If he wants to hit me where it hurts, he should tell me how he figured out that Laurelyn Reilly matters to me. And elaborate on how he hooked her and became her lover.
“All right, enlighten me. What is your weak suit?” he demands.
That being near a dark-haired girl with stained-glass eyes turns me reckless.
I slow my roll, wondering why he’s dogging my steps. Does he have a reason for stalling my departure? My phones are powered off, and the sim cards are out. If he’s hoping to clone my phone, he’s going to have another tech mishap. My mind goes back over what was said. When did she flush the wire? It had to have been when she went into Little Mo’s bathroom. Unless the device is still around. If it’s small enough, she could’ve dropped it in the Range Rover when I drove her to my apartment. That’s doubtful though because Schager wouldn’t be looking for it or tipping me off to its missing status if it was still transmitting.
Heading to the truck, I decide I’ll do a thorough search later to be sure.
I hear him closing on me fast and spin back around. Instant check of his hands. No gun. His momentum has him barreling forward. Not expecting me to turn and stop short, he can’t halt his stride in time. All I have time to do is raise my fist and I do. His face slams right into it. And maybe I drive my fist forward a little.
His head jerks back from the impact, and he falls like a tree, slamming onto the ground with a thump. He’s dazed, and I’m tempted to drop and keep going, but I’m not a kid anymore, so I take a hard pass on pummeling an FBI agent in the middle of suburbia.
A van door slides open and agents emerge, rushing forward.
Assholes.
I get in the Rover and peel away. If they want me, they can chase me. I’m not letting them cuff me in front of Laurelyn’s house with her parents watching.
I check the rearview several times. They aren’t pursuing. At least not right now. I’m sure their surveillance footage will show he was about to crash into me, so tossing a fist up could certainly be interpreted as defending myself, which of course the C Crue lawyers will have no trouble exploiting if the feds try to say I assaulted him. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a hassle to have the FBI pull me in again. Their coffee’s better than CPD’s but it still sucks compared to what’s at my place.
Turning on music, I crank it up, trying to drown out my thoughts. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from imagining Laurelyn lying in bed with Schager, having conversations like the one we had last night. It makes me want to put a bullet in his brain.
Easy.Gotta think this all through.
At the C Crue compound, I use my code to open the gate. Pulling up the drive, I scan the area. Rover One’s parked front and center. I park the second Rover behind it.
Locking the doors, I hang a marker from the porch on the antenna. It means the car’s got to be checked before anyone drives it again.
When I open the front door, reggae music comes pouring out. Following it to its source, I find Zoe, C, Anvil, and Rachel in the kitchen. Zoe’s dancing, drinking wine, and cooking. I spot a baby carrier on the kitchen table and walk over.
Irina is sound asleep. She’s four months old and has a lot of Rachel’s features and none of ‘Vil’s that I can see. I touch my thumb to her soft little cheek. She’s cute as hell.
When I turn, ‘Vil’s hovering right next to me. Usually Anvil’s over-the-top vigilance amuses me. The guy has zero experience with kids, so he treats his own like she’s made of blown glass. Truth be told, he doesn’t seem comfortable with anyone other than Rachel touching the baby, not even himself.
Glancing up, I ask, “Can I help you, ‘Vil?”
He steps back, but it looks like it hurts him a little to do it. “Irina’s sleeping.”
“Is that what’s she doing? Had no clue. Infants really put their own spin on unconsciousness.”
Anvil scowls, and C moves closer, set to intervene. My eyes roll so hard they almost get a look at the backs of their sockets.
Zoe sashays over and hooks her arm around mine. Everyone’s going to try to manage me now.
“I’m making jerk chicken and grilled pineapple, Trick. I might put a little chili pepper on the pineapple. Help me decide.”
“Yeah, do it. Decided.”
Her mouth curves into a wide, beautiful smile. “Girl trouble?”
“Maybe.”
“Tell us all about it,” Zoe says, tugging until I walk with her to the stove.
“Do I need advice from you guys? The Brazilian princess who can’t go a week without getting her ass caned for being too sassy? And C who obviously never spanks you hard enough to get you to behave for five minutes. Then we’ve got ‘Vil—”
“Trick! Shame on you!” Zoe laughs and play slaps my arm. “Don’t mock us for being concerned. Arrested by the FBI isarrestedby theFBI.”
