The Thing About Love

  “Or maybe she likes your aura, too, but doesn’t want to admit it,” Nate said.

  “How long before we drop the aura thing?”

  “I’ve just never heard you talk about a woman that way,” Nate said.

  John took another sip of his beer, thinking it was best to let that one slide.

  After watching him a moment, Nate shrugged. “Well, it sounds like you dodged a bullet there.”

  Of course that was what his brother would say. “You know, not all men think being in a relationship is this thing to be avoided at all costs, like chlamydia or serving time in a third-world prison.”

  Nate gave him a pointed look. “What I meant is, if Jessica had been looking for something more serious, you would’ve had to leave for Quantico knowing that you might’ve actually had a chance with her.”

  The words fell between them as John went silent.

  Then he cocked his head, his demeanor as casual as ever. “You’re right. I guess I did dodge that bullet.” He pointed to his brother’s nearly empty beer. “Want another?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and walked to the refrigerator, ignoring the feel of his brother’s eyes on his back.

  • • •

  Hope you don’t get stuck with some lame-ass purple unitard and tights on the day they hand out uniforms—even a superhero can’t get laid wearing that.

  Those, of course, had been his brother’s parting words as they’d hugged good-bye. A comedian till the end, although John had caught the way Nate’s voice sounded thicker than usual.

  Now alone, he exhaled while standing with his hands on his hips in what would soon be his former living room/bedroom. Everything was packed and ready to go, save for the few things he would need to get him through Saturday morning. He planned to hit the road early, since the drive to Quantico would take him at least twelve hours. Nate had offered to come by the condo on Saturday afternoon, after John left, and let in a cleaning crew before returning the key to the company that had handled the rental.

  Really, at this point, there wasn’t much left for John to do.

  He checked his phone and saw that it was ten thirty P.M.—eleven thirty P.M. in Lexington, South Carolina. T-minus a half hour until Jessica placed a distraught call to 911 that would get the ball rolling.

  John thought about the good undercover story she would have after this—yet another for her already impressive collection. With that in mind, he grabbed a second beer from the fridge and settled onto the couch for a long night of channel surfing.

  Both the man and the agent in him knew there was no chance either of them was falling asleep until she texted to say she was all right.

  • • •

  “And then what happened?”

  Jessica raised a trembling hand to push a lock of hair out of her eyes, feigning a wince as her fingers brushed against her “bruised” cheekbone. “He, um, ran out when I called 911. Probably took the car and left.”

  The cop—Officer Luttrell—stood a few feet from her while jotting things down in a small notepad. “What’s the license plate of the vehicle?”

  Jessica frowned, slurring her words. “It’s SFK . . . 739, I think? Or maybe 793.”

  “Color, make, and model of the vehicle?”

  “Red Chevy. A Silverado.” Again, she slurred the s sound.

  The scene had been set, and so far, everything was going according to plan. Earlier today, Jessica had used the name “Becky Sauer” to check into the Comfort Suites in Lexington, a town in central South Carolina located twelve miles outside Columbia. So the story went, she and her boyfriend, Jonah Reed, had driven down from Greensboro, North Carolina, to attend a surprise thirtieth birthday party for one of Jonah’s former fraternity brothers. They’d had a few drinks—both at the hotel beforehand, and at the party—and had been having a good time, until Becky had gotten a text message from her ex-boyfriend, Ryder. It was just a meaningless thing—so her ex texted her sometimes, so what?—but Jonah, who’d always been possessive and particularly jealous of Ryder, had just lost it. They’d gotten into a big fight at the party, until Becky had stormed out and come back to the hotel.

  Which, apparently, had only made Jonah even angrier.

  Wearing a short dress that had one torn spaghetti strap, and with “bruises” on her cheek and arms, Jessica sat on the edge of the room’s king-size bed. On the dresser that doubled as a TV stand was a half-empty bottle of bourbon.

  Almost immediately after he’d walked into the hotel room, Office Luttrell—her target—had noticed the half-empty bottle of bourbon, as well as the hotel room telephone that lay smashed in pieces by the wall. What he had not noticed, nor would he ever, were the minuscule microphones and video cameras that had been hidden all over the room. Nor did he have any idea that in the next room, on the opposite side of an adjoining door that had been rigged to appear locked but was actually ready to open, was a six-man FBI SWAT team armed with Remington twelve-gauge shotguns and Glock 17 pistols. Jessica had two code phrases—one in case of an emergency, and the other that conveyed that she’d gotten everything she needed from the target. Either one would have the SWAT team bursting through the door in an instant, their movements quick and precise as they got Luttrell on the ground before he had the chance to even contemplate reaching for his gun.

  But first, Jessica had her job to do.

  Moving closer, Officer Luttrell picked up the overturned chair, setting it upright in front of the desk. “How many drinks did your boyfriend consume tonight?”

  Jessica teetered slightly on the bed. “I don’t know. A lot.”

  “And how much have you had to drink, ma’am?” Luttrell asked.

  She sat up straighter. “Just a few.” She peered at the cop, blinking as if she was trying to focus. “Maybe three . . . or four.”

