What Matters More

by Liora Blake

  “You don’t act like it’s fine. You’re acting like this unexpected soap opera–esque plot twist makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. I mean, describing fate as a ‘traitorous fucker’ is a little melodramatic for the actual situation. I’m not sure what that’s about.” She studied him for a beat, then her face paled a shade. “I swear to God, if you’re seeing someone and didn’t say so, I will lose my mind. And you might want to mention it to your mom, too, since she and Gwen both seem pretty invested in the idea of getting you paired up with someone.”

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” he said, cutting her off sharply. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a cheater. “I’m divorced. And I’m fucking broke. But I’m trying to fix that, so I’m living here for a while until I can get some bills paid off.”

  Anya glanced over his shoulder. “With your parents.”

  “Yes. With my parents, in their basement. Because that’s where losers typically end up, right?” He balled his hands into fists. “I’ll save you saying it, I already know how it looks.”

  Anya blanched. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking that.”

  All he saw in her face then was pity, which was worse. Pity would smother the life out of a man if he allowed it. Anger was easier. Anger helped remind him what was at stake. His pride, his parents’ respect, and a clean slate from the failure of his marriage.

  On the first of each month, when he sorted through all the bills he’d accumulated trying to keep his marriage afloat, anger fueled each payment he made. In six more months, though, so long as he stuck to his plan, he’d finally be able to stop telling his parents thank you and show them by clearing out of their basement. His mother would have her quilting room back, and his father would have the empty nest he’d worked so hard for back, too.

  JT drew in a long breath, trying to regain his composure before Anya gave him a well-deserved kick in the nuts. No matter how much he felt that anger served a purpose by keeping him on track, Anya didn’t deserve any of the blowback. It wasn’t her fault that JT wanted her to know him only as the man who’d fucked her like a champ two nights ago, the guy who’d made her forget that her stupid ex had cheated on her, and who hopefully had helped her do more of her art. Even if their night together had called up a little bit of the knuckle-dragging caveman inside of him and he hated to give that up in exchange for pity, none of that justified him acting like a toddler.

  JT pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a breath. “I work a lot. Sixty hours a week, sometimes more if we’re on a big case. So I’m not here all that much.”

  “Okay,” she said, drawing the word out slowly.

  “We can just stay out of each other’s way. Shouldn’t be that hard, really. People in the suburbs are somehow good at knowing everybody else’s business even when they barely talk to each other. All we have to do is maintain the status quo.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

  Anya’s face went blank, and only a small tic in her jaw betrayed her otherwise neutral expression. Then she pulled her shoulders back and straightened her posture.

  “Great plan, Jericho,” she said acidly. “Brilliant. The next six weeks should just fly by.”

  She turned on her heel and ambled up the driveway. Her hips swayed with each step, and the way her skirt brushed gently across the back of her thighs made JT clench his jaw.

  Christ, those thighs.

  He was a fucking idiot. Proof of that was walking away from him, with so much confidence in her step that JT couldn’t help but admire her even more.

  That’s when he understood exactly how badly he’d screwed up.

  8

  JT

  “Okay, so let me get this straight.” Chris glanced over his shoulder at JT, perplexed.

  JT slouched down a little farther into the back seat of the SUV, quickly shooting Chris an exasperated look before returning his attention to the steady stream of weekend partyers milling about the Congress Street district of downtown. Chris did the same, his gaze taking in what was happening just beyond the windshield.

  “After I left the bar, you met a beautiful woman and you guys talked a little, had a few laughs. Then you decided it was time to go home. But she has other plans, so she follows you out and then straight up propositions you for a one-night stand, no strings attached. You—and thank fuck for this—actually take her up on it. The two of you spend the night together, and even though you didn’t go into the details—”

  “Because he’s not a complete asshole. Only assholes share details. Good thing he didn’t, too. Because if JT Maxwell suddenly morphed into one of those guys on me, then I’d lose all faith in men. Don’t ever do that to me, Maxwell.”

