perp’s exit on the security camera we were tailing after Alex had entered. Mr. Gregg would have rolled in his grave if he’d seen how red-faced and out of breath I was. It was a quick reminder that this game is as physical as it is mind-fucking. I’ve visited the gym once a day since.
We caught the perp who entered Regan’s apartment. It wasn’t who we anticipated, but his arrest was the equivalent of stomping on an anthill. It’s been one motherfucking tornado after another since then. Grayson’s request for me to dig a little deeper into Isaac’s—my team’s target—connection with Henry Gottle had us stumbling onto information no one outside of Isaac’s tight-knit team knew about.
The instant the information was sucked into the Bureau’s mainframe, it spread like wildfire. There was no chance in hell I could contain it. It burned all the way to the hierarchies glaring down at us. Even my father caught wind of what was happening. Add those points to the fact it was the anniversary of Joey’s death, and I was beginning to confuse Madden’s sadistic ways as my own childhood.
I must have done something catastrophic in my life because not only did I get rip-roaring drunk and confess my sins to Alex in a sequence of text messages and voicemails, I used Bureau contacts to track down Melody’s email address so I could reach out to her after years of silence.
It wasn’t a polite, hey-I’ve-missed-you email.
I poured my fucking heart out.
Did I get an answer?
Nope.
I know she read it. I still have the delivery receipt sitting in my inbox.
You know all is said and done when words directly from your soul can’t move the woman who cheated on you into possibly forgiving you.
With my past weighing down my emotions, I divert my attention back to my phone squished against my ear. “What type of bank record are you chasing?”
I can’t see Grayson, but I can picture him rubbing his hands together while grinning a slick smile. He loves that I can’t say no to him.
My mom has always said ‘strange things happen for the most peculiar reasons.’ My reply was always, ‘No shit, Sherlock, because peculiar and strange mean the same thing.’
Now I’m eating my words.
This can’t be true, can it? That can’t possibly be Tobias’s daughter walking into a sub-branch of the Bureau at Ravenshoe—surely.
I heard Isabelle had graduated from the academy a few months back, but with Alex’s work schedule worse than Theresa’s, I’ve not had the chance to check what she’s up to. I got her on the straight and narrow as Tobias and Grayson did for me, then I walked away according to Tobias’s request. But this, this changes everything, doesn’t it? She’s walking into my life, not the other way around, so Tobias’s wishes no longer count, right?
Right.
Then why the fuck does it feel wrong to act like I have no clue who she is when her pretty brown eyes drift my way? I’m quick to divert my eyes like I did when keeping an eye on her from afar the months following Tobias’s death, but the academy didn’t just double her receptiveness. Maturity did as well.
“Hello,” Isabelle greets, stopping at my desk.
She sounds the same as I remember, so I rake my eyes down her body to ensure she still looks the same.
Awareness of her surroundings isn’t the only thing that has matured.
So did her body.
Jesus.
I should not be looking at her as I am, but before I can remind myself that anyone associated with the Bureau is off-limits, not to mention she’s the equivalent of Tobias’s daughter, Alex’s grumpy baritone booms across the room. “I need that document now, Brandon.”
Eager to move before my sweaty top lip gives away the fact we’ve met previously, I find the flight manifest that reveals our target, Isaac Holt—suspected mob associate, businessman, and somewhat ladies’ man—flew home commercially this weekend instead of utilizing one of his many private jets. That’s so unlike him, Alex is convinced it’s the beginning of the end for Isaac. I’m inclined to agree with him. Isaac hasn’t made a single mistake since we’ve been watching him. Although a trip home in a commercial plane seems innocent enough, usually there’s more to unplanned actions than there are intended ones.
Alex has barely snatched the document from my hand when Isabelle joins us in the middle of the bustling office. “Hi, I’m Isabelle Brahn, your new agent.” Her hand thrust directed at Alex reveals she has recognized him but not me.
I’m okay with that.
The last thing I want is a stalker charge added to the thick file the Bureau already has on me.
“Michelle,” Alex roars a few seconds later, startling Isabelle. “I thought I ordered a blonde?”
When Michelle, a mid-forties techie who’s obsessed with the head of our division, magically appears at Alex’s side, Alex returns his slit-gaze to Isabelle. If the narrowed squint of Isabelle’s eyes is anything to go by, she didn’t appreciate his gawk of her body as much as she did mine.
I’m okay with tha
t as well.
“Does she look brunette to you?”
