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“BOSC!” Lewis shouts. “Stand down.”
The asshole glares at me a moment longer, jaw clenching when he’s forced to relent. He retracts his hand, my own coming up to replace it, grasping the file before it falls. He continues to stare daggers at me like I fucked his high school sweetheart or something. Then again, if he’s from around here or any of the towns I competed in over the years, there’s a decent chance I did.
I snicker, shaking the thought from my mind as I open the manila folder, my smile fading as I register the images within.
“We didn’t realize your stepsister was so well connected on both sides of the fence. Perhaps we should’ve been paying closer attention to her all these years.”
“My sister doesn’t have shit to do with anything.”
“Not what it looks like to me.”
The high-resolution photos are of downtown Queen City. Bodies shuffle past one another along a busy sidewalk, with Maverick Bishop at the center. And in his arms—my sister.
She’s staring up at him in each shot, his hand caressing her face as he looks at her like she’s his whole world. I recognize the outfit she’s wearing from Saturday when I dropped by my parents’ place for dinner. It’s the same day she was out running wedding errands with Daph. Which means by the time I saw her, she’d already seen Mav, and had chosen not to say anything about it.
He couldn’t even make it forty-eight hours. Motherfucker.
Teeth clenched, I slap the folder shut, tucking it up under my arm. “Anything else?” I ask, eager to wrap this up.
“There’s a rumor going around,” Lewis continues, “that Valdez's most recent appearance may have something to do with a certain disagreement the two of you shared.”
While it’s nice to have the tip, I don’t need the Feds to gain access to information. However, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m the slightest bit curious about their angle in all this.
“Hypothetically speaking.” I slip my hands into my pockets before leaning back against my car. “If a disagreement had occurred between me and this…Valdez, you say? What would the FBI stand to gain from alerting me to his presence?”
“Just a heads up between friends.” Lewis smiles. “Can never have too many friends. Right, Nick?”
“Afraid I’ve got all the friends I can manage, Special Agent Lewis.”
He nods, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and digging inside for a card. “In case you change your mind.” He holds up his hand, the business card affixed between his index and middle fingers, which he then slips into the breast pocket of my suit jacket.
He backs away with a single wave, signaling for Bosc to follow him as he turns to return to his car. Special Agent Douche complies like a good little bitch, though he doesn’t waste the opportunity to flip me off once Lewis dips into the car. Once they’re both secured inside, they bang a U-turn, speeding off into the darkness of the early morning hours.
I slip inside my own car, switching on the interior light to glance at the photos once more. I can’t get past the look on Mav’s face—the way he stares at her with pure adoration, like she’s some priceless treasure.
It makes me want to kick his ass, though surprisingly not for the reason I’d expect. Yes, he essentially lied to my face when he assured me he’d keep his distance, but that’s not what’s pissing me off the most at the moment. The longer I stare at the picture, the angrier I become as I realize I desire an answer to a single question from the universe…
Why the fuck does he have to be a drug-dealing asshole like me?
Why couldn’t he have a boring job like a stockbroker or a dentist? No one’s ever going to love Jones the way he does—the way she deserves to be loved.
But she doesn’t get her happy ending. No. Instead, she ends up being just another example in one of the most common plot lines in history. Men fucking up, and women paying the price for it. And, like a coward, I only hope she never finds out the role I played in all this… because I don’t want to lose her, too.
My cell begins to vibrate, rattling around within the cup holder of my center console as a random number flashes across the screen. It’s Yuri. Paranoid fucker gets a new number every month so he’s harder to pin down.
“Yeah?”
“Good evening, Daniel.”
Glancing at the dash, I notice it reads 3:15 a.m.
“It’s technically morning.”
He offers up a patronizing chuckle, as though I’m a toddler who needs placating. “Always have to be right.”
“It comes naturally to me. What can I say?”
“I’ll cut to the chase, Daniel. I need you to go pick up Maverick Bishop and meet me at Echo in an hour.”
