Page 4

A s we turn the corner and The Four appears, my body acts as if I’ve injected Lexapro straight into my bloodstream. My muscles and mind relax, morphing into mush.

Well, maybe not mush, because that sounds as though I’ve been in some horrific accident—so more like floating on a cloud. A really heavy cloud filled with decent liquor and teeming with music that makes me want to shake my ass for a good hour.

Yeah, that sounds much better.

Letting out a long breath, I ogle the bar sitting pretty on the corner of the strip. Vintage-style posters plastered against the windows cover most of what’s inside, while a singular sign rests at the top of the double doors, its illumination dim, as if the bulb is seconds away from flickering out. When we reach the doors, Jenna grips one of the long-rusted iron handles and jerks the door open.

Inside, we’re met with a familiar, earthy scent, stained with tequila and hearty laughter. An invisible welcoming arm wraps around me, pulling me forward into a place that can only be described as a second home. Weird, I know, considering this bar literally resembles a speakeasy from the Prohibition era—which is ironic, since it’s almost exclusively visited by cops—but there’s no other way to describe it. Not with all its history, at least.

Low lighting from the overhead hanging beams casts long shadows over the dozen tables scattered about. A group of familiar faces stand around the pool table—some watching the TV mounted nearby, others focused on the balls as if playing a high-stakes game of chess—while a small dance floor sits vacant. Its only company is the small flickers of light, gifted by the miniature disco ball dangling above.

There’s nothing amiss, nothing out of place or unusual, but there is something different in the space. Something that doesn’t belong. The fine hairs at the nape of my neck rise, but instead of unease or discomfort, it’s from excitement. Thrill.

How odd.

Little Tim, the bartender who’s served here longer than I’ve walked this earth, stands behind the long bar. He’s mopping up a spot on the dark wood counter, chatting away with a local badge, a serious expression tightening his features. But then his eyes lift to me and his iconic toothy smile makes an appearance.

I nearly skip to him, plopping down on the worn stool with less grace than a federal agent should. I wave to the cop as they nod in greeting before drifting away.

“Hey, Little T. How’s it hanging tonight?”

“Jess the Mess. I missed you yesterday.” He flings the towel over his shoulder, placing both hands on the counter. “What on God’s green earth was more important than your nightly shot of gin?”

Little Tim, contrary to his nickname, is six-five, close to three hundred pounds, and has mounds of muscles under his layers of softness. He’s also my dad’s childhood friend, having been around for every event, both big and small, including my parents’ wedding, my birth, and he was the host of a food train for my family after my mom died. A time when we couldn’t be bothered with thinking, let alone cooking.

It’s because of our long history and his many years running a bar where he’s heard every story, tall tale, and whisper in between, that the man can sniff out a lie faster than I can smell freshly baked cookies coming out of the oven. Which says a lot.

So instead of that lie, I tell him the truth. Yanking my hair from the annoyingly tight ponytail, I push out a weighted sigh. “I might have… borrowed some evidence on the case I’ve been working for a while.”

A while.

I laugh at myself. Two years is way longer than a while . Hell, it’s more like an eternity.

“Borrowed?” Tim lifts a bushy, salt-and-pepper brow. “Or stole?”

My head rolls back with a groan. “I just needed a quick swab. It’s not like I took the vial and didn’t return it or?—”

He raises his hands in mock surrender to stop me. “I’m not judging you, Jess. I’m only trying to get the correct information.”

A smirk steals my lips. “Took with preemptive permission.”

He shakes his head with a small smile as he makes quick work of pouring me a double shot. When he glides it across, I greedily grab it, swallowing the whole thing in a single gulp. The liquid immediately sears down my throat, spreading warmth through my veins.

I do that little sour-face, whole-body jiggle, before slapping it back down on the bar. “I just don’t get it. This guy should be so fucking easy to catch, Tim.”

“Who are we talking about?” Jenna drops onto the stool next to me, back from the restroom—or was she saying hi to some friends? I don’t even remember her wandering off.

