Page 29 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Rain mists the car window as Linda Whitmore drives.

Her helmet of hair is under one of those plastic hoods—the kind of thing women wore to church when I was teenager to protect their curls.

They'd come into the diner where I worked, scented of floral perfume and summer rain, the plastic hoods shedding droplets onto the entry rug and dripping a trail to their table.

The busboy, Fernando, would have to mop them up so other people didn't slip.

Linda's is dotted with rain, as is her trench coat. No American flag pin on its lapel. So more subtle than when we met before, but she was parked right in front of the hotel, leaning against her black car for all the world to see when Ash and I came out the front door.

"Fucking idiot," Ash muttered under his breath. We ignored her and broke into a slow jog, the rain pitter-pattering on us, as we left the protection of the hotel's awning.

Linda was smart enough not to say anything. But I felt her stare on my back. And I heard her car start. Ash and I ducked down the first side street we came to and waited for her to join us in the cobblestoned alley.

She stopped next to us and rolled down the window. "Get in," she commanded. As if we were not waiting for her. It's like she graduated spy school from Cliché University. I climbed into the passenger seat while Ash got in the back.

Her wipers swipe slowly, brushing away the misty rain. I wait for her to speak because I have nothing nice to say. "Do you have the compass?" Linda asks as she pulls back onto a main boulevard, lined with shuttered cafes and large leafy trees.

"No," I lie. “It was lost in the explosion."

Her head whips toward me, a flash of fear in her eyes. God, she's bad at this. She turns forward again and clears her throat. "How could you be so careless?" she asks.

My breath comes out a short, amused huff. "When was the last time you were knocked unconscious and forced to flee a burning skyscraper? Trust me, all you're worried about is survival."

"I'm always thinking about my country," she says, her tone haughty. Ignorant.

"I was attacked afterwards, you know? In the ambulance."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Do you know what happened there? Who is after me?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "Your film has angered a lot of people." Linda sneers the word film like it's a porno. "Your premiere in LA was also attacked. When you go against God, he stops looking out for you."

I turn to stare at her profile. Her nose is too perfect, something she might have picked out at a surgeon's office.

And her forehead doesn't move enough—botox.

God's plan for her doesn't seem to be the one she wants to stick to; not sure why she'd have a problem with people choosing not to become impregnated every time they get laid.

The small pill I popped this morning comes into my mind's eye as it has so many times since I first read the script for The Benefactor . What would my life be like without it? How many lives have been saved, how many lives made so much fuller, because of the choice it gave women?

I'm trapped in a car with a woman who couldn't hold the position she does if it wasn't for the war waged by women like Katherine McCormick.

If it weren't for the sacrifices of the Puerto Rican women who risked their health in the trials to bring the pill to market.

Women who were lied to by the scientists funded by McCormick.

Fuck, the world is a twisted, messed-up place.

"Aren't you supposed to be looking out for me?" I ask. "Or is God my handler now?"

Her eyes narrow, the skin around them not wrinkling like it should.

I need a run, not this utter and complete bullshit. My nails dig into my palms.

"You better get with the program," Linda says like some twisted after-school special. "You're playing a dangerous game?—"

"It's not a game, you stupid cunt." The words pop out, and I can't quite believe it. Linda's face flushes and her lips part from a surprised breath. Ash makes a choking sound from the back seat. "This is my life." I'm seething, rage bubbling out of every pore.

"You want to kill me? Then fucking do it.

But just know that if you pull that shit again, I'll be the one in your bedroom in the dark.

You won't see me coming. You'll be fucking dead before your eyes even flutter open.

And are you so sure which gates you'll end up at—God's or his fallen angel's dominion? "

I just threatened the life of a US intelligence agent and suggested she might be going to Hell. That might have been a bad idea. Shit. But I'm too far gone now.

"Did you just threaten me?" Linda asks, her voice filled with righteous outrage.

"All I did was level with you. Next time you want a meeting with me, don't be parked in front of my hotel, advertising our connection.

Unless you are actually trying to expose me.

But don't forget." I pause for dramatic effect.

It works; she takes her eyes off the road to watch me.

"I have enough shit on your man to ruin him.

It will ruin me too, but I'm getting really close to giving no fucks.

" I also seriously doubt anything I say could diminish his power.

"Did you just threaten the President of the United States?" she asks.

"Watch out!" Ash yells. Linda and I both face forward where a truck's brake lights are blaring.

Linda slams the brakes, but we ram the delivery truck hard enough to explode the air bags.

My face hits it hard, blood exploding from my nose and stars dancing across my vision as white powder thickens the air. Fuck!

My door is ripped open and Ash is there. He punches the air bag away and leans over me, his chest pressed to mine as he unclips my seatbelt. Then he's yanking me out of the car. Blood wets my lips and when I suck in a breath, it coats my tongue.

I cough as Ash drags me to the sidewalk. Then we're in a narrow alleyway between two cafes. The rain mist is cold on my heated skin. I stumble next to Ash, his firm grip on my bicep doing a lot to hold me up. "We couldn't risk being seen," he says.

"Or me answering her question about threatening the President. That's illegal, right?"

Ash pulls us into a recessed doorway, pressing me against it, his big body blocking the street behind him.

He stares down at me, his brow furrowed the way brows are supposed to be when you're thinking, or feeling. Not that I have a problem with botox. I'm just upset. Tears are suddenly stinging my eyes and I sniffle blood. Fuck.

He whips off his shirt. The tattoos are all one image.

He holds the shirt to my nose, staunching the blood.

Between his pecs is a black rose; thorny vines twist away from it.

More blossoms bloom along their treacherous lengths.

The vines soften the farther they get from his heart, turning into the textured, abstract lines that I've seen before.

I follow one tentacle down to the line of his shorts. Fuucckk.

"Angela." Ash's voice pulls my eyes back to his face. I blink up at him. "You okay?" he asks. Big hands cup my face, that gentle touch he uses with me sometimes. The one that makes every inch of me ache for him to be rough.

"Yeah," I say.

"Do you think your nose is broken?"

I prod at it gently through his T-shirt. It hurts, but is not excruciating. "I don't think so."

His hands drop away and he leans back to look toward the main street. "I don't think anyone saw us, or at least they won't be able to recognize us. But we need to do something about the CCTV footage."

He pulls his phone out and swipes it open, pressing a name to make a call. I watch him, watch the vines ripple with each movement. They don't reach up his neck or down onto his wrists—so they are all hidden under professional clothing.

When the person on the other line picks up, Ash starts speaking in German—it's a guttural, hard language with a lot of action in the front of the mouth. I've never played a character with a German accent, but I auditioned for one years ago and spent hours practicing the r's, similar to French…

Memories flash of repeating "zis area is very close to my vork" in my car stuck in LA traffic, watching my mouth in the rearview mirror to make sure my corner action was small enough.

That Angela...Stacy…would kill to be where I am now. On a world tour for her critically acclaimed film with offers lined up. She never could have guessed the cost. But she would have been willing to pay just about anything.

I've spent so much time fighting this situation, resenting it. Feeling helpless. Maybe I need to recognize I'm getting what I want. And be willing to take it.