The Thing About Love

  John unlocked the door to their apartment and saw that all the lights were off. Assuming she’d gone to bed already, he left his suitcase and carry-on by the door and moved quietly as he set the cupcakes and flowers on the kitchen counter, followed by his Glock. He yanked off his tie and walked down the hallway, thinking he’d slip in bed next to her and surprise her. He pictured the two of them naked and tangled up together all night, his mind quickly going to some very dirty places since they hadn’t had sex in almost a month.

  He frowned as the reality of that hit him, and paused just before the bedroom doorway.

  A month? Had it really been that long since they’d slept together? He began mentally scrolling back in time, wondering if that could be right.

  That was when he heard Alicia moaning in the bedroom.

  He froze, recognizing that particular moan, the low, sensuous sounds she made during sex. And for a moment he thought, Maybe she’s just using her vibrator.

  But then a deeper, male voice joined in, adding his moan to the chorus.

  Fuck.

  Pushing past the sharp stab of hurt, John stepped into the bedroom doorway and folded his arms.

  There was Alicia, in their bed, naked in the moonlight and riding some guy who had his hands on her hips, guiding her.

  “Just like that, baby. I’m gonna come so hard in you,” the man groaned.

  “Yes, don’t stop on my account, baby,” John said dryly.

  Alicia shrieked in surprise and sprang off her lover. “John! Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

  Dick swinging, the guy scrambled to cover himself with the blanket. His expression was contrite. “John—oh shit.”

  No.

  John took a step into the room, his jaw tightening as he stared into the eyes of the man fucking his girlfriend in his bedroom. A man who’d always had a thing for long-legged brunettes like Alicia.

  A fact John knew well since, up until two seconds ago, he’d considered this man a friend.

  “Rob,” he said, on some level still unable to believe it, despite what he’d just seen with his own eyes. He and Rob had known each other for years, ever since they’d lived together their junior and senior years of college, with two other guys in an off-campus apartment they’d nicknamed the Pour House because of all the parties they’d thrown there. In fact, he and Rob had just hung out two weeks ago, grabbing drinks with their other buddies when John had breezed back into town for the weekend. Rob had asked how things were going between him and Alicia, and John had admitted that things were a little strained. He’d confided in the guy, never once suspecting there might be an ulterior motive behind the question, not having any clue that the friend he was talking to already knew damn well how things were between him and Alicia, because that friend was screwing her behind his back.

  “Get out,” he said to Rob.

  Alicia was crying, standing naked between him and Rob. “I’m so sorry.”

  John couldn’t even look at her.

  “We wanted to tell you,” Rob said. “But Lucas and Matt said it would be unfair to give you the news while you were in the middle of an undercover assignment. So we decided to wait until you were back.”

  John blinked, his head spinning with this newest information. Lucas and Matt were part of the same circle of friends as him and Rob. They knew that Rob and Alicia were sleeping together? And they’d never said anything to him?

  The hits just kept right on coming.

  “I said get out,” he growled.

  Rob stood there, still with that worthless look of contrition, then nodded. Silently, he grabbed his clothes off the floor, gave Alicia a quick glance, and then walked out of the bedroom.

  John stayed still, waiting until he heard the front door shut. When he turned around, he saw that Alicia had put on a navy T-shirt and her underwear. It was her favorite T-shirt to sleep in, one he’d seen her wear more times than he could count.

  Now all he could see was Rob pulling it off her as they fell into bed.

  “John, I am so, so, sorry. I never meant for this to happen.” She reached for him.

  He flinched. “Don’t.”

  She dropped her hand. He looked at her for a long moment, trying to get a grip on the rush of betrayal and disbelief he felt. “How long?”

  She brushed tears away from her eyes. “Two months. You and I had a fight, and I went out with Beth and Mia the next night. We ran into Rob at the bar and he and I started talking, first about you and me, and then, I don’t know . . . it just happened. It was supposed to be a onetime thing, but . . .” She trailed off.

  Well, he’d been right about one thing—things really hadn’t been the same between him and Alicia since that night.

  Not having anything else to say, he went into the closet to grab the go bag he always had packed for work. Between that, and the suitcase and carry-on he’d left by the front door, he’d have enough to get by for the next few days.

  “I’ll come by Monday morning for the rest of my stuff.” He headed out of the bedroom. “Make sure you’re not here.”

  “John, if you would just let me—”

  “I don’t want you here!” he shouted, whirling around in the doorway. “I can’t even look at—” He stopped, his throat tightening, then shook his head.

  A silence fell between them.

  “I’m sorry,” Alicia whispered.

  Right. He’d heard that part already.

  • • •

  On his way to a hotel, John decided to make a pit stop. He drove to his friend Wes’s place in Lakeview and left his car out front in a tow zone.

  Let someone try to give him a parking ticket today.

  He strode up the front steps of the two-flat building and knocked on Wes’s door, aware that midnight was late for an unannounced visit but not giving a shit about that right then.

  “Did you know?” he demanded, as soon as Wes opened his front door.

  Wearing jeans and no shirt as he stood in the doorway, Wes cocked his head. “Know what?”

