Page 147 of Flint’s Strike

I manage to grab a tissue and pull off the condom, but tossing it into the trash drains what little energy I have left. The walls are starting to go a little fuzzy around the edges, the strain of the day, this case, and all those inspections taking their toll.

Parker drapes her arm around my waist, avoiding the places on my back where the scrambled nerves make any touch painful. I close my eyes, and somewhere between awake and asleep, the truth slams into me.

Tonight was never about a drawer. Or a closet. I’ve made room for her in my bed. In my days. In the parts of my life I thought were too ugly to share with anyone.

I’m falling for her. Hard. And the scariest part of it all? I’m not scared to keep going.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Parker

Nate’s already set up in the conference room when I stroll in, my shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.

He studies me, his dark eyes cataloging everything, then nods. “Good. You got some…rest.”

“Among other things.” I reach into my bag and place a muffin next to his keyboard. “The woman at the bakery on Grand said this was the healthiest thing they had. Bran, chia seeds, wheat germ, hemp hearts—whatever those are—and enough pumpkin seeds that Halloween is actively in danger.”

Nate’s brows shoot up. “Why are you bribing me?”

Scowling, I take my seat across from him, coffee tilting dangerously close to the rim of my DPS mug. “I’m not. I’m trying to be a good partner.”

He doesn’t say a word. Five seconds. Ten.

At twenty, he wins. “What happened…at the compound…changed me. I thought I’d put it away. Compartmentalized it as part of another life. But that’s not the same as dealing with it. I was so busy trying to keep everything under control, I didn’t see what it was costing the people around me.” I glance at the muffin, then back to Nate. “So, I’m trying to do better.”

He lifts the muffin, gives it a sniff, and nods. “You don’t have to apologize for surviving, Parker. Though if that brings more hemp hearts into my life, I won’t complain.”

After a bite of muffin he deems “aggressively acceptable,” Nate slides a piece of paper across the table.

“I should apologize too.”

Now I’m suspicious. “For…?”

“I started going through Apex’s financial records without you. Last night, in fact. Couldn’t sleep. It took two showers and the world’s longest soak cycle on the washing machine to get rid of the scent from Kessler’s apartment.”

Gesturing to my braid, I give him my best side-eye. “Three showers, a hair mask, two washes, and once my clothes were dry, I sealed them in a plastic bag with enough lavender to feed all the bees in Texas. But you were sayin’?”

Nate mirrors his laptop on the wall monitor. Eight-year-old articles of incorporation. Annual reports. Pruitt as the registered agent in the state of Texas, with a second registered agent in Delaware.

“That all looks…exceedingly boring.” I take a sip of coffee, pleasantly surprised it doesn’t taste like motor oil. AJ must have made this pot.

“It was. Which was why I fell asleep ten minutes into it. In bed, this time.” He pulls up another document on Apex letterhead. “Got a solid six hours, which meant I was here at seven, and found this on the thumb drive Martinez brought back from Apex’s headquarters.”

The operating agreement is one more long, dry document in a string of long, dry documents. “That’s not much more than what we got from Pruitt.”

“The front page isn’t. But look at page two.” With an exaggerated flourish, Nate taps his keyboard.

“Capital contribution schedule. Well, bless Apex’s black heart. That we can use.” The line items are too small to read clearly from across the room, so I round the table for a better look. The schedule lists five or six members of the LLC, the amount of their buy-in, date, and a memo field. Most are marked as “initial contribution.” Start-up funds.

Nate aims the laser pointer at the last line. “One hundred and forty thousand in founding capital. Wired in two transfers the month before the articles of incorporation were filed. From Ridgeline Policy Partners.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Neither had I twenty minutes ago.” He’s already moving his browser tab onto the main screen. “They’re a political action committee. Which means…”

“Public records.”

“I’d give you a prize, but I’m out of granola bars and the muffin was a gift.” A few more clicks. “Owned by Senator Gabe Dines.”