Clearing my throat, I gesture for Little Tim to pour me another. “Who else?”

Jenna rolls her eyes. “Honestly, it could just be time we let that go. I mean, if the big guys aren’t worried about it, perhaps it’s time to focus on the other— smaller —criminals. Or hey, I don’t know, the ones that are here in Georgia.”

“Cops can take care of those guys. I want him .”

As much as I want the man under the damn jail, I have to give credit where it’s due. Alexi is smart, cunning, and clearly impervious to the law. At least, he has been thus far.

Not for much longer, though. I’m close. Closer than I’ve ever been, thanks to that vial. Thanks to Julio.

A small, deeply embedded needle twists somewhere behind my ribcage. Julio was a mayor here in Georgia who was as corrupt as they come. Because I hadn't necessarily been very quiet about my vendetta against the Babins, he sought me out—albeit at the time I didn’t know—and, against my uncle’s advice, we worked together to try to bring Alexi down. As our working relationship unfolded, though, the mask of who Julio truly was slipped, but I overlooked the shitty person he was in an attempt to get what I wanted. Not my proudest moment, and definitely one I fully regret, because I got nothing out of it in the end.

Just a few months later, Julio was found dead—cause of death: cardiac arrest. He was a tad too young to succumb to a heart attack, but because of his less-than-stellar image, no one would’ve been the wiser if it weren’t for a vial found in his office. The killer was sloppy, in a rush, nervous, or perhaps so angry that they accidentally dropped it.

At least, I’m hoping it was left by the murderer and not some drugs Julio was doing. I still don’t have the report back to be one hundred percent sure, but my gut says I’m finally going to have him by the balls. Which reminds me—I need to get a manicure soon before I crush his sack in my fist.

“That man should not be your priority anymore, Jay. It’s time to move on.” Jenna’s voice borders on whining, and I can feel the warmth of the liquor beginning to fizzle.

No. I’m not about to ruin my night arguing logistics and my non-obsessed-obsession with the Babin Family. Babin. God, I even hate his last name. It sounds so meek, so… unthreatening .

As if Tim can read my mind, he slides two more shots across the bar. “Alright, no more work talk. Drink these and then go beat Berks at pool. He’s taking bets tonight.”

My lips curve in a small, grateful smile before I accept the glasses and swallow each one down in a single breath. The taste isn’t as bad this time.

“Oh, well, it’d be my pleasure to rid him of his whole wallet.” I shoot Little Tim a wink before spinning on my stool. Only instead of it rotating all the way around to face the pool table in one fluid motion, it stops short.

That’s when I see it.

The cause of the thrill I felt when I walked in.

All the way at the back of the bar, sitting completely alone, is a woman. Her head is turned, only giving me her profile, but that’s all I need to see she’s absolutely stunning.

Tan skin, long red curls that cascade over her shoulders and down her back, luscious lips and a dark fan of lashes. She’s focused on something outside the window, but as though she can feel the burn of my stare, her eyes flit to mine.

My breath catches in my throat, her gaze completely disarming me with its ferocity. She’s a little too far away to make out the color of her irises, but that doesn’t stop the shiver that rakes down my spine. The tingles.

I want to get closer to her. No. I need to.

Swinging back around, I order another drink and a croissant—fresh ones Tim only stocks for me because he willingly supports my gluten addiction.

“Here’s your drink, and what she’s drinking.” Tim shoots me a sly smile before sliding two glasses across the bar, his eyes flashing over my shoulder to where the woman is. “I’ll throw your bread in the toaster oven.”

“Croissant,” I correct, before thanking him, snagging the two drinks, and hopping down from the stool.

The mysterious woman’s gaze is still on me, her brows slanted inward ever so slightly. I can tell she’s curious as to who I am, yet cautious as to why I’m approaching her. At least, that’s what the first glance says.

On second, her posture gives her away.

Relaxed shoulders, tilted head, legs crossed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s anticipating me. Or perhaps someone as gorgeous as her is simply used to people approaching her.