  Luttrell considered this, then walked over to his partner, a younger police officer—around twenty-three or twenty-four years old—who stood by the door.

  In case the cops were watching as they began to talk between themselves, Jessica ran her hands through her hair, letting her eyes well up with tears once again. If Luttrell was going to take the bait, this was the part where he would come up with some excuse to get rid of his partner, who was obviously junior in seniority.

  “Why don’t you go talk to the people in the nearby rooms? See if anyone heard or saw anything,” Luttrell suggested to Junior Cop.

  Hearing that, Jessica felt a rush of adrenaline.

  Here we go.

  Luttrell lowered his voice as he continued. “Ten bucks says we’re gonna find this Reed guy in one of the bars on Main Street, with even more bruises than she has.” He spoke quieter still, so Jessica could only partially make out his next words, something about “out-of-towners,” “partying,” and “sober up.”

  “Should I call in the vehicle?” Junior Cop asked.

  “Check to see if it’s in the parking lot, but hold off on calling it in for now. I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby, after I finish up here.”

  Jessica glanced over as Junior Cop left the room. The door shut behind him with a firm click, leaving her and Officer Luttrell alone.

  “Sounds like your boyfriend isn’t in any condition to be driving,” Luttrell said, as he crossed the room. He grabbed the desk chair, turned it around, and sat facing Jessica, close enough that his knees brushed against hers.

  He looked at her for a moment, his gaze traveling from the neckline of her dress to her bare legs. “You shouldn’t let him treat you this way. A woman as pretty and nice as you can do a lot better.”

  Catching the predatory glint in his eyes, Jessica bent her head. “It only happens when he drinks,” she said quietly.

  Luttrell put a hand on her leg, just above her knee. “Talk to me, Becky. I’d like to help you, if I can.”

  Jessica watched as Luttrell
’s hand slid an inch higher up her leg. She took a deep breath, pretending to attempt to compose herself, but on the inside she felt as calm and steady as ever.

  She raised her tear-stained face to meet the cop’s gaze.

  Game on, asshole.

  28

  “Told ya we’d be in and out in less than two hours. I wish all my jobs were this easy.”

  Mike, the head mover, handed John his copy of the paperwork. The two of them stood next to the moving truck, which was parked on the street in front of John’s building. “So what’s in Virginia?”

  “New job,” John said.

  “Cool. Good luck with that.” He shook John’s hand and told him that his guys would be in touch on Tuesday to give him their approximate arrival time.

  Standing on the curb, John watched as the truck drove off with his things. When it turned at the end of the street and disappeared, he exhaled as the finality of the moment sank in.

  This was it.

  Obviously, he’d known that this day—his last in Chicago—was coming. He’d been preparing for it these last two weeks. And part of him couldn’t wait to be on the road tomorrow, driving to Virginia to get started with this next phase of his life.

  Another part of him, however—a part he’d been doing his best to ignore these past couple days—felt a little . . . unsettled. Particularly whenever he thought about the fact that this was the last night he would spend with Jessica.

  Stumbling into a casual, no-strings-attached arrangement with a smart, funny, beautiful woman who had no problem with the fact that he couldn’t offer her more was like striking gold for a single, thirty-something man in his position. He knew that. He was moving halfway across the country and was about to start a high-intensity job that would require all his time, energy, and commitment. It was hardly the time for him to be starting a new relationship. Especially a long-distance one.

  Still, it wasn’t like he enjoyed the thought of saying good-bye to Jessica. They’d gotten close in the five weeks since she’d started at the Chicago office, and as much as it killed him to admit it, even the saucy comments had grown on him. They worked great together, she challenged him, she made him laugh, and if he was being honest with himself, he would miss all that when he was gone.

  Very much, in fact.

  His loft now empty except for the suitcases and the few remaining boxes he would transport in his car, John locked up and headed to work. As he pulled into the parking lot of the FBI office, his cell phone buzzed with a new text message. He glanced down at the cupholder on the console, where he kept his phone, and could see that the message was from Jessica.

  They’d exchanged a few brief messages at two A.M., after she’d texted to let him know that she’d finished the undercover op in Lexington and that everything had gone fine. Given the nature of the assignment, both the man and agent in him wanted to know more specifically what “fine” entailed, but she hadn’t been able to talk at the time—she’d still been wrapping things up with the agents from the Columbia office. She’d promised, however, to text him in the morning with her flight information.

  After John parked his car, he picked up his phone and saw that her message was longer than he’d expected.

  The AUSA who will be handling the case wants to meet with the Columbia agents and me at 1:00. Told them I HAVE to be done by 2:30, to make the 4:17 flight. Lands at 5:29. I’m sorry I’m going to be late . . . I can tell my doorman to give you the key to my place, so you can let yourself in.

  Immediately after that, she’d sent a second message.

  But don’t peek at the gift bag on the kitchen counter.

  He felt a warm feeling spread across his chest. You bought something for me? He grinned at the thought of her shopping for him.

  Just a little going-away present.

