Page 11 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Sure,” I say. “What could be wrong?”

She offers me a small smile. We had something once. Maybe. But it’s gone now. At least that’s how I see it. But she’s nice. She’s always nice. So I rein in that dark part of me that wants to tell her to go fuck off and leave me alone, and instead channel my father. Say something he’d say. “Thanks for the coffee.” He always was polite. Right up until the end.

“No problem,” she says. Another smile as she writes something on the check and sets it on the table. And then, thankfully, she’s gone and I’m alone again.

I like the alone.

The door opens, a bell jingling, which draws my attention to the front of the diner where Declan Ivers stands, looking around for a few seconds before he spies me. I can’t hear it over the din of conversation, but then again, I don’t need to hear it. The long sigh he lets out once he spots me is something you can see. And then he’s heading my direction.

“Fuck, Murphy,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Why the hell didn’t you pick up?”

I don’t even bother mustering up a shrug. Just hold my coffee cup in both hands, twirling it on the table.

“Look, I got a job for you tonight, OK? You need to get your shit together.”

I lift the cup, take another sip of my Irish coffee, and meet his gaze. He’s wearing a dark suit just like mine, only it’s a few steps up in the quality department.

I don’t wear cheap suits, but this asshole, you know the kind. They dress to impress. Cuff links, and silk ties, and shoes that cost a fortune. All accentuated with the status-symbol watch on the wrist and the haircut that never seems to change. I just take the fucking suit out of the closet, put it on every morning like I’m supposed to, and call it good. Though I do have a nice watch.

I can’t decide if I like Declan Ivers or not. I mean, he’s not what I’d call good-natured, but he’s not really an asshole, either. So I’m just waiting him out.

I don’t have to like him. I just need to get along with him.

“What kind of job?” I ask, uninterested. I only have one job here and that’s… well, drinking this whiskey.

“The kind you do,” he says, looking me in the eyes.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, his gaze sorta challenging, mine sorta apathetic.

“OK.”

Declan pulls out his phone, starts stabbing at it, and then there’s a little whoosh sound that says he’s sending a message. My phone lights up on the table, the sound off, so there’s no incoming ding, but I glance down at it anyway.

It’s a picture of a woman. She’s got blue eyes, long, dark hair, and an expression that’s something between a scowl and a smile.

“Who’s this?” I ask, suddenly more interested as I pick up the phone and tab the message open from the home screen so it won’t disappear.

“Issy Grey. She’s one of those life coaches. Motivational speakers or whatever.”

“OK,” I say, looking up at him, trying to put the pieces together. “So what’s the job?”

“We think she’s involved in something pretty big.”

I wait for more, but he stops. Like I’m supposed to ask another question. I close my eyes and count to three because I hate this game he plays. Fuckin’ Declan is all drama all the time. How he’s still in the FBI, I’ll never understand. I open them, making myself breathe slowly, and oblige. “What kind of something?”

“Well”—Declan sighs—“we got a tip earlier today that there’s some kind of meth operation happening in the office space she rents.”

“Meth?” I groan. “Again?”

“Somebody’s got to clean it up,” Declan says. “Today that’s us. We’re waiting on the warrant now, then we’re gonna meet up with DEA and head over there to take a look. So let’s go.”

I stay where I am, wondering if I should get up and leave. Not leave with him, but leave this whole fuckin’ town. I mean… I guess it would be bad if I didn’t just toe the line. Shit would go off the rails, I’d be asked a bunch of questions, things would get messy.

But then again, it always gets messy.

“Look,” Declan says, lowering his voice as he leans over the table towards me. “I get it. He was your father. So losing him was a blow. He was one of us, and I liked him too. But he’s gone, Finn. And it’s not like he didn’t fucking deserve it. So pull your shit together and do your fucking job.”

The anger inside me swirls like a wind whipping up a storm. But I hold it together, straighten my tie and pull out my wallet. I throw down a twenty, force myself to stand up, putting on my coat at the same time, and wait for Declan to follow.