I reached for my phone, pulling up Todd's contact information before I could talk myself out of it. My thumb hovered over the delete button.
Baby steps.
I archived the contact instead. Progress, not perfection.
As I packed up for the day, I couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened. My life had somehow tilted on its axis in ways I couldn't yet comprehend. That warning buzz at the base of my skull hadn't subsided. If anything, it had intensified.
Julian Keller was trouble. My professional instincts screamed it. But something else, something deeper and far less rational, whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was exactly the kind of trouble I needed.
I glanced at my reflection in the window. The man staring back wasn't the cautious, professional therapist my colleagues knew. My pupils were dilated, cheeks flushed. I looked hungry. I looked like the man who had fantasized about bruises that Todd would never give me, the man who'd hidden his darkest desires behind relationships with nice, safe men who'd never understand what I truly craved.
God help me, I was already looking forward to next week. And not just for therapeutic reasons.
I practically floated backto Olympus after my therapy session with Vincent. Late afternoon sunlight gilded everything in honey gold. The air tasted sweeter, and I may or may not have finger-gunned at a street performer. My steps bounced against the pavement. Actually bounced. I disgusted myself.
"He psychoanalyzed my dick," I announced to no one on the street, grinning like a psychopath. "And I fucking loved it."
Three businessmen crossing the street gave me a wide berth. That's right, fuckers. Make way for a man who just spent an hour being expertly dissected by the most perceptive therapist in the city.
Wait. Was this attraction? Desire? Something deeper? My brain short-circuited at the last thought. A dull ache spread behind my eyes. No. Vincent Matthews was a target, nothing more. A fascinating, gorgeous target who'd seen through my bullshit in less than an hour, but still a target.
Olympus Hostel loomed ahead, its neon "NO VACANCY" sign flickering despite half the rooms being empty. The fadedthree-story building looked exactly like what it pretended to be: budget accommodation for travelers who couldn't afford better. The peeling blue paint and outdated architecture made it invisible among the city's more flashy establishments. Perfect camouflage for what operated beneath it.
As I approached, I scanned the surrounding buildings, mapping potential sniper positions. The rooftop of the apartment building across the street was at a poor angle. Too many obstructions. The office complex to the west had better visibility, but the glare from its reflective windows would make sustained surveillance difficult. The water tower three blocks north was prime real estate. Clear view, minimal civilian traffic, multiple escape routes. I'd have picked that spot if I were hunting someone at Olympus.
Only those in the know would recognize the small copper penny embedded in the cornerstone of the building, a subtle marker for those who belonged. The Pantheon specialized in hiding in plain sight.
I nodded to Marta at the reception desk, a sixty-something Romanian woman who manned the legitimate front business. She barely glanced up from her dog-eared romance novel, one hand absently stroking the Glock hidden beneath the counter.
"Package arrived for you," she grunted, sliding a manila envelope across the scratched wooden surface. "Smells expensive."
I pocketed it without looking. "Thanks. Any other guests check in?"
"Two business types from Toronto. Fifth floor." Code for Pantheon operatives from the Canadian branch. "And your friend with the scar called. Said dinner plans moved up." Translation: Frankie wanted to see me immediately.
I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner hidden in the decorative molding behind the elevator call button. The old-fashionedneedle indicator above the elevator showed it moving between floors, but I knew better. Instead of ascending, the elevator descended into the underground facility that served as a safe house for agents operating in the region.
The doors opened on the communal space of our unit, one of several underground hubs where agents could lie low between jobs, get supplies, or wait for extraction if things went south. The shiny modern interior contrasted sharply with the decaying hostel facade above.
"Honey, I'm hoooome!" I bellowed, arms spread wide as I stepped into the sleek lounge area. Several heads turned, most rolling their eyes before returning to their activities.
Three agents I barely recognized sprawled on leather couches, cleaning weapons while some reality cooking show played on the massive screen. A woman I'd seen once in Bangkok sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening what looked like a ceremonial dagger. Near the kitchen, a newer agent with a severe undercut brewed coffee while discussing what sounded like bomb detonators with a guy whose entire right arm was prosthetic. Just another Wednesday at the safe house.
"Someone's in a good mood," drawled a familiar voice. "Did you finally pop your therapist cherry, or are you still in the 'watching him sleep through my scope' phase?"
I turned to find Lo perched on a high stool at the bar counter, wearing ridiculously tiny shorts and a crop top that read "STAB FIRST, ASK QUESTIONS NEVER" in glittery letters. His blond hair swept dramatically to one side, and he was painting his nails a color that could only be described as "arterial spray red."
Lorenzo Vasquez, Lo to his friends, "that psychotic little twink" to everyone else, was my temporary roommate and the most terrifying close-quarters specialist I'd ever met. He was five-foot-seven of purehomicidal energy strutting in designer clothes and radiating a fuck-off attitude that clung to him like expensive cologne. He’d styled his bleached blond hair into artful chaos. Vibrant coral snakes and tropical flower tattoos curled down his arms in electric blues and hot pinks. He moved like a dancer, graceful but deadly. The guy could slit your throat with a credit card while discussing RuPaul's Drag Race without missing a beat.
"For your information," I said, dropping onto the stool beside him, "I made actual, physical, in-person contact today. As in conversation. In his office. With words coming out of our mouths."
Lo's perfectly shaped eyebrow arched dangerously high. "Did you kill him? Please tell me you didn't kill him yet. I have five pennies riding on you fucking him before you murder him."
I clutched my chest in mock offense. "First of all, I'm hurt you're betting on my love life—"
"Death life," he corrected.
"—and second, no, I didn't kill him. I had therapy. Like, actual therapy." I couldn't stop grinning. "He thinks I have attachment issues."
