Page 1 of The Devoted Game

One

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Key West, Florida

Thursday, September 7, 11:35 a.m.

Waking up dead would have been preferable to waking up with this screaming throb inside his skull.

Ryan McBride cracked open his eyes and blinked to focus. Morning light barged into his bedroom through the slits in the blinds. “Damn.” He licked his lips and swallowed back the shitty taste in his mouth.

A few seconds passed before he dared to sit up, and still he regretted the move. He reached for his half-empty pack of Marlboros and parked a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, then lit it. Gratefully inhaling the noxious chemicals necessary for tolerating his continued existence, he stifled a coughing jag.

Die, you son of a bitch. Cigarettes were doing their part. The irony was that if he’d given one damn about living, he’d be dead by now.

He got up, waited for the room to stop spinning before taking a step. A muffled sigh drew his bleary gaze back to the bed. He scratched his bare chest. Who was the redhead tangled in his sheets? With effort he vaguely recalled picking her up at the club. Barbie or Becky. Something like that.

Maybe he’d think of her name later. Right now he had to take a major piss. He ambled into the bathroom wishing he hadn’t consumed enough alcohol to totally erase his memory, since he couldn’t recall bringing anyone home—not even himself. Just one of the many bad habits he’d acquired since moving to the Keys. A hazard of the job. Mingling, blending in. Then again, if he drank enough, he slept like the dead and didn’t have to worry about dreaming.

Even the thought of the dreams that haunted his sober nights made his gut clench. His hand shook as he took another drag from his cigarette. Blocking the nightmares required the drinking that resulted in mornings like this.

Considering his downward spiral during the three years since his career at the Bureau abruptly ended, he had decided that, in his case, FBI stood for Fucking Bad Idea. It was a shame it had taken him ten years of active duty to realize that sad fact. Just in time to be fired by the biggest prick carrying a badge.

There were some things a man just couldn’t get past.

Ryan McBride, this is your life.

What a monumental waste of air space.

More of that damned battering at his skull had him closing his eyes and trying hard to calm the assault between his temples.

Wait a minute.

He struggled to focus enough brainpower to isolate a source.

The pounding wasn’t in his head ... it was at his front door.

He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the toilet, then flushed it. Moving slowly to maintain his equilibrium, he followed the trail of abandoned clothing across the bedroom and along the length of the hall. He gave up on finding his boxers but managed to locate his jeans just in time for more of that confounded banging. Dragging them on, he stumbled toward the door, wrenched it open, and glared at the person waiting on the other side.

Female.

Her perfume’s subtle fragrance resuscitated his sluggish senses. The tailored navy suit, buttoned-to-the-throat white blouse, and rigid posture told him two things right off the bat: professional and uptight.

“Ryan McBride?”

She knew his name. That couldn’t be good.

He sagged against the doorjamb, exhausted from the effort of surviving a category 5 drunk, and measured his visitor with an assessing look. Dark-brown hair cinched in a French twist. Oh yeah, definitely uptight. Wide brown eyes lacking any sign of weariness or cynicism and devoid of the slightest hint of crow’s-feet. Young, mid-twenties maybe. Despite the inexperience her age gave away, her determined bearing told him she’d come prepared for battle. The idea stirred his curiosity even as he reminded himself that her appearance at his door had to mean trouble.

“Are you Ryan McBride?” she repeated firmly, drawing his full interest to her mouth.

Nice lips. Voluptuous, pillowy. Made him think of hot, raunchy sex.

“Depends on who’s asking.” He’d spent all that time checking her out, and she hadn’t once allowed her attention to stray from his eyes. Talk about discipline. Uptightanda control freak.

As if she’d read his mind, she squared her shoulders and drew in an impatient breath. The movement accentuated the slight bulge beneath her jacket he hadn’t noticed before. On the left of her torso just above her waist.

Well, well. The lady was a cop.