Page 51 of Jonesing for a Spy

They continue, but I let it go. Swallowing hard, I flip over to my text with Strider. I’m still pissed, but after a decent night’s sleep and looking my career choices dead in the eyes, I call the feeling what it really is, confusion.

The man has told me he cares. He’s shown me one hundred ways to Sunday that he wants me. We live too far away from each other to play games. And, quite frankly, we’re too old to be pulling high school crap. Well, at least he is.

But the thought that’s crept in since I got Daxton’s call this morning is one I can’t shake. I respect Strider Anderson. And I believe him when he says he was pissed at himself. I have no clue why he pulled the shit he did, but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—once—and see how it plays out.

And my timing is shit.

I reread the last couple of messages.

Strider

Baby, I was starting our conversation over. No lies. No big reveals around diseases. No anger.

Yeah, the no anger part was a fail. You’re pissed and so am I.

What do you have to be pissed about?

Pissed at myself, not you.

Goodnight, Freckles. Sweet dreams.

And if I remove the tone I assumed last night, I can see the man I know.

I hope you slept well. I didn’t. So much on my mind, and if I’m being honest, I don’t sleep well. I did in your arms which was odd for me and certainly most welcome. Kind of mind-blowing actually, since the idea of being trapped is a phobia of mine. But I digress… I’m pissed about last night. I get that you are too. I miss you and that’s messing with me too. And not just for the sleep. Or the sex. But you. And yesterday wasn’t you. Give me a few days, and I’ll reach out. I need some time to get my head straight.

I schedule the message for three this afternoon, knowing I won’t be able to see if there’s a response and hating that I’ll go radio silent on him when things feel so tentative.

Checking and double checking. Not one word of my message is a lie. Not one. He can not like it, but at least it’s all true.

I drop my cell phone in the center console of my SUV, lock up, and head for my work trip as Tanzi Shackleford.

Strider

Late morning, hours into emails, follow-ups, and pushing off meetings until tomorrow so I’ll have my feet underneath me, there’s a knock on my door. I look up to see Margie, our payroll specialist.

“Strider, glad your back. Can I get a moment?” She walks into my office and closes the door behind her. “Two things”—she holds up two fingers ticking off her to-do list—“One, will you remind the team that next week’s timecards need to be in by this Friday instead of Monday morning. Short payroll week with Thanksgiving, and I want to make sure we’re getting that into their hands in time.”

I nod.

“And two, and I didn’t want to put this in an email. I’m seeing… anomalies. We have some folks, all working under the same project manager, whose timecards are suspicious.”

“Suspicious how?”

“Either overtime or straight forty, but it’s always the same number and rotating member of the crew. And it was so small, it would normally escape notice, but I overheard someone on the phone a couple of weeks ago and it tickled my senses. So I did an audit. Same crew. Same little pieces of overtime eating here and there into jobs. Everyone’s at exactly forty except for the person of the week.”

“Okay.” My suspicions are raised too.

“So I started driving by the job sites.”

“You what?” I know better than to drive my hands onto my hips at my size, especially with a woman in a closed room. It’s not a power play, but it’s also not her job.

“Yeah, well. Fraud impacts me too. We’re all bonused based on profitability and having someone skim from the top lowers my potential income, so I started investigating. That crew that was there until five on Thursday, all clocking out at the same time and signed off on by the project manager? They weren’t there at four-thirty. That early start one Tuesday morning? Yeah, you guessed it… Not so much. So we need to figure out how long we’ve been stolen from and who all is in on it, because it’s not one guy and it wasn’t one time.”

I extend a hand to Margie to take a seat, but she shakes it off, saying, “Too much energy. Or anger.”

“How long have you been checking on the jobs?”

“Just three weeks. No need in coming to you if it was somebody jealous or slinging mud, you know? And you were gone last week. Besides, no one would suspect me anyway.”