Page 88 of The Unfluencer

But definitely something like it.

After the briefest groan from our mostly unconscious roommate, Warner and I begrudgingly clean ourselves up—as much as possible amongst the dusty, battle-torn building debris—re-dress, and quickly try to triage the situation. I check the art for damage while Warner ties up the intruder and props him up against what’s left of the wall.

“Do you want to do the honors?” he asks, fanning his hands toward the black ski mask, still very much concealing our unfairly long-lashed culprit’s face.

“Aw, Warner. You’re so sweet.”

He pops his collar, chuckling. “I do what I can, you know?”

“Oh, you definitely did what needed to be done.” I snap my fingers, not even caring that I’m pumping his ego. The man deserves a standing ovation. Which I fully plan to give him over and over, and over again, once we wrap up this pesky caper.

I kneel down on the other side of the guy, facing Warner, and still, I have to force myself to stop short of his soft lips. I let my eyes travel down his body again, already wanting post-battle Warner sex again.

But—of course—the guy groans, ruining my moment.

Already having up to here with this guy, I peel back the mask, and I’m seriously flabbergasted, because ZOINKS! Maybe she would’ve gotten away with it, if it weren’t for us meddling kids.

“Mya!”

Say what? How?

Warner is a complete fool, gasping with theatrical outrage. It’s almost cartoonish, the way he pulls her to her feet and starts interrogating her. What she did to Tricia to get on his flight. Whether she had a hand in the robbery attempt at his home. Or the gallery, I toss in. And, most of all, what drive she’s talking about and who hired her.

And she has the nerve to stonewall him.

I suppose she thinks that because he’s a man, he won’t hurt her. But I’m a woman. And a newly sexually recharged one with far less patience. I’m a Scorpio—I will waterboard for my man.

Not that Warner is officially my man… but still.

“Oh hell no.” Immediately, I commence with the pat-down, checking her pockets. “I should’ve known. All that nice-nice, chitchatting on the plane, acting like you were so curious. Then offering to cook for him, too?”

She glares at me.

“Who do you work for?” Warner’s tone cuts sharp and jagged.

Mya’s expression is completely blank.

Apparently, she’s a trained assassin/robber or whatnot, because she doesn’t budge. And since I was only joking about the waterboarding and Warner is a certified gentleman, we opt for the next best option: securing her to an exposed vent pipe while we search the building.

There’s not much beyond the paintings. We start on the floor, checking behind the pipes and filing cabinets. Even the vents, mostly because that’s where criminals in movies put stuff. After a while, we’re tired and not totally convinced that this drive—that Warner knows nothing about—even exists, but we search the rack panels anyway, Warner up front, to keep an eye on Mya, and me in the middle working my way to the back to Sherry’s portrait.

I almost give up searching, too.

Until I go to slide Sherry’s portrait back into the rack and notice a tiny tear in the backing board screwed into the stretcher bars. It’s canvas, which is unusual by itself. But there’s a rigid impression near the tear.

“I’ve got nothing,” Warner calls to me. “Find anything?”

“Nope,” I say as I wriggle my finger into the opening. “Still looking, though. Did she say anything yet?”

He says no at the exact moment the canvas breaks.

“I’m just going to double-check for water damage while I’m at it. I want to be extra thorough, you know?”

It’s a plastic-wrapped flash drive intricately embedded in canvas, so I have to pry it out. I tug slowly, careful not to make any ripping sounds or grunt too loudly, giving away my struggle. And when it finally gives, I quickly scan the outside, making out a tiny label—ZH24—before I tuck it into my pants pocket.

I’m not even sure what secrets I’ve just unearthed. It could be a time-lapse video of Sherry painting. Or scathing pictures of her having sex with some Luxe Ladies superfan, for all I know. Or worse, her having sex with Warner. Though their marital business is theirs, not mine.

But I give the performance of my life.