This guy.He laughs at all my jokes.
When he straightens, he wipes his eyes and jabs a thumb toward the door.
“Yeah.Go on.”I wave him off.“Don’t forget.Tattoo session at ten.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and slips out.
Unhooking my corset, I let it fall to the floor.Then I explore the suite, opening drawers, evaluating space, and emptying the luggage.
I hang what needs hanging, fold the rest, and line up shoes.I packed enough clothes for Jag and Dove to accommodate every mood swing, identity shift, and wardrobe crisis.
Honestly, what would they do without me?
The sun slides down the glass windows, turning everything honey-gold.Outside, the jungle presses close, hovering like a dark, patient thing, beckoning me.
I grab my smokes and step onto the balcony.
The view drops away, the whole compound laid out beneath me.
When we flew in, they blindfolded me.Protocol.But I can picture the route, how long the helicopter banked, how the air changed, how my ears popped with altitude and distance.We’re deep in the rainforest.No roads, no civilization, no walking out alive.
Remote doesn’t scare me.Isolation and I have history.We’ve had long talks.
This place feels as off-the-map as Hoss.
Instead of freaking out about that, I find comfort in it.
Down below, men in black move with purpose, crossing paths, turning corners, rifles carried at ease, not brandished.
I light up and lean on the rail, smoke curling into the damp air.
The thing I don’t expect is hownotlonely this place feels.There’s noise under the quiet, footsteps on marble, laughter around every corner, and camaraderie everywhere.The walls pulse with life.
And the inner circle?I grin to myself.They’re a pack of emotionally-damaged cupcakes with hidden knives and murderous tendencies.
I take a drag and let myself think the thought all the way through.I like them.All the ones I’ve met so far.I like that I can joke about my childhood trauma and no one flinches, rushes to smooth it over, or asks if I’m okay.I say uncomfortable shit, and they nod like,Yeah, been there.Done that.
For me, that’s home.
I follow the balcony around the corner and stare out over the citrus grove below, the trees heavy with green and gold.A clearing opens at the center, and there they are.
Jag and Dove sit on a bench, their heads tipped together, in their own little world.Jag grips her hands and says something that makes her spring to her feet.
Uh oh.
She starts pacing, fingers yanking at her braids, voice climbing, arms cutting the air.I don’t catch every word, just the loudest ones.
“He wore a fucking bomb?”Her eyes snap up.
Straight to me.
That’s my cue to back away.So naturally, I step forward and curtsy.
I don’t need 20/20 vision to see the look she spears me.I feel it grab me by the balls.
Jag slides along the bench and pulls her down to his lap.He cups her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks.She’s crying too hard for a kiss, so he captures her nape and brings their foreheads together.
“You would make a terrible spy,” says a gravelly male voice behind me.