  The interruption came courtesy of their colleague, Lexie Alvarado, who was hunkered down in the driver’s seat, doing all she could to keep her exceptionally tall frame somewhat concealed. Lexie scrutinized each face in the crowd on the opposite side of the street while reaching into the ever-present bag of black licorice sitting next to her on the seat. She waggled her newest piece of licorice in Chris’s direction, as if she was granting him permission to speak again, using her candy sword as some sort of talking stick. Chris faked a grab for the licorice, snorting when Lexie let out a low growl.

  “No details, but it was a hell of a night. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out,” Chris muttered. He craned forward, stealing a second look at a passerby wearing an oversized hoodie, while he continued talking. “A day later, you drive home and, hello, there’s your beautiful hookup. Who, it turns out, is spending the summer house-sitting for the neighbors. Right across the street.”

  Lexie broke in with an exasperated sigh. “And what did Maxwell do? He threw all of his drama-llama baggage in her face and then basically ordered her to keep it on her side of the fence.” She sighed again. “Genius move.”

  “I didn’t order her to do anything,” JT grumbled.

  Truthfully, he knew he’d come just shy of doing exactly that. Or at least that was probably how Anya saw it, anyway. JT had mulled over that moment with Anya a few hundred times and hated the way he’d handled it more and more each time he did. While he didn’t need Lexie or Chris to point out what he already knew, if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t be the same people he trusted with his life. That trust was a give-and-take that they all relied on, especially in dangerous situations when sometimes their confidence in each other was all they had. Without that, a team would crack at the worst of times.

  Tonight could easily become one of those nights. Their target was a known gang member who had shot five people during a drive-by at a local park, killing three rival gang members as they loitered on a basketball court. The other two victims were innocent ten-year-old boys playing on a jungle gym behind the courts. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who was behind the hit, but that didn’t mean it would be easy to track him down and bring him in. Neighborhood loyalties and fears had already trumped the best efforts of both the local cops and the county sheriffs, which was why the Marshals were now involved.

  JT took a long, slow breath and refocused on the activity around them, knowing that after years of dealing with fugitives like this, he could count on a few key things. One, a guy who shot up a neighborhood park lived without a moral compass. Two, he wouldn’t leave the house unarmed. And three, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  This fugitive was a high-risk target, no question—and that meant they couldn’t chance going after him unless they were positive it was the right place and the right time. So no matter how casual their conversation might seem to be as they surveilled the area, the three of them were prepared for everything to change in an instant.

  Of the three of them, Chris was the most at ease with waiting. Downtime allowed him space to take in the smallest details, breaking down each one until he understood it both inside and out. Lexie, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. The black licorice merely kept her from grinding her teeth or chewing her nails. Sh
e lived for the fray and the rush that came with it, so every moment leading up to that was torture for her.

  She glanced at the rearview mirror and stilled. She lowered her voice even though the windows were rolled up.

  “Five o’clock. Wearing a Lakers jersey.”

  Chris tipped his chin just enough to make use of the side mirror. Like most people, JT’s first instinct was to whip his head around, but four years in the Marines and seven years as a Marshal had trained him otherwise. Rule number one when doing surveillance was to stay out of sight. JT stayed as still as possible as he reminded the others of their target’s most distinguishing trait.

  “Need to see how he walks,” JT said.

  Gang life hadn’t been kind to the suspect’s body. At fifteen, the shot fired from a liquor store owner’s ten-gauge shotgun during a botched robbery had blown up his right knee. Then at twenty-one, a police pursuit had ended with him rolling his car into a ditch, fracturing his hip. And no matter how well crime paid, it didn’t come with quality health care or physical therapy, so their guy already walked like a senior citizen even though he was only thirty years old. But according to an informant, a little early-onset arthritis wouldn’t stop him from hitting a popular club in this area of downtown tonight.