Michelle bats her lashes, pleased Alex seems to have noticed a flaw in Isabelle. Just like our target, Alex has a fascination with blondes. The only difference is Alex was only seen with one blonde whereas Isaac has been seen with many the past eight months. “Umm, yes, she does appear to be a brunette.”
Her reply irritates Alex more. “In the past two months, have you ever seen him with a brunette?”
I’m confused by Alex’s line of interrogation, and I’m not the only one. Isabelle is as stumped as me. “What does my hair color have to do with my placement?”
Alex replicates nothing of the man I once knew when he snarls, “Isaac Holt fucks blondes. You’re a brunette.” He’s had a hard few months, but he’s taking it out on the wrong person.
Fortunately, Isabelle seems more than capable of holding her own. “Excuse me,” she growls on a hiss. “I wasn’t brought here to sleep with Isaac Holt, I was brought here to help with your investigation.”
My chance to slap her back and say ‘attagirl’ is lost when Alex rebuts, “You were brought here as eye candy.”
Finally recognizing Alex’s game plan, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “We could bleach her hair.”
I’m not a fan of degrading women, Mr. Gregg ensured that would never be a strong point of mine, but if switching Isabelle’s locks from chocolate brown to blonde keeps her in Ravenshoe long enough I can work out why I was pleased to see her before I was worried, I’m open to offering up some suggestions.
“Not happening,” Isabelle says with a snarl.
Tell me one man over the age of sixteen whose eyes don’t lower when a woman crosses her arms. You can’t think of one, can you? So don’t blame me when my eyes instinctively lower from Isabelle folding her arms under her chest.
I’m a guy.
It’s been a while.
Cut me some slack.
Recognition that Alex skipped the etiquette side of supervisor training is exposed when he mutters at Isabelle, “Once you’re in a dress and a pair of stilettos, Isaac won’t care you’re a brunette.”
“Once you have a personality transplant and a plastic groin inserted, nobody will care you’re a Ken doll,” Isabelle fires back, proving she’s as quick-witted as she is beautiful.
My ears rouse when Alex whispers to Isabelle, “I know who your uncle was. I know his reputation, but you need to learn your place. You were only brought here as a distraction for Isaac. He never lets anyone in, and you’re supposed to be our way in.”
Isabelle’s reply is fast, but I only catch half of it since I’m out the door faster than a rocket.
“If you’re this quick between the sheets, no wonder why I haven’t seen you with a woman in years.” Grayson chuckles down the line, believing I’m returning his call to update him on the bank records he’s chasing for his continued search to find Katie Bryne, a girl he met once many moons ago. She was abducted from a town not too far from here.
Grayson’s chuckles diminish when I ask, “How does Alex know Tobias?”
“Everyone knew Tobias. He was an integral part of the FBI.”
He has a point, so I extend the perimeter of my scope. “How does Alex know about Tobias’s daughter, Isabelle, and that she calls him her uncle?”
“He doesn’t know Tobias referred to Isabelle as his daughter, but the uncle reference is standard. Her birth certificate had Tobias’s brother, Abraham, cited as her father. Remember, we improved its authenticity the day you pushed her application through the correct channels? She wouldn’t have gotten in the door with the identification she was handing over.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that.” Tobias was skilled at keeping people hidden, but his documentation wasn’t the best at the end of his career, so you can imagine how poor it was twenty years ago. “Seeing Isabelle again threw me off. My head isn’t screwed on right.”
“Isabelle Brahn is in Ravenshoe?” Grayson sounds as shocked as I felt when she walked into HQ.
“Yes!” He can’t see me, but I nod, nonetheless. “It looks like Alex brought her in as a Honey Pot for Isaac.”
“Whoa. Are you fuckin’ serious?” His voice is a cross between a laugh and groan. “I heard she was a knockout from a rookie who joined my team last month, but Leesa’s stunt had all sups stepping back from using fresh recruits as Honey Pots. If they don’t end up dead, their entire team could be debunked like ours was, so none are willing to risk it.” He stops talking for a bit, the sound of him scratching his beard the only noise resonating down the line. “For Alex to go this far, he must be desperate. Maybe hold back and see how it plays out.”
“I can’t hold back.”
A chair squeaks like Grayson is adjusting his position. He’s more a sloucher than a shoulders-rolled-back, spine-straight type of guy. “Why, Brandon? Because you’ve transferred your hero complex from Melody to Isabelle?”
