Page 54 of Trigger Happy Ending

“Who’s he talking about?”

“The friend on the hill is Senator Wilson,” Cherry replies, rolling her shoulders. “You know the guy who was in here the other night? He tips well, but I’m pretty sure he’s involved with some dodgy shit.”

“What sort of dodgy shit?”

“One time”—Cherry’s eyes dance around the bar, making sure no one’s within earshot—“I was serving them drinks, and they were so drunk, I think they forgot I was in the corner with a drinks tray. They were talking about the craziest shit. Like, black market type shit. Weapons, drugs, who is reputable, who isn’t, how much money is in it for them. Blah, blah, blah. I think that’s how he funds his political career.”

“By running illegal deals with Carson?”

Cherry raises her eyebrows and shrugs. “Sounds like it.”

I nod, my brain running ahead to Saturday. Carson said he is hosting three guests. One being the Senator. The second is surely Soren. Well, Soren as Lukas. Who’s the third guest? Probably someone else they are considering as another possible buyer for PARM-17.

My stomach tightens at the thought of being deep undercover alongside Soren. It didn’t exactly end well last time.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m a liar. But I wasn’t lying to Cherry about one thing: The shit between Soren and I?

It really is complicated.

Chapter 25

Soren

I’ve grown to like the crisp air here. For years, all I inhaled was stifling, thick, dust-laced air on the battlefield. Air so polluted you never quite felt like you ever took a full breath. It always felt to me like I was suffocating, one breath at a time. The dust particles latching onto my lungs like how sand sticks in between your toes.

Those violent, dusty days feel like they are miles away now.

Sitting on the terrace underneath a clear sky, I allow myself to breathe in the morning autumn air. It’s a small daily pleasure I’ve become quite fond of. I catch myself doing that a little more often these days. Finding joy in the small moments, I mean. I don’t know why, it’s a foreign concept to me. I never found joy in anything before. I don’t know if I like it or not—I feel like I’m losing my edge or something.

I finish scribbling the last line and close my notebook.

I stand, stretching, eyes tracing the Manhattan skyline. Nothin’ but concrete. New York should be renamed from the “city that never sleeps” to the “city that never shuts the fuck up.” There’s never silence here. Never. The air is constantly filled with horns, sirens, and people shouting.

Fuck, I miss my lakehouse. Not long and I’ll be there. I just need to keep my head down and finish this contract with the Agency. We’re getting closer, it seems. O’s intel indicates this meeting on Saturday night is to put both possible buyers in the room. The mystery guest is a druglord with ties to the Russian mafia. Doesn’t matter who it is. I’ll do what it takes to ensure he isn’t given the opportunity to put a bid in for PARM-17.

Raine’s involved this Saturday night too. Says her and her colleague have been asked to “entertain.” Whatever the fuck that means. It makes me nervous. She makes me nervous. Deep cover won’t be easy, especially if I have to sit there and watch her flirt with someone else. It doesn’t sit well, feels twisted and wrong. A hot feeling stirs inside of me as I visualize her “entertaining” another man. My vision blurs around the edges slightly.

God, what the hell is going on with me?

I need to clear my head a bit, blow off some steam, even if only for a day.

Sliding open the terrace door, the warmth engulfs me as I step into the living room. Raine’s perched in the chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight streaming in, her sun-kissed legs folded up beneath her. She’s running a metal file over her nails, shaping them into wicked little points.

Without looking up, she asks, “What?”

God, her sensory perception is unlike anything else.

“Do you have to make every part of you into a weapon?”

Her lips twitch. “Yep.”

Raine’s eyes follow as I toss my notebook onto the coffee table. She nods her head to my closed journal. “What are you writing about anyway?”

“Nothing,” I reply, voice flat. “You wanna go for a ride?”

She pauses mid-file. “Why?”

“Just wanna clear my head a bit. You know … before the assignment ramps up.”