“Don’t worry, we got this.” I place my palm on Sam’s thigh and she stiffens.
Dammit. She’s still mad. We argued about me rambling and she’s been grouchy ever since.
“The eleventh commandment says thou shalt not ramble. We need the DEA on our side.” Her lashes lift and her beautiful brown eyes shoot lasers into mine.
“But Sugar, it’s a long story. These things take time. If you didn’t want to wait, you shouldn’t’ve come.”
“Sebastian? I swear to God, if you do, I will duct tape your mouth shut.” She opens her purse to prove she’s serious, but it only makes me laugh harder.
“C’mon babe. I learned a lot last Sunday and want to practice a few of Father O’Connell’s techniques. The man is pure genius.” At my wink, a crack appears in her hard shell, and she punches my shoulder.
“You need therapy. You know that, don’t you?”
I wrap my arm around her and kiss the tip of her lovely nose. “Yes ma’am, but a man needs a hobby.”
“Why not pick sports-ball, like every other male on the planet?”
“Excuse me?”
In the front seat, my boss snickers and as he catches her eye in the mirror, my snarky gal’s smile widens. “Yeah, you know… bouncy ball, tackle ball, kick ball… all the balls. Surely, you like one of them?”
“Nope, I even tried big, black roll-y ball. Not a fan.” My stoic pal, who usually ignores our banter, guffaws into his fist and she sighs.
“Fine, but if you piss off the FEDs, you must promise to stop. Deal?”
A solemn hand rests on my heart. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”
“She’s alive, Sebs.” She cracks me up but once we pull into the underground parking lot, I’m all business.
Bad ass in her black jeans, black jacket, and thigh-high boots, she reaches to her holster and draws her gun as Slate opens the driver’s side door.
“On three.” He counts down while I scour the dimly lit lines of cars for a possible attack.
Then, back-to-back, we inch into the elevator and hand over our weapons when we reach our destination.
“We’re all here to see Senior Special Agent Young.” Slate slips his wallet out and hands his license to a uniformed guard sitting at the front desk.
The bald man shoves wire-rim glasses up his nose and as he clacks the keyboard, points to a couple of chairs. “Someone will come for you, momentarily.”
We wait while he signs in a half-dozen visitors. When done, the dark man motions me over. “My money is on six hours and two minutes. I got two kids in college. I’d appreciate whatever you could do to hit the number.”
His guess is so low, there’s no way he’ll win but I shoot him a thumbs up, anyhow. In truth, I’m disappointed he thinks so little of my world-renowned skills. Most everyone in law enforcement knows I’ve rambled for twenty-four hours straight.
“I can’t play favorites, but if it gets close, I’ll make sure to hit it on the nose.” In response to my kindness, Slate snorts to my right.
Standing, my sexy wife stretches her lithe body, walks across the industrial blue carpet, and leans over the mahogany desk. “Excuse me, just how big is the pot?”
The guard glances down at his cellphone, flicks through a few pages, and lets out a low whistle. “Close to a thousand bucks.”
My ears perk up. “For breaking a new record?”
“Nah, the bet is for how long you last before Agent Young shuts you down. There’re slots from ten minutes to a full day.”
“I am not staying here all night.” My pretty partner crosses her arms and glares bullets, expecting me to agree.
Luckily, I’m saved from having to respond because our lawyer arrives. Shaking hands, he explains some paperwork, but I can’t make heads or tails of the legalese. “Let’s skip to the bottom line. Have they agreed to immunity or not?”
“We should be good but keep an eye on my face. If I shake my head no, you stop talking. That goes for you, too Sam.”
