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“You think I’m kidding?” he says, putting his food down and leaning back.
“You can’t seriously be jealous of a random café worker flirting to get better tips.”
“I’m as serious as the hard cock I want to put in your mouth when you’re being sassy.”
“God, you’re such a dirty talker. When did that start? Or was it always there, and you never said it out loud?”
“Not to a minor, I didn’t.”
“We were both so young, Bryce,” I say.
It isn’t just age I’m referring to. When I revisit who we were thirteen years ago, I seek compassion for mistakes made not from maliciousness, but rather mistakes triggered by being young, rash, and unreasonable.
When I conjure painful memories, it’s to put a line in the sand. Only as adults today can Bryce and I understand our past selves. Those two young people deserve to be forgiven for the harm they inflicted on each other. We need empathy for the versions of ourselves who were in a difficult situation and handled it badly.
“What are you thinking about?” Bryce holds out his hand, inviting me to place mine in his comforting grip. I put my meal down and slide on his lap. His neck is the perfect place to bury my face. My lungs expand as I breathe him in.
“You looked so serious all of a sudden,” he says, grabbing my hips possessively.
“It’s so much easier, so much clearer, to think about that time now that we’re doing it together.”
“Get used to it, sweet girl. We’ll be doing all kinds of things together.”
“I want to see where you live,” I say suddenly. Inviting myself wasn’t planned, though there’s no denying my curiosity.
“I’d love nothing more than to show you around Arizona,” he rasps. “I’ll book us plane tickets any time. Maybe next week.”
“Easy, cowboy. I’ve got too much going on next week. And then there’s the overnight trip to Columbus for the twins’ birthday. Maybe during the holidays?”
His indigo eyes dilate, the darker circle of his pupils spreading. Bryce transforms into a heightened version of himself, like an addict who just took a hit.
“I’m holding you to that, Anastasia Petrov. When this part of the continent is buried in snow, you’ll be in the middle of red rock country with perfect weather, a real plate of steak, and a cowboy at your mercy.”
Bryce wraps his arms around my torso and conquers me with a deep, passionate kiss. I welcome the invasion, opening myself to his sweeping tongue.
When we come up for air, I whisper against his lips. “Newsflash Bryce, you’re already at my mercy.”
I run a hand down his hard abs in order to grab his belt. This time, he lets me.
When he ties my hands behind my back with that belt, I’m at his mercy too.
At headquarters in Phoenix, our central intelligence team gathered information on Eliot Briggs. Something I can use as leverage. Now that the PI is out of the hospital, I’ll be paying him a personal visit.
I wait for his wife’s departure for her weekly grocery shopping trip. When it’s clear Mrs. Briggs is not turning around, I slip out of the indistinct sedan and sneak into their yard. It’s easy enough to shimmy the lock to the back door. Pausing before entering, I mean to catch Briggs by surprise and not the other way around.
Snores carry from their bedroom down the hallway to the kitchen I’m entering. Carpet muffles my approach. The bedroom door is ajar and doesn’t creak when I push it open. His handgun, stored in a drawer by his bedside, feels small in my hand when I place it on a dresser across the room and out of his reach.
Seeing Briggs up close gives insights that didn’t come across in the medical reports we hacked. He looks much older than his fifty-three years. Wrinkled and sallow, he should probably still be in the hospital. But the medical bills piled up, and he was released, even in this deplorable state.
The coma was caused by hypertensive encephalopathy, a fancy way of saying high blood pressure left untreated. He couldn’t afford to buy medication. Ironically, trying to save money is now costing him even more because he was hospitalized. Fucking expensive to be sick.
“Eliot,” I say as I kick the mattress to shake him awake. “Eliot, wake up.”
His eyes open slowly and then he sits with hands out in a protective posture. “No! I don’t know anything. I swear!”
Well, that’s an interesting start to our interview. I run with it.
“We both know that’s not true. No point lying to me when I just want to have a civilized conversation. I’m not here to hurt you.” As long as he cooperates, I have no intention of sending him back to the hospital.