  Chris, Lexie, and JT all remained still. Until one of them was able to positively ID their target, the tension of staying put would make it feel like all the oxygen in the SUV was slowly being sucked out. As they waited, JT deftly absorbed the entire situation—from Lexie’s impatience and Chris’s concentration to the flow of pedestrian traffic around them. He even managed to assess the distance between his right hand and the inside door handle, knowing he might have to throw it open at any second.

  This was where JT excelled. He worked best from a thousand-yard view, striving to see how a hundred different things worked together. Or when they didn’t. He brought that skill into each case they worked and into the team dynamics as well, because JT believed wholly in the strength of a team over the prowess of any one individual.

  That was also why JT’s boss had tapped him to take his place when he retired at the end of the year. The final decision would be up to the regional director, but his boss’s recommendation would go a long way to getting the job—even if JT still wasn’t sure that he wanted to trade in what he did now for a supervisory position. From the time he’d joined the Marines just out of high school, all way through to his career as a Marshal, he’d always thought of himself as a team guy. He was a grunt at heart. Taking orders didn’t bother him, and he’d never once craved the prestige that came with a title.

  “It’s him,” Chris said, his voice a low rumble. “But he’s got at least three of his boys with him. We want him on his own.”

  “But we have to move before he makes it into that club. Once he’s in there, we’re screwed,” Lexie whispered.

  JT searched the area around them until his gaze settled on a theater hall across the street. The hairs on the back of his neck immediately stood up.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The words “sold out” lit up the marquee next to the name of a rock band that was playing tonight. He glanced at his watch, noting it was just after midnight. A three-hour set would have the band wrapping up soon, which meant that hundreds of people were bound to start spilling out of the venue. And not a one of them would be paying any attention to what was going on around them. If they tried to take their suspect down now and he decided to start shooting, all those blissfully oblivious concertgoers would become sitting ducks.

  “No,” JT said. “We aren’t clear. A crowd is coming. It’s too risky.”

  “What crowd?” Lexie hissed. “It’s a little busy out here, but nothing that we can’t contain. Same damn number of drunk college kids on the street now as there was an hour ago—”

  Lexie stopped short when she caught sight of two employees from the theater hall opening the front doors. Within seconds, people began to emerge from the lobby in a steady stream that quickly flooded the sidewalks and the street, and their target disappeared right before their eyes, swallowed up by the swarm.

  Lexie let out a high-pitched growl and slapped her palms against the steering wheel, then scowled at JT in the rearview mirror. He shrugged, and Lexie managed to scowl even harder.

  “You know what? You’re a real fucking mystery, Maxwell. Out here, your instincts are on the mark, every time. You know exactly what to do and when.”

  JT shot her a wink, only because he knew it would piss her off. It killed Lexie to have hours of surveillance go to shit, and she needed a distraction; otherwise, she would let it eat at her. Sending her an obnoxious wink or a smug grin was bound to reroute Lexie’s wrath and, as a result, help her shake off the frustration.

  Lexie rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should see if you can put those smart-ass talents to use elsewhere.” She yanked another piece of licorice out of the bag, biting off a hunk in a way that would have made a lesser man wince. “Try starting with your neighbor.”

  JT groaned and feigned doubling over at the waist. Lexie’s words were a direct hit, no matter how sarcastically she meant them, and they made JT realize exactly what he needed to do.

  Apologize to Anya.

  9

  Anya

  Quite unexpectedly, the Palo Verde Heights suburb was growing on Anya—or at least this particular cul-de-sac was. Most of her enjoyment had to do with an eight-year-old dynamo named Kevin Kang, who was currently standing in his grandparents’ driveway, admiring the chalk mural that now covered it from one end to the other.

  “Bonjour, Paris,” Kevin declared dreamily. Then he lifted his arm and mic-dropped the piece of sidewalk chalk he was holding. “Parfait.”

  Anya grinned, awed as usual by how passionate and animated this kid was. She regarded their work from the end of the driveway, pleased at the way Kevin’s natural eye for scale and shape was quickly developing into a practiced skill.

