Page 4 of The Accidental (Redemption Inc.)

Two

Feb’s lips were right there for the taking. A little chapped, slightly parted, terribly tempting. But acting on that temptation would be wrong. Not while Feb was drunk and not while she had no idea who she was really kissing.

Not Dylan Jacks, the edgy yet welcoming bartender who made sure everyone’s glass at Under the Table was filled. That person was a very convincing character thanks to Helena Madigan’s closet and the tireless coaching of undercover professionals.

No, the person in front of Feb, the one acting under Dylan Jacks’s name and wearing Helena’s leather, was Jax Dillon, the hacker who’d left behind a promising career in cyber law enforcement so they could chase bounties and contract targets with their family.

More of the former these days, but still worlds away from Dylan Jacks.

Two very different people, both of whom wanted to kiss February Winters desperately.

Jax’s mouth was dry, their heart racing, their fingers itching to trail a path up Feb’s back and into the long brown waves that were falling out of her topknot.

This close, this tempted, they were struggling to hold on to their last thread of good intentions.

Until a familiar car horn blared, a life preserver tossed to a drowning person. Thank fuck.

Feb blew a raspberry as if the driver of the car could hear her.

All it served to do was tickle Jax’s neck and make them want to pull Feb closer, to feel her lips pressed firmly against their skin, to drown in the heat of her long, lean body, all her gangly, inked limbs atypically loose tonight.

What would February Winters—unleashed of the tension and worry she usually carried—moan like, writhe like, taste like?

Fuck if they were in a place to find out right now.

With a frustrated groan, Jax gently righted Feb, creating some much-needed space between them. “When you’re not drunk, we’ll talk about a better solution than your vibrator.”

Feb’s lopsided grin was both ridiculous and sexy. “I can talk now,” she slurred.

“Yeah, no, chef. ’Fraid not.” The car horn blared again.

“And someone doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

” Feb blew another raspberry but didn’t resist as Jax coaxed her into her jacket, looped her crossbody bag over her shoulder, and snaked an arm around her waist. “Let’s go,” they said, starting them for the door.

Outside, a chilly-for-San-Francisco wind whipped around them, causing Feb to shiver and lean closer, nuzzling her face into the crook of Jax’s neck.

The five steps to the curb where Helena’s black SUV was idling were absolute torture.

Helena’s knowing grin from behind the wheel didn’t make it any better. “Your place or hers?”

“Hers.” Jax rattled off the address as they settled Feb into the back seat. She was asleep, snoring softly, by the time Jax clicked the seat belt into place. They backed out, gently closed the door, then leaned through the open passenger window. “She may need some help getting in.”

As if on cue, a honking snore carried from the back seat. “No shit,” Helena said, eyes rolling, though the smile in her voice belied her amusement. “How that noise can come out of someone that pretty...” She shook her head, and Jax chuckled.

“I won’t tell your wife you said that.”

“Oh, Celia would agree.” Helena winked, and Jax shook their head.

Helena rarely minced words; she didn’t have time as an attorney and as the head of the assassin side of the family.

She was also an unrepentant flirt and one hundred percent devoted to her wife and family.

“Special delivery for you. In the trunk.”

“Mel confirmed?”

Helena nodded, and Jax bit back a wince. Jacob Pappas was indeed an alias—and a bigger problem than Feb realized. A Render review was the least of her worries.

“You need any help wiring?” Helena asked.

“Nope, I got it.” They tapped the window ledge, then circled behind the car and retrieved the hard case from the trunk. Shutting the hatch, they waved at Helena in the rearview mirror. “Thank you.”

“Owe me,” Helena called back. She gunned the engine, and the Benz sped off, tires screeching.

Jax smiled wider. Helena’s vehicle of choice was a Ducati, but mom and auntie duties required something more practical.

For the concession, Celia, one of the best mechanics in the city, had seriously jacked the already jacked AMG engine in the SUV.

Jax wondered sometimes if Helena was having more fun in the Benz than on her bike these days.

Back inside, Jax checked their tablet and read the encrypted text from their boss. Confirmed, wire it.

On it , they texted Mel back.

HQ, 0200.

Jax glanced at the time: 1230. Ninety minutes. Tight, but doable.

Barely, it turned out.

It was exactly 0200 when Jax punched in their code to open the door to the South Beach condo that was home to Redemption Inc.

, the “consulting company” Jax had officially joined last year.

The flickering light of the TV and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee lured them down the long entry hall to the main office area that had once been an open floor plan living space.

Papers and caramel candy wrappers littered the conference table where a dining table used to be, the two workstations near the seismic struts and wall of balcony windows were empty, and stretched out on the leather couch in front of the TV was a long-limbed Daniel Talley, asleep in a wrinkled suit.

Behind him, his wife and Jax’s boss, Melissa Cruz, similarly dressed like she’d come from a night out, sat in Jax’s usual spot in front of the wall of computers, nursing a cup of coffee and flipping through surveillance footage of UTT.

“All good?” Jax asked as they skirted behind Mel, on their way to the pantry that had been converted into a walk-in weapons and equipment safe.

