Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
There are a lot of gray areas when working undercover for the FBI, but helping a target escape federal custody, even when you think it’s to save her life, tips the scale, especially when it comes to light that you were her target all along.
“How are things at Blackbridge? I don’t know how to answer that.” I give him a small smile. “A week ago, I would’ve told you it was awesome. Working for Deacon has been an amazing experience, but I’m in New York chasing after a starlet’s daughter who can’t stay out of trouble, so maybe now isn’t the best time to ask.”
Booker nods in understanding before standing. “Well, I’m sure you have shit to do, a child to tuck in and all that.”
I stand as well, taking his hand as he offers it. “It was good seeing you, man.”
I follow him out of the room, pausing when I see the beat cop with his head hung low, my bag of belongings clasped in his hand.
His eyes dart away from me when I stand in front of him, but he lifts the bag to hand it over to me.
I clap him on the shoulder. “Awesome work today.”
Confusion spreads across his face, but he doesn’t say a word. There’s no doubt the man is going to be dressed down by a superior before the end of his shift. I wave to Rodriquez, who is still laughing, on my way out and wave down a cab. The guy isn’t very happy about the distance he has to take me, but he settles after I assure him a nice tip.
The drive is quiet, spent in contemplation of how I’m going to act once I get back to the Blair residence.
Yelling and shaking her like a rag doll seems like a good idea despite the aggressive nature of it, but then I’m struck by images of her tits jiggling, and I throw that out the window. Touching her would be a mistake. Protecting her from getting run over on the street earlier was enough to drive me insane, so I know it’s a line I can’t cross again.
Ignoring the situation entirely also doesn’t seem like the best way to handle it either because she mentioned more than once that her parents act as if she doesn’t exist. Remington is clearly in the negative-attention-is-better-than-no-attention camp, and doing the same would only backfire on me.
I settle on having a calm, adult conversation with her about her actions, and although that makes me feel like a school guidance counselor, I think it’s the best way to get past it and move on.
As the cab pulls up outside the house, I have the money ready to pay the astronomical fee as well as the tip. Bet your ass I’ll be adding this cab ride as well as the ridiculously overpriced pedicures Remington skipped out on this morning to the itemized bill when I submit for expenses.
I knew she was home. Booker said as much, but it still stuns me to find her standing in the kitchen, facing the counter with one foot propped on the inside of the other knee like she’s practicing a yoga move while making something to eat. Then again, maybe it’s the tiny tank top revealing the tantalizing strip of skin on her back and shorts short enough to tease the curve of her ass cheeks. Somehow, even though all of her most intimate parts are covered up, she’s sexier like this than half-naked in a bikini.
No. Not sexy. She isn’t sexy. I don’t find her sexy at all. Annoying is what she is. She’s trouble, too much work, and a brat.
I clear my throat when she doesn’t turn around despite the fact I know she knows someone is here. The alarm system beeps when the front and back doors are opened, so she had to have been alerted.
“Are you hungry?” she asks without turning around. “I was just making myself a snack. I imagine you’re starving. Jail food is horrible.”
Her teasing almost makes me smile, but I clench my jaw to prevent it at the last second. I wasn’t even at the police station long enough to be arraigned much less be offered a meal, and she damn well knows it. I’ve seen her history. She’s no stranger to the inside of a jail cell either. If I’m not mistaken, she’s been taken in at least a half dozen times.
“I’m good, thanks.”
I wait until she’s done spreading cream cheese on slices of cucumber, all the while wondering if the healthy snack is something she wants or something to counterbalance the dinner-plate-sized pita pocket she had earlier.
I take a seat in the kitchen nook, a small area I’m sure staff use more than anyone else. Surprisingly, when she’s done, she doesn’t disappear up to her room but sits across from me.