I shrug. “Genius is going to get old. I could call you V, but you’d get an inflated ego or something.”
He chuckles from across the room. “Guy works fine, Princess.”
“Well, Guy, I might have stretched the truth about people not asking about me. I might not have a security detail, but the Secret Service patrols my block every hour to make sure everything’s alright. If I don’t show up tonight, they’re going to send out a search party by lunch tomorrow, since I don’t have my phone to check in. You should let me go soon. I can chalk it up to being out for a night at a hookup’s place or something, but any longer than that and I’ll have people wondering where I am.”
“Like I said, finish your pizza. I have a plan. But you won’t like it.”
CHAPTER SIX
TRISTAN
Guy?Seriously? I thought she’d be more creative. I’m mildly offended that I wasn’t worth something better than ‘Guy’.
I don’t know why I care about some nickname her spoiled ass gave me. But I wish it was something more inventive—moreme.
For half the drive down from Maryland to D.C., I try to think up a better nickname, until I realize I’m starting to sound like one of those losers in high school who tries to give themselves a cool nickname. I guess “Guy” will have to do. It’s been a quiet ride since I need to make sure Daphne doesn’t start making noises if she wakes up.
Chloroform knocked Daphne out cold before I put her in the trunk of my car. I was gentle. Gave her a pillow and everything. Even sprayed some Febreze to get rid of any gym bag odor. Hell, my trunk might be nicer than some of the motels I’ve driven past. Not that I’ve stayed in many, but the movies always make it seem like those side-of-the-road places are where you catch bedbugs, lice, or an STD.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should have dropped her off on the side of the road somewhere. But if someone worsethan me found her before she woke up, I’d never forgive myself for putting her in harm’s way.
Now I’ll have her DNA in the trunk of a stolen car.
I’m trusting her enough to release her into the wilds of Capitol Hill, but I’m not entirely convinced she won’t run to the cops tomorrow morning.How do I know she’s telling the truth?All I’ve got is the name of someone she hates, and a hope that she’ll follow through on her end of our bargain. I’ll look into this Brent Sokolov when I’m home, but for now, I need to return her safe and sound.
Thanks to her info, Paul Furt’s risen higher on my hitlist. Pedophiles and rapists always make the top of the list. I can’t protect the world from them, but maybe I can protect a few Thai kids from Furt’s fucked-up idea of local flavor.
After grabbing a spare burner phone from my closet, I check up on Brent Sokolov. His pictures show a typical asshat with a pretentious three-hundred-dollar haircut, three-thousand-dollar suit, and I’m betting no more than a three-inch-cock. The guy doesn’t just exude confidence. No, he swaggers like a man-child who knows he’s untouchable, all thanks to his parents and the old boys club. Brent’s dad and the president went to Princeton together.
D.C. is full of funny coincidences like that.
At Daphne’s house, I park the car, careful not to make any noise at three in the morning. I tiptoe in my oversized boots to the front of her house and lift a potted plant to reveal a spare key underneath.Why do people think they’re clever hiding those under potted plants or welcome mats?I unlock the front door, dart to the garage, and open the door.
Luckily, there’s enough space for my car to slip inside, and I back into the garage before shutting the door.
No cars drive by. No lights are on in anyone’s home—a quiet suburban street with no one but me to terrorize it.
I pop open the trunk and ease my arms around the curves of Daphne’s body. So soft and warm, like holding a blanket I want wrapped around me.
Around all of me.
Something vanilla and feminine tickles my nose as I carry her out of the garage and into her living room.
Yap!
Yap!
Streetlamp lights illuminate a tiny fluff ball winding its way over to us, a pitter-patter of puppy claws tapping along the hardwood floor.
“Hey, Hawkeye.” We met a couple of weeks ago when I broke in to hack Daphne’s calendar. After finding her vet’s office on a magnet stuck to the fridge, I hacked into their files. Hawkeye’s a thirteen-week-old black and white male border collie with mismatched eyes who is up to date on his shots. And since Daphne’s been with me all evening, the poor little guy hasn’t been fed or let out to do his business.
Careful not to step on the fluffball launching himself at my legs like it’s playtime, I set Daphne onto the couch. I always wanted a dog. That’s exactly why I run a dog shelter. It’s like having and helping a never-ending supply of lovable furry friends.
Dad was allergic, and when he died… Well, money was tight. And my work schedule was busy. I had a roof to keep over our heads, mouths to feed, and college tuition to pay for my siblings. I always found an excuse not to get a pet.
I’m impressed that Daphne adopted a dog on her own. Most people wait until they’re in a relationship—that testing-the-water level of commitment. But nope, she didn’t leta man hold her back. Strong, fierce, independent nepo baby that she is.
It’s annoying that I kind of admire her. She has this secret little life away from her political world. Her book accounts. Her puppy. It’s like she’s living with her own mask and hiding the real her from the rest of the Hill.