  “That Alicia’s been sleeping with Rob for the last two months.”

  Wes’s eyes widened. “What? You’re kidding me.”

  “I already know that Matt and Lucas were in on it.” After dropping that bait, John studied the other man’s face and body language for any signs that he was hiding something. Granted, his FBI training hadn’t done him a lot of good in terms of detecting deceit as of late, but of all the guys he hung around with, he considered Wes to be his closest friend. And after everything that had happened tonight, he just . . . really needed to know if that was still the case.

  Wes held out his hands. “John, I swear. I had no clue.”

  After a long moment, John nodded. Then he exhaled and ran a hand over his jaw. “Right. Sorry.”

  Wes pushed open the door. “Come on in. Claire’s upstairs, but I’ll tell her—”

  John held up his hand. “No, it’s fine. I have to go anyway.”

  “John. Come on.”

  John managed a sheepish smile. “Tell Claire I’m sorry for all the drama tonight.” He turned and headed down the steps, ignoring Wes as he called his name, and got into his car. He stopped at a convenience store and bought a bottle of Four Roses bourbon, then checked into the Guesthouse, an extended-stay hotel on the city’s north side. The room had a full kitchen and a washer and dryer in the unit, which would tide him over until he found an apartment to rent.

  He dryly wondered what the etiquette was in situations like this, whether he was expected to continue paying half the rent on his and Alicia’s place until their lease expired in three months.

  Dear Abby: The other night I came home and found my girlfriend going for a moonlight ride on my friend’s dick . . .

  After unpacking the few things he had with him, he cracked open the bottle of bourbon. He took a seat out
on the balcony that overlooked the downtown skyline and poured himself the first of many shots he had planned for the night.

  He looked down at the glass and thought about how, just two hours ago, he’d been the jerk buying flowers and cupcakes for a woman who was, probably at that very moment, getting naked with her lover. His friend.

  “Bottoms up to that,” he muttered.

  He closed his eyes and tossed back the shot, welcoming the burn of the bourbon.

  • • •

  In the morning, he woke up to a wicked hangover and a dozen voice-mail messages on his phone. Several from Alicia and Rob, which he deleted instantly; two from Wes, checking up on him; and one each from Matt and Lucas, who apparently had been alerted that he was aware they knew about the situation and were trying to do some damage control.

  “Shep, we gotta talk. I was stuck in the middle between you and Rob—what was I supposed to do?” Matt said in his message.

  Here’s an idea, jackass: Maybe choose the side of the guy not fucking someone else’s girlfriend.

  “Shep, listen. I know what you must be thinking,” Lucas led in. “But I told Rob and Alicia that if they didn’t tell you everything as soon as your investigation was over, I would tell you myself. I mean, how was I supposed to know that you’d walk in on them? Man, that must’ve really sucked.”

  You don’t say, asshole. John hit delete again, leaving his phone on “do not disturb” when he headed for the shower.

  The hot water helped clear his head of the alcohol, but the bitter taste in his mouth lingered. Naturally, he kept thinking about walking in on Alicia and Rob. But there was something else that had kept him up all night, something that unsettled him as much as the shock of finding his girlfriend and friend in bed together.

  He’d never suspected a thing.

  He was an FBI agent. He specialized in undercover work. It was his job to notice things the average person overlooked, to be on the alert for suspicious behavior, to be especially aware when someone was hiding something. And yet somehow, despite all that, despite the twenty-one weeks of training he’d had at Quantico and the additional three weeks of training he’d undertaken to become a certified undercover agent—not to mention, over five years of on-the-job experience—four people, normal regular people, had managed to pull the wool over his eyes.

  He channeled his anger and frustration into a fifteen-mile run along the lake, then spent the rest of the day apartment hunting. On Monday morning he let himself into the apartment he shared—had shared—with Alicia and packed up his stuff. She’d left him a note in an envelope on the counter, which he ignored. He used the unopened envelope to write her a note saying that he and Wes would come by to move out his half of the furniture on Friday morning, while she was at work.

  His car loaded with boxes, he parked at the FBI building and nodded at the guards as he passed through the metal detectors. His squad, organized crime, was on the fifth floor, and as he made his way to his cubicle he was greeted by several of his squad mates, who congratulated him on the arrests in Detroit.

  “Heard you nabbed a state senator. You been moonlighting on the public corruption squad?” joked Ryan, one of his squad mates.

  “Figured they could use some help,” John shot back as he settled into his desk chair.

  For the rest of the day he caught up on work, being careful not to show any signs that anything was off around his co-workers. He might have been the jackass who’d unsuspectingly walked in on his girlfriend having sex with his friend, but he’d be damned if he’d let his fellow agents know that.

  He grabbed takeout on the way back to his hotel, cracked open a beer, and channel surfed while eating dinner on the couch. Not finding anything that caught his interest, he turned the television off.

  The hotel room fell silent.

  He felt . . . restless. Unsettled. That happened sometimes after an agent finished a long-term undercover assignment. It took a few days, or weeks even, before home seemed like home again.

