Page 11 of Trigger Happy Ending

The weight of the mission drags behind me as I shove open the front doors of the Agency’s manor. The sky overhead is the same slate gray as earlier, although the rain has subsided for now. I stomp down the slick stone stairs, not caring if my boots half submerge in a puddle.

Which they totally do.

Sliding on my helmet, I throw a leg over my Ducati, eager to get the hell out of here. Firing up the engine, I straddle my bike and slip my gloves on. All I want is to get away from here as fast as fucking possible. Away from Agent O and Soren’s stupid-ass good looks.

Why me?

The audacity to question me like that. To dislike me on sight. That almost never happens. I’m annoyed at how offended I am. Why do I care about the opinion of an asshole I’ve just met?

Before I can twist the throttle and vanish, I hear the crunch of boots against wet gravel.

“Hey!”

Oh, joy and rapture. Soren and his annoyingly (yet sexy) repulsive (but oh-so-smooth) liquid caramel voice.

He approaches me, stopping behind my bike. I angle my head towards him and lower the visor, putting a barrier between me and his dangerously gorgeous eyes.

“You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours,” he orders. “Angel of Death or not—I don’t babysit no bitch.”

His words rake over my skin, like nails down a blackboard.

B-I-T-C-H?!

I don’t waste a second.

The Ducati’s engine roars loud as I twist the throttle all the way to full tilt. My fingers dance over both the clutch and the brakes. I pull them both enough to kick the back wheel into a violent spin. The sound is an ear-splitting, vicious squeal that causes Soren to squint. Gravel sprays in all directions as the motorcycle fishtails, creating a fountain of dirt, mud, and rocks which shower onto the dumbass who thinks he’s in control of this conversation.

The look on Soren’s face is everything.

First, surprise, then embarrassment, and lastly, pure rage.

He raises an arm, trying to shield his face from the gravel as I laugh into my helmet, undeniably wicked.

Fighting fire with lighter fluid? Who? Me? Sure.

Nobody calls me a bitch.

Nobody.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I flip him the middle finger. I twist the throttle one last time, and the Ducati surges forward, devouring the road beneath me. I don’t bother to look back.

Now who’s a bitch, bitch?

Chapter 5

Raine

Iglance at my watch. Smyth should have been here ten minutes ago, but he’s late. Again.

Typical Agency tech-head, brilliant with servers and cracking codes and hacking into the most secure networks in the world, but useless with clocks. He hasn’t been on time once this past year. Not that I have much leverage; I can’t exactly report his tardiness to anyone. The Agency would crucify us if they knew we were meeting to discuss the one topic I’ve been banned from digging into—my mother’s unsolved murder.

I guess I can analyze this painting for a few minutes longer.

But, damn, pretending to give a shit about fine art is a fine art itself. It’s a lot of head tilting and squinting, paired with small, micromovements, and an occasional “oh.” Apparently, if you sit and stare at a painting or sculpture long enough, you’re supposed to feel something.

At least, that’s what my mom used to tell me.

She’d bring me to art galleries and museums and wax lyrical about how art has soul, speaks its own language, has life, tells a story, blah blah blah. I wish I’d listened more. Took more notice of the way her eyes sparkled when she described the difference between realism, abstract, and classical. At such a young age, all I used to feel was bored. Now? I’d give anything to hear her voice once more.