  The heart of the mural was the Eiffel Tower, inspired by Kevin’s latest obsession, which was the movie Funny Face. Because this was Kevin Land—a place where all things are possible, no matter how outlandish—the Parisian icon was surrounded by dragons, butterflies, rainbows, shooting stars, and trees adorned with cupcakes instead of leaves.

  Kevin turned on his heel to face Anya, swept the Batman cape he was wearing over his shoulder and saluted her. “Au revoir, Anya.”

  She curtsied, in the exact way he had taught her to yesterday.

  “Same time, same place on Thursday, kiddo. I’m thinking we’ll do some printmaking. I’m going to introduce you to Keith Haring. You’ll love him.”

  Curiosity flared in his eyes and he paused midstep. Anya smirked a little. Kevin’s ever-curious mind wouldn’t allow him to wait until Thursday for an introduction to Haring’s pop art style. He would need a correct spelling for the Googling he was inevitably going to do.

  “Keith Haring,” Anya repeated. “H-a-r-i-n-g.”

  With that, Kevin grinned broadly, waved goodbye, and ran into the house at a sprint.

  Anya had crossed paths with Kevin—literally—her second day in the neighborhood, when he had come zipping down the driveway on a scooter just as Anya had turned onto their street. Her Subaru had come to a screeching halt within inches of his front scooter wheel. Once she had caught her breath and made sure Kevin was okay, his grandma had rushed outside and immediately apologized to Anya before launching into what sounded like a familiar lecture for Kevin on paying attention to his surroundings.

  But Kevin wasn’t listening. He was focused on Anya’s heavily paint-spattered t-shirt and overall shorts, barely waiting until his grandmother stopped talking before asking Anya point-blank why she looked like she’d stepped straight out of The Rainbow Goblins. Anya had laughed and explained that she was an artist, and she’d promptly been hauled into the Kangs’ house, where Kevin had proudly invited her into his “gallery,” which was also known as the “kitchen.”

  Kevin’s draw
ings and paintings were plastered everywhere, from the refrigerator and the cabinets to the pantry door and the center island. Anya listened patiently as Kevin explained his inspiration for each and every one, then showed him a fun watercolor trick involving sea salt to create texture. Melanie evidently saw an opportunity to recapture some much-needed non-grandma time and practically begged Anya to give Kevin private art lessons twice a week during the time she was here. Kevin’s energy was infectious, and coupled with the seventy-five dollars per hour that Melanie offered to pay, Anya and her wallet couldn’t think of any good reason to say no.

  Aside from her time with the Kangs, Anya had also spent some time with the couple on the corner—Camilla and Susan—taking them up on an invitation to come by for a drink at their house. Camilla’s spicy updated take on a Moscow mule featured reposado tequila, homemade ginger beer, and fresh lime juice from their own backyard trees. And Susan’s way with guacamole and chips led Anya to believe that their backyard was a damn fine place to spend an afternoon.

  Unfortunately, she had yet to win over the hedge-clipping neighbors, who merely scowled every time she waved. Over at the Hinton house, their slacker nephew was exactly what Jack had described. From what Anya could tell, Tyler was a putz and he did need a haircut.

  As for needing a job, she suspected that was probably true, too. He rarely emerged from the house before three o’clock in the afternoon and was typically shirtless when he did. Most of his time after that was spent smoking cigarettes and looking around under the hood of his gigantic, jacked-up, oil-leaking truck.

  Today was no exception. Anya gave Tyler a polite smile as she left the Kangs’ house, deliberately not crossing over to that side of the cul-de-sac as she walked back to the Greenes’ house. Tyler and his buddy—who was another real winner—were leaning against the bumper of his truck, smoking and watching her silently, each of them sporting curly mops of too-long hair that looked greasy and limp. They were dressed almost identically: baggy-fitting jeans with oil stains and steel-toed work boots. No shirts, of course, which left their pasty-skinned torsos on full display, along with early evidence of the beer bellies that were in their futures.