  Just as he was eyeing the stack of unpacked boxes containing his things, his phone chimed with a new e-mail message. He checked and saw that it was from Sean Piser, the HRT recruiter who’d visited his Ranger battalion at Fort Benning six years ago. They’d stayed in touch, exchanging e-mails a couple times a year, and he knew that Piser had been keeping an eye on him ever since John had joined the FBI.

  Probably two eyes, knowing Piser.

  Selection starts in a week. Got an open spot with your name on it, Shepherd.

  Right . . . it was that time of year again. John had been so wrapped up with the Detroit undercover investigation, he’d forgotten all about it.

  Every year, the FBI held a two-week selection program at Quantico for any agents who wanted to try out for the Hostage Rescue Team. Normally, agents had to spend at least three years in the field as investigators before they qualified for HRT, but because John had been directly recruited from the Rangers per the Bureau’s Tactical Recruitment Program, he’d been eligible after only two years.

  And indeed, that had been his original plan—to get through his time in the field and then try out for HRT as soon as possible. With the tactical experience he’d acquired in the military, that career path practically had been expected of him. But once he’d started handling his own cases—and particularly once he’d begun doing undercover work—he’d found that he really enjoyed the investigative side of the job. So he’d held off on trying out for HRT, thinking it was something he would do the following year. Then one year stretched into two, and then his mom had gotten sick and he’d transferred back to Chicago. He’d met Alicia after that and things had gotten serious between them, and since being picked for HRT would’ve required him to relocate to the team’s headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, he’d waited some more.

  But now, his situation was different. After losing his girlfriend, his apartment, and three of his friends in the span of three days, he probably would never be less attached to Chicago than he was right then. Sure, he would miss his father and brother if he had to move to Virginia. But there was a reason Piser had recruited him and had continued pursuing him these past few years. And that reason was, simply, because he thought John was good enough for the team.

  Maybe it was time for him to finally prove Piser right about that.

  John spent the next two days weighing his decision. When he finally wrote back to Piser, saying he’d be there for tryouts, he felt good. Pumped.

  Life had thrown him a curveball this past week, no doubt.

  But now he was going to knock that son of a bitch out of the park.

  2

  three weeks later

  Special Agent Jessica Harlow waited as the security guard studied her FBI identification card, comparing her face to the photo.

  “Looks like a match to me,” the guard said, with a friendly grin. “Welcome to Chicago, Agent Harlow.”

  Returning the smile, Jessica tucked the billfold that held her ID into her briefcase. “Thank you.” She glanced at the ID clipped to the guard’s jacket and made a mental note of his name. Roger. “Where can I find the Special Agent in Charge’s office?”

  “Twelfth floor. End of the hallway.”

  After clearing the metal detectors and exiting the guardhouse, Jessica followed a wide curving sidewalk to the main entrance of the FBI’s Chicago headquarters, an impressive glass-and-steel building located two miles from downtown. Fenced off from the public, the three-building complex—the largest among all the agency’s field offices—was surrounded by green parkways and trees.

  She exhaled as she entered the building, feeling . . . not nervous, exactly. Chicago was home, after all, and after being in Los Angeles these past six years, it felt good to be back in this city. But professionally speaking, she was the new girl in town.

  In L.A., she’d considered many of her squad mates to be friends, and she’d h
ad good relationships with both her squad leader and the Special Agent in Charge. Here, however, her fellow agents and supervisors had no idea what to expect from her, nor she from them. In that sense, she was starting all over again.

  Kind of a theme for her this year.

  She made her way to the elevator bank, where two men were already waiting—agents, she guessed from their attire. The shorter man, African American and dressed in a well-tailored suit, gestured animatedly as he spoke.

  “All I said was, if we’d already registered for the slow-flow, medium-flow, and fast-flow nipples, did we really need the variable flow? Isn’t that just a combination of all the other nipples we’d already picked?”

  The taller man, Caucasian with dark hair and eyes, grinned. “How’d that question go over with Rae?”

  “Not well.”

  “Because you don’t ask questions at Babies‘R’Us,” the taller man said. “Take it from someone who knows. You push the cart, you lift the heavy things, and whenever she asks your opinion on something, just cock your head, take a moment, and then point to the yellow one.”

  Jessica fought back a smile as the elevator doors sprung open. Men.

  The taller man held the elevator door open for her. She nodded in thanks as she stepped inside.

  “First day?” the shorter man asked her.

  “It’s that obvious?” Jessica said good-naturedly, as she pressed the button for the twelfth floor.

  “I heard you talking with Roger as we walked in.” The shorter man held out his hand in introduction. “Sam Wilkins. And this is Jack Pallas. We’re both in Violent Crimes.”

  “Jessica Harlow. Public Corruption.”

  “That’s a good squad,” Jack said. “Lots of talented agents. Like . . . Seth Huxley, for instance.” He turned to his partner. “You know Huxley, don’t you, Sam?”

  “We’re acquainted.” Sam’s voice was a touch dry.

  “Sam and Huxley have a little rivalry going on,” Jack explained to Jessica. “I think they both wore the same thousand-dollar suit to work one day, and everything spiraled from there.”