I make a pfft noise. “It has nothing to do with that.” It does, but I sure as fuck don’t want to be called out on it. Although I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s a hero complex. Seeing the lost blankness in Isabelle’s eyes when she was grappling with Alex reminded me what it felt like to have no one on your side. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, let alone an orphan who has nothing. “We’re friends, that’s all.”
I picture Grayson’s cell phone speaker being coated with spit when he blows a raspberry. “Friends like you were with Melody? Or the friendship you had with Olivia? You know how this will end, punk. It’s not worth it, so step back now before you get burned for the second time.”
Brandon
Two months later…
This sucks to admit, and never in a trillion years did I think I’d ever say this, but Grayson was right two months ago. The burn this time around is nothing compared to what I experienced when Melody left me, nor the event I’m endeavoring to forget five years ago, but my ‘friendship’ with Isabelle definitely has enough sting to it to cause a blister.
It’s not my fault I can’t step back. For years, I was programmed to protect, honor, obey, and serve. It isn’t something I can easily switch off, especially when it comes to women. If I didn’t step forward to help Isabelle, Alex’s plan to make her the Honey Pot of his operation will end as disastrously as the sting that claimed Tobias’s life. That isn’t an unfavorable chance. It’s a statistic. It just won’t be Alex left reeling once all is said and done. That burden will be solely placed on Isabelle’s shoulders.
Isabelle has not yet fallen for Alex’s ruse, but she has failed to notice how he’s inconspicuously placing her on Isaac’s radar. Between sending her to gather coffees from a local baker at the exact time Isaac has been observed in the area by the surveillance crew following his every move, to granting her a weekend off so she can release some of the pent-up wildness in her eyes with the hope it will initiate the natural dominance that beams out of Isaac anytime Isabelle is in his vicinity, he’s all but dangling her in front of Isaac, luring him to take a moral-eradicating bite.
Alex’s ploys are older than the handbook they are taught from, but regretfully, Isabelle seems blind to his deception. She doesn’t realize how far some men go to snare their targets because she was raised by a man who valued respect above anything.
As was I.
That’s why I’m here at a dance club in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and better clientele, ordering the largest cocktail on the menu, praying the wooziness it will cause Isabelle’s head will have her failing to notice Isaac eyeballing her from the corner of the room.
Now I understand why Alex slipped pamphlets for this nightclub into the break room at HQ earlier this week. Isaac is known for spending his Friday nights scouting new business endeavors. Alex must have caught wind that Isaac would be here tonight.
I could let Alex know I’m onto his ruse, but just like Grayson and I have kept our connection on the down-low, I’m going to keep this set of cards close to my chest
as well. A good agent never lets his unease be announced prematurely because it isn’t about the hand you’ve been dealt but what you make of it that counts.
When I replace Isabelle’s bottle of water with the mammoth cocktail I just purchased, her nose screws up, but before she can voice a single worry I see in her eyes, I say, “Who knows when we might get another day off?”
I throw back a double scotch on the rocks, grimacing when it burns my throat. I’m not a fan of hard liquor, but I figured it would make my ploy more authentic if I drank along with Isabelle and Harlow, Isabelle’s friend. I nursed my first drink to make it seem like I’ve had four or five, but Isabelle is too close to brush-off the watery contents my earlier glass had.
“I forgot how much that burns.” When Isabelle giggles, I remember that twenty-six-years is a lot further away from the grave than how I generally perceive it. “Oh, do you think you can do better?” After signaling for the bunch of college kids swarming us to follow my lead, I say, “Chug, chug, chug.”
Tobias’s stubbornness burns through Isabelle’s impressive eyes when she succumbs to peer pressure. She downs the cocktail minus the screwed-up nose my face had when I threw back my drink, then curtsies the patrons applauding her gall. Her smile at their praise slams me with guilt. Just like me, I doubt she’s ever let go of the reins like this, but instead of encouraging her to enjoy her weekend off, I’m plowing her with drinks to end it earlier than necessary.
I wouldn’t if it weren’t for her own good.
With my brows waggling, I continue my mission without missing a beat. “Another?”
While shaking her head, the color drains from Isabelle’s cheeks. Taking that as a signal it’s time for us to go, I pivot around to place our glasses onto the bar before yanking my cell phone out of my pocket to call us a taxi. I’ve only had two glasses, but I don’t want to risk it. I don’t drink enough to challenge a DUI charge if I were suspected of driving over the limit.
