So, yeah, I’m doing great.
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
He gestures for me to sit and does the same, looking at me warily across his desk.
“What gives, boss?”
“Heath reached out to me a few weeks ago to see if I have an opening for his stepbrother.”
I take a breath, feeling sideswiped. “Heath Treadway?”
DB’s lips thin, and I suspect he knows why I’m hating this. Heath is Roly Martinez’s fiancé and Jake’s husband’s best friend. We are in a lot of shared circles. More importantly, Heath’s stepbrother is someone I wish I could forget.
“You mean Ronan,” I conclude.
“Yeah. You know him?”
His ask is neutral, but that’s a cover.
“Yeah, I know him. You know I know him.”
DB’s expression gives away nothing. “What do you think of him?”
Looking down at the ground, I rub the back of my neck. “Look, I told you this when the Martinezes went into business with Heath. Ronan and I used to hook up a while ago.”
“Okay, but that wasn’t the question. Is he someone I should hire?”
Honestly, if I had to choose between talking about Ronan and having a doctor inject something into my eyeball, I’d think real long and hard about that injection. But that’s on me. Not on Ro.
“Probably,” I say, throwing my hands up, annoyed he’s asking me for a recommendation. “He’s a smart guy, he would be good with the team here.”
I make a note to avoid Dallas in the future as DB taps his pen. “Does he not want to be a Marshal anymore?”
DB shakes his head, rearranging things on his desk. “He doesn’t, but that’s not…I don’t have anything for him here.”
Ah, fuck.
“But there is something we could use him for with the Austin team.”
The Austin team—my team—is otherwise known as the Guardians. We’re anything but legitimate. Anders, the joker of the group, likes to say that we’re a bunch of queer serial killers who target the filthy and rich. He’s really the only sociopath on our team, as far as I can tell, but otherwise, he’s spot on.
“Jesus Christ, that’s the worst idea ev—"
“You know what he does for the Marshals, right?” DB asks, cutting me off.
“Yeah. Witness protection.”
He pushes a folder across the desk to me. “Wanna guess who’s assigned to the two guys who’ve been killing sex workers in East Texas?”
I run my hand through my hair, hating the answer. I sit in the chair opposite from DB and open the folder. Right there on the top sheet is a terrible picture of my old fuck buddy.
Even in florescent lights and a short-sleeve button-down with a cheap tie, he’s still beautiful.
And calling him a fuck buddy is still a lie.
“You’re kidding me,” I say, modulating my voice.
“Nope. He’s already tried to open an investigation on the killings, but it looks as though he didn’t get anywhere with it. Do you think he’d help us?”
