Page 16 of Entwined With You

“Dammit, Brax. He’s your boss. This job was a fucking gift, you know that. There were rules when we were recruited, and—”

“Counter-espionage rules. FBI rules. But we’re not FBI anymore, and this isn’t an FBI op, and we’re not pulling government paychecks.”

“And you think that matters? Hell, we probably owe Stark Security even more. These people have been like family, and Peterson vouched for both of us,” she added, referring to their Assistant Special Agent in Charge who’d recommended them to Ryan.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re one-hundred percent right. I should have told Ryan and Mason at the table. At the very least, I should tell Ryan now.”

“Exactly. We can—”

“But I’m not going to. Not yet.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, and it wasn’t until he reached eight that he realized he’d been counting in his head. “Cami? I need you on this.”

Another three beats. Then she sighed as the hint of a smile touched her lips. “Been a long time since I helped pull off a robbery. If you want me in, then I’m in.”

“Thanks.” He felt a hundred pounds lighter.

“Having a best friend can be a real pain in the ass. You know that, right?”

He gave her a hard stare. “Oh, yeah. I know that.”

“Ass.” She punctuated the word with a smile as she stood and crossed to stand in front of him, then gently took his hand. “This sister … she’s not Sabrina.”

“I know that.”

“I know you know it. But will you remember it when it matters?”

“Of course, I will,” he said. But he saw the way her eyes narrowed. And even to his own ears, the words sounded like a lie.

Lucky B’s in Panorama City is the kind of bar where the grease from all the fried food gets into your skin if you stay for more than a few hours. The kind where the locals know each other’s names, but don’t pay attention to outsiders.

The kind where both college kids and motorcycle gangs come to shoot pool. Where the conversation in one of the dark booths could be first-date banter or the low, whispered plan for a murder.

It’s where Brax and I—well, he’s back to being Brent now— have come to meet up with Darrin Gold, the man who’d been the mastermind behind that fatal—supposedly, anyway—first attempt to steal the Sisters.

We make our way across the sticky floor, and as we reach the booth, Darrin half-rises in greeting, his eyes on me, without even a glance toward Brax.

“Holy shit, Sabrina. It’s really you?” He studies my face, his pale blue eyes wide as he shakes his head slowly, like a high school dropout tossed into a seminar on advanced calculus. “I can’t believe it. I mean—nothing personal—but aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

I shrug. “I’ve never been big on doing what’s expected. Or on dying, for that matter.”

“But how—”

“It’s me,” I tell Darrin, cutting him off as I release Brax’s hand so that I can slide into the booth. Brax settles in beside me. Then, as we’d discussed, he puts his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into him, all the while watching Darrin’s obviously shocked face.

“I don’t use that name anymore,” I tell him, pretending not to notice the way he’s now frowning at the supposed intimacy between me and Brax. And pretending not to notice how good it feels to be back in Brax’s arms.

Stop it.

With a sharp order to myself to keep my head in the game, I lock my eyes on Darrin’s and keep my expression flat. “I’m sure you understand why.”

“Sorry. Understand what?”

“Why I don’t go by Sabrina. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I damn sure thought so.” He drags his fingers through spiky dark hair streaked with gray. If someone told me to conjure a picture of a criminal, an image of Darrin would have popped into my mind.

Not surprising. After all, the guy’s a conman and a thief. And an exceptional one at that. Years ago, he was quite good looking. But the face that had once been appealing is now so sallow and lined that most people probably assume he’s in his sixties. He’s not. He’s forty-one. And as far as I’m concerned, the faded good looks are just one more drop in the Bad Karma bucket. And he deserves a full-on flood.