As I near, my eyes do a quick sweep of her outfit—smooth black jeans, cream blouse, ankle boots—before I decide she isn’t a cop. At least, not one on duty. Still, I opt to have her disclose that.

“Rough shift?”

Her eyes flash for a second, and now that I’m close enough, I can finally appreciate the color. Green. Bright green. At least three different shades mixed into one, like a watercolor painting of a mossy forest receiving the first bit of sun in the morning. I could get lost in them and not give an entire fuck if I’m never found.

“I’m sorry?” Her voice is low, a tad raspy. It glides over my skin like the fancy satin sheets I’ve been eyeing at Macy’s.

“At work.” I gesture behind me to the sea of badges. “Are you in law enforcement?”

The mysterious woman’s gaze flickers behind me and it’s in that brief second when her eyes aren’t on me, I find myself disgruntled. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

My brow furrows. “So you’re not a cop?”

Her head shakes with just the slightest movement. “No. But in retrospect, the man who asked me to meet him here likely was.”

“And he asked you to meet him here ?”

She nods once, the corner of her lips twitching in the smallest hint of a smirk. “Is there something wrong with this place?”

“No,” I rush out, and with somewhat more grace than I did at the bar, I slide into the empty seat across from her, and set our drinks down. “But it damn sure isn’t where I’d bring someone on a date. Especially not someone like you.”

Her head inclines a fraction. “Someone like me?”

“A drop-dead stunning vixen. I mean, there’s more competitive testosterone here than in the entire state of Georgia.”

“Ah. So you don’t enjoy challenges.” Her voice borders playful but her expression remains impassive. I’m not sure why I like that so much, but I do.

Enticed, I lean forward, a palm flattening on the table. “That’s actually my favorite pastime. I’m just saying, there are much more appropriate places to take a gal.”

“A gal,” she repeats, her blinks becoming slow. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or entertained and the thought makes my skin itch. “Please tell me, officer…”

“Agent Frances,” I say out of habit, but quickly shake my head. “.”

“Agent Frances.” I watch her tongue flick as she tests out my name, and I quickly realize I’d like to hear her say it again. “And where is it you would take a gal like me ?”

I’m hot. It’s hot in this place. Am I sweating?

Adjusting in my seat, I smile brightly, not missing the way her eyes briefly flicker to my mouth. “It all depends.”

“On what?”

I clear my throat. One thing I’ve always excelled at in life is flirting. Coming on to people. Making my intentions clear and pretty straightforward, especially considering I’m the fall-hard-and-fast type. But something about this woman has me choking on my own damn spit. I’m definitely not getting completely straight vibes—though that’s seldom stopped me before—but I can’t seem to get my words out right. Is this what being nervous feels like?

“I would say…” I make one more fleeting scan of her and read her much like I would a profile that’s rolled across my desk.

Perfect nude nail polish, but there’s something dingy at the edge of a few of her cuticles. Could be from a garden. Or maybe a houseplant.

Beautifully styled hair, but a small dent across a few missed curly coils. She likely wore her hair in a ponytail, which could indicate work in that garden or evidence of a recent workout.

Small, designer crossbody purse. Could be a gift, or show off her taste while the size implies she only likes taking the essentials with her.

And finally, thick boots with dirt flakes on the bottom edge. Meaning she’s definitely worn them outside.

“Hiking at sunset,” I say decisively, grabbing my drink and taking a tentative sip.

The woman’s head tips back, something close to amusement passing over those gorgeous eyes. “Interesting. Well, I guess I can only hope the next person who asks me on a date is as…intuitive.”

“Why not the cop?”

She lifts a shoulder idly. “Seeing as I’ve been here for well over an hour, I don’t think he’s coming.”

A strange type of anger and elation swirls through me. The thought that someone would get a yes from this woman and then have the fucking audacity to stand her up is both comical and appalling.

“What a dick.” I push the drink Little Tim made toward her. “Allow me to make up for some of that lost time.”

She cocks her head, and after a moment that stretches on a second too long and has butterflies taking flight, she nods. “Why not?”