Page 5

CHAPTER 5

Bretton

I stand under the hot shower, letting the water pound against my skin until I'm sure Max has left the locker room. How embarrassing was that? Definitely not how I expected to meet someone for the first time. If it weren't for the flat tire on the freeway this morning, I wouldn't have been covered in road grime and needed a shower in the first place. I sigh, stifling a laugh. Balls up, flat on my back, in a public space—definitely not something I’ve experienced before, and definitely not something I’d like to repeat anytime soon.

It’s not like I haven’t played football in high school and college; hundreds of other men have seen me naked, but this feels different. There's no sense in dwelling on it, though, or it'll just be awkward the next time I see him.

The glow coming through the frosted glass into the shower goes dark. Max must have left the locker room long enough ago that the automatic lights turned off. Thank God, I'm definitely alone.

Finally. Time to get back to what needs to be done. I turn off the water and towel-dry before leaving the shower. As I step into the room, the automatic lights flicker back on. I make a quick search to ensure I’m indeed alone before getting back to business. Approaching the large, well-lit mirror, I glance at my back, noticing a large red area darkening smack dab between my shoulder blades. That fall is definitely leaving a mark. “Speaking of marks,” I mutter as I look at my face in the mirror. I reach up and touch the small lines around my eyes that seem to have appeared out of nowhere this past year. Grief has a way of doing that to a person. I shake my head. Not now, man.

The sick feeling in my stomach deepens as the lump in my throat tightens against rising emotions. Maybe my therapist was right. Maybe I did return to work too early.

I let my arms hang at my sides and shake out the tension. After a few deep breaths, I manage to pull myself together. I turn to walk away from the mirror but pause to flex my biceps for a second. My abs, chest, and arms have really benefited from the aggressive workouts I’ve used to fill the hole in my heart. I smile. “Looking good,” I say, smirking at my reflection. “God, I’m such a douche.”

I open my locker, pull out my bag, and dig around in the front pocket for my phone. My finger hovers over the send button before I place the call I never enjoy making.

“What do you have for me, Wolf?” my real boss answers without a hello. “Time is of the essence.”

“I know, sir.”

“Well?” he asks. I imagine him sitting behind a desk, antacids spread across paperwork that should have been filed days or weeks ago. A vape pen clutched in his palm since cigarettes are no longer allowed indoors.

One thing’s for certain, the large throbbing vein in the middle of his forehead would be engorged and ready to burst. “We met briefly, but I don’t have anything to report at the moment… I wasn’t in a position to start digging into the guy’s past. It’s going to take some time. ”

“There’s a lot riding on this, and I don’t think I have to explain that to you… do I?”

My shoulders sag. “No, sir.” My face flushes hot. I hate being talked to like a child, but I’ll have to bite my tongue, do as I’m told, and not make waves if I’m ever going to be trusted again.

“What is your next move?”

“I’ll reach back out once I have something to report. Until then, I’ll start sniffing around, but softly so as not to rouse suspicion.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” my boss says before disconnecting the call.

I look at the phone for a second. Sure enough, he’s hung up on me. No matter. I need to focus on the job at hand. I unzip the large compartment of my backpack and pull out clean clothes. After getting dressed, I close my locker and sit for a few minutes on the bench. First things first. I’ll find the lead curator, get the lay of the museum, and then get better acquainted with Dr. Paul Austin. The brief interaction I had with him this morning was less than ideal when he saw the state of my clothes upon arrival at the museum.

I stand and start toward the door when something to my right catches my eye. I stop and look up at the top of the bay of lockers next to the one I was assigned. “What is that?” I step closer, stand on my toes, and peer up as far as I can.

Hmm. I step up onto the bench that runs down the center of the aisle, turn, and get a better view. A small, black box of some kind is secured with clear tape to the top of the locker. What the hell is that? I let my body fall forward, catching myself with one hand while I use the other to snatch up the box. The tape tears away easily under my weight and momentum. I jump down and turn the object over and over in my hand until I figure out what it is—a spy cam.

Shit. There are no wires, which means it’s being viewed remotely. I open my locker and shove the camera into my bag. There isn’t time to fiddle with it now, but I have some techy friends who might be able to determine who planted it there or where it’s sending the video feed. Things are going from bad to worse. Who knew I was going to be here and assigned to that locker? Was the camera placement a coincidence? Not likely. This little discovery ramps up the urgency I feel to find the guy I’ve been sent here to stop.