  His smile faded. Right—a good-bye gift. He should’ve guessed that. Text me when you board, he typed back. I’ll probably just hang out at the office until you’re home. It was his last day in the Chicago field office, after all. His last few hours as a special agent.

  He might as well soak it in.

  Once he got into the office, his last day at work flew by. His squad leader took him out for a lunch/exit interview, he tackled the dreaded packing up of his desk, and at four P.M., his squad mates “surprised” him with a going-away party. Despite his no-party protests, they even pulled out a cake decorated with the HRT insignia: an eagle carrying a broken chain over the words Servare Vitas.

  Genuinely appreciative—and a little embarrassed by all the fuss—John said a few words to thank everyone. And as he looked around the room, at the faces of his squad mates, his squad leader, the agents on other squads that he’d worked with over the last few years, and even the SAC—who’d made a point of stopping by—he felt a sudden, strong mix of emotions.

  To cover, he ended his speech with a joke about how much time he had left before they assigned his cubicle to someone else.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Nick, the SAC, shot back with a grin.

  Everyone laughed, John included.

  Eyes on the prize, he reminded himself.

  The crowd was big enough that the party spilled out of the conference room, with people mingling around the cubicles and in front of the squad leader’s office. John made the rounds, wanting to talk to everyone, and didn’t have a chance to catch his breath until well after five o’clock. By that point, almost everyone had cleared out except for the agents on his squad, who’d long since turned the party into a roast, telling stories about his cases and getting in their last jokes and jabs.

  “Speaking of interesting cases, your white-collar partner-in-crime never showed up,” Ryan commented.

  “What’s her situation, anyway?” Jin asked.

  “What do you mean, her ‘situation’?” John asked.

  “Is she single?” Brandon asked bluntly.

  John half chuckled at that, buying himself a moment before answering, and saw that all five guys standing around him were waiting with bated breath.

  He threw a sideways glance at Ryan. “Don’t tell me you’re getting into this gossip now, too.”

  Ryan shrugged that off with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind knowing if she’s single. I only talked to her for a couple minutes the other day, but she made an impression.”

  An irrational wave of possessiveness swelled inside John.

  Actually, she is seeing someone. Me.

  Obviously, he couldn’t say that. First off, he and Jessica were keeping their personal affairs private. And second, after tomorrow that statement wouldn’t be true anymore. He would be in Virginia, and Jessica would be free to date anyone she wanted.

  He doubted she would get involved with another agent. She’d had a lot of concerns about dating a co-worker, and he would have liked to think that she’d broken her rules for him because the connection between them was unique. But his squad mates’ interest was a sharp reminder that other men were going to be pursuing Jessica—good guys, like Ryan, who could offer her a real relationship, not just a three-week fling.

  Guys she could fall in love with.

  John relaxed his hands, which he belatedly realized he’d clenched behind his back, and gave his squad mates a diplomatic answer. “She’s never mentioned a boyfriend to me.”

  After steering them onto another topic of conversation, he excused himself from the group. Looking for privacy, he headed to the hallway by the restroom and pulled out his cell phone. He’d turned the ringer off during his speech, and he saw that he’d missed one call from Jessica, and two text messages letting him know that her flight had been delayed.

  John dialed her number, wanting to get a full update.

  Perhaps it was the fact that it had finally hit him that he was leaving tomorrow. Or, possibly, he was still feeling unsettled after the conversation about Jessica with his squad mates.
>
  He just really wanted to know when he was going to see her.

  • • •

  Shortly after the flight attendant made her plea for everyone to stow their bags and take their seats as quickly as possible, Jessica’s cell phone rang.

  “Hey, you,” she said. She’d been trying to reach John for hours. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure how much time she had to talk, so she got the most important information out first. “So the bad news is, some storm front moved in that delayed my flight. The good news is, I’m finally on the plane and we’re pushing back any moment. They’re saying we’ll land in Chicago at six fifty-five.” She lowered her voice, even though she’d scored one of the single seats on the left side of the regional jet and doubted anyone could hear her over the hustle and bustle of all the boarding activity. “I missed your going-away party, John. I’m really sorry about that.”

  Having become something of an expert in disappointing people because of her job, she braced herself. And she deserved his frustration—this had been a big day for John, and she’d been a no-show.

  But instead he said, in a teasing voice, “It turned into a roast. I know you—if you’d been here, you would’ve been tempted to regale the crowd with tales of a certain fight between us at the Academy. And I’m not sure our relationship can withstand that story going public.”

  She laughed. God, I miss you.

  The words nearly flew out of her mouth before she caught herself.

  Wow. That was quite a heavy sentiment there. Those were the kind of words a woman said to someone she was really, truly dating. Not to a man who was leaving, for good, tomorrow.

  As she’d been doing all day, every time that thought set in, Jessica ignored the nagging feeling in her stomach and focused on the matter at hand. “Do you want to hang out at my place? I already called the doorman and told him to let you in if you come by.”

  “I’m good. I’ll grab a beer at my brother’s bar and hang out there until you land.” He shifted topics. “You haven’t told me yet how things went down last night. First and foremost: Are you okay?”