I hate thinking of anyone else with their hands on her skin.
What is this I’m feeling? It’s not love; I’m not somehormonal teen. It’s darker, more…possessive.
The strength of that feeling is alien, but not wrong. I’ve never felt this with anyone before. But then it’s never beenGenesisbefore.
No, that’s not right. It must just be me rationalizing. If I’m feeling possessive, it’s because I need her. She’s part of Renner’s crew, my way in, my way of ensuring they treat me like I belong.
I’ve spent the night with a woman I’m supposed to be building a case against, and I mustn’t forget that. Stop thinking about waking her up and burying myself inside her again.
Sometimes I fucking love my job.
And I’ve been standing in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her sleep, for several minutes now.
Get your ass moving.
The only thing that gets me to the door is the promise that the sooner I leave, the sooner I can return.
It’s usually a forty-minute ride through the city to Venice Beach, but this early on a Fourth of July Saturday, I do it in twenty-five. Twenty-five minutes alone with my head, and what I mostly think about is the scratches on my back and how they came to be there. That’s not good. That’s the opposite of good.
She’s just a tool. You’re better than this. Priorities, Declan.
Pulling up in the parking lot only a hundred yards from the Surf Shack where I’m due to meet Mercer, I force myself to focus. I’ve got nothing useful to giveher, and I know she’ll push. What I have is plenty of Genesis. Her voice, her scent, the memory of clenching around me and beneath me. Mercer doesn’t need to know about any of that. She won’t understand.
I haven’t seen Mercer since I started this job, over six months ago when I took on this new identity. Almost straight after the last assignment, with what, just four months between? Hardly long enough to remember who I was. I used to have a house in Thousand Oaks, but it’s been so long since I lived my own life, there was no point keeping it. Now my homeismy apartment in Boyle Heights.
Three years of undercover work. Maybe Mercer is justified in her concerns I’m going native. Still, I wouldn’t have taken this operation if I wasn’t ready for it.
I need to get my head on straight for this meeting, but all I can think about is that I should’ve left her a note, in case she wakes when I’m gone. No fucking paper, no pen, and I don’t even have her phone number.
We were a little busy last night. An oversight to correct when I get back there.
The sun’s up, with just enough clouds on the horizon over the water to reflect oranges and golds. There’s no wind, the waves calm, and the tide is out. The sand is soft under my boots.
Diana Mercer’s wearing a goddamn skirt suit on a Saturday morning, blending in with the other dog walkers like a hooker blends in at a church service.And worse, she isn’t alone.
I walk toward them, deliberately making it look like I’m passing them, not heading for them. Hating every step I’m taking.
This risk is completely unnecessary.
But grudgingly, I have to admit it’s minimal. That’s why I suggested here and now.BeforeI knew I’d have a very good reason not to get out of bed. There’s no way I was followed riding at that speed, hardly anyone is out at this time, and even if anyone does clock us, we’re just three people talking on a beach one morning.
Yeah, because every biker likes getting sand in their boots.
“Maddox,” Mercer says as I draw near.
“Hale,” I emphasize. I’m sure she does that just to annoy me, some petty power play.
She doesn’t blink at my correction, but nods to the man she’s with. “You know Dawkins, I presume?”
“By reputation.” I give no sign of acknowledging him. We’re strangers meeting at random.
The idiot offers me his hand, holding it out for several seconds, then lowers it when all I do is stare at him. Where the hell does Mercer find these people?
It’s clear Special Agent Dawkins has never worked undercover. He still has a crewcut, even if he has made an effort to find a pair of jeans and a T-shirt this morning. But he’s carrying a goddamn laptop bag. On the beach.
The two of them couldn’t shoutFBIany louder if they were wearing the goddamn flak vests.
“Why is he here?” I address the question to Mercer. It’s blunt, but I don’t give a shit.