“Reading well,” Mel replied.

They spun the combo lock on the safe while warring voices squared off in their head.

The guilty-sounding one cautioned that they were violating Feb’s trust, from putting up cameras and mics to pretending to be someone they weren’t.

The other one argued they were protecting Feb; they were doing their job.

They were neutralizing a threat before real injury came to Feb, UTT, and the staff Jax had come to consider friends.

Jax needed to listen to the second voice.

Didn’t make their insides feel any less twisted up over the first.

“Everything okay?” Mel asked.

“Yeah, just need caffeine,” Jax covered as they finished putting away the leftover surveillance equipment.

They closed and secured the safe behind them, swung through the kitchen for a cup of joe, then claimed the desk chair next to Mel.

“He’s the bounty, right?” They jutted their chin at the photo of Jacob Pappas onscreen. “Trent Mendes. Former CIA.”

Mendes had been tossed out of the agency and charged with mishandling classified information.

As his trial neared and rumors swirled that he’d sold said information to third parties, he’d pulled a Casper and disappeared.

Mostly. Redemption had tracked him to California, then, using credit card history from before he’d disappeared, they’d determined Mendes was a foodie who couldn’t resist the hottest spots.

Accordingly, they’d placed operatives in restaurants up and down the state.

Now, they had a good lead on which one he’d be dining at next—Under the Table.

“Once I had a name to go on,” Jax said, “I was able to pull more footage.”

“It’s him.” With a few clicks of the mouse, Mel opened Mendes’s CIA headshot next to the photo still Jax had nabbed off a traffic cam at the intersection outside Diamond.

His hair was darker now, his eye color altered, and his nose sported a new bump, but Jacob Pappas was Trent Mendes according to the facial recognition software.

According to Jax’s eyes too; seeing them side by side, they could spot the resemblance.

“I’ve got the rest of the team pulling his Render reviews,” Mel said.

“We’ll piece together more of the timeline.

Where he’s been, his connections, where he might be hiding out. It was a clever cover.”

“What do you need me to do?” Jax asked. “Should I retire Dylan?”

“Why would you do that?” Mel minimized the windows onscreen and, coffee in hand, rotated her chair and assessing brown gaze in Jax’s direction. “You’re on the scene, and I got the impression you liked bartending.”

“I do. Paid part of my way through college.” The Madigans—their chosen family—had paid the rest. “It’s good being back behind the bar.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

They could continue weaving and dodging, but that would be futile.

Mel was a former FBI Special Agent in Charge and the best interrogator Jax knew.

Yes, Jax had picked up more than just ace hacker skills from their family, including the basics of detective and undercover work, but even their best ruse wouldn’t stand the test of Mel’s skills.

And if—once—Mel saw Jax and Feb on the surveillance feed together, there’d be no denying the truth, assuming Helena didn’t tattle on her first. “I like her,” Jax admitted.

Mel cocked a perfectly plucked brow. “Which her? You gotta be a bit more specific.”

Jax laughed and relaxed back in their chair.

“February, the head chef. She’s talented, she’s tough but civil in the kitchen, and she’s one of us.

She’s queer.” The Madigans and their associates, Mel included, were active in the LGBTQIA+ community and had built their own queer found family over the years.

Hell, found family was what held Redemption Inc.

together. Feb had built a similar family at UTT and with other queer chefs in the city, like Amanda and Justin.

Jax admired her for the community she’d fostered and for her voice as a chef, for the concept—a second one—she’d formulated and run with.

She deserved recognition for all she’d done, and that recognition would go further than UTT’s walls.

“A Render review, even if the dude is a wanted traitor, would cement Feb and Under the Table on all the best of lists and lift others too.”

“She’s not already on those lists? A simple internet search returns dozens of articles, all of them saying she’ll get her stars and a Beard soon.”

“She is and she will...” The minute the open-ended sentence was out, Jax face-palmed. The unintentional ellipses were the kind of open door Mel would walk right through.

And she did, a grin tickling one corner of her mouth. “You like her more than just professionally.” Not a question, an observation that was one hundred percent accurate.

Jax averted their gaze and sipped their coffee. The longer this conversation went on, the more they swung toward staying undercover at UTT. But the longer it went on, the more ammunition they gave Mel to take them off the op.

Mel tapped a toe against their shin and waited for their attention.

“This life, Jax, what we do, what our families do, on both sides of the law, is not easy for civilians to understand.” Her smirk softened into a gentler smile, one tempered by experience and caution.

It came through in her voice too. “Truth, it’s downright hard to survive sometimes. ”

Jax hung their head. “Ugh, Mel, not helping.”

Chuckling, she gave their shin another couple of taps, this time in commiseration. “Helena makes it work. I make it work, and my husband is the definition of civilian who steps into shit.”

“I heard that, chica,” Danny rumbled from the other side of the couch.

They both laughed, which warmed Jax’s insides better than any coffee. Mel’s hand on their knee, squeezing gently, was another shot of friendly, encouraging warmth. “It’s not easy,” she said. “But it’s not impossible.”