My eyes nearly popped out of my head. Having not bought my Triumph, I had conveniently forgotten just how much a good bike costs. He knew damn well I didn’t have twenty grand to my name. I could sell my FBI-paid-for apartment and everything in it, and it wouldn’t come close.
“That’s what I thought.”
I glanced again at Dalton, who seemed to be watching the whole exchange like it was a soap opera. I thought back to our earlier conversation, and tilted my head at him.
“You already said you weren’t calling the cops. What happens now?” I was genuinely curious, while trying desperately to ignore my pounding heart. It would help to know if this was going to make or break the op. And my neck.
Mac and Dalton looked at each other. Coming to some sort of silent agreement, Dalton marched over to me and reached into his back pocket. I tensed, which he noticed and said, “Easy there, Vixen, it’s just a phone.”
Sure enough, he handed me a sleek black device.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
Mac got up and held the door open. “Go home, Vixen. We’ll call you tomorrow once we’ve figured outwhat we’re gonna do with you.”
“Well, that sounds fantastic. I’m sure I’ll sleep like a baby. And stop fucking calling me that.”
Dalton shook his head at me. “Naw, you’re stuck with it. Sleep tight.”
I flipped them both off as I walked past Mac, who was still holding the door open. “Make sure you answer when I call.”
I stopped, fixing to say something smart, but his dark blue eyes trailed up and down my body, leaving heat like ethanol on fire. I barely suppressed a shiver. As I practically ran out the door, I realized that, technically, I still didn’t know their names. Katie did, but not Nicky. So, as much as I really didn’t want to, I turned back.
“If I’m going to be working for you, I should probably know your names. Mine’s Nicky. So you can stop calling me Vixen.”
Dalton winked at me. “You can call me just about anything you want, gorgeous.”
I glared at him. “How about dickweed? Or I can spend some time coming up with creative alternatives?”
He laughed. “In that case, you can just stick with Dalton.”
I looked over at Maverick, who was still watching me carefully. Looking me up and down, he tilted his head, saying my name like he was savoring it. Testing it out, like a shot of something strong that he’s never had before. It sent shivers down my spine. “Maverick, but everyone calls me Mac. Now, go home.”
I stared at him for a second, then headed for my bike like my ass was on fire. I was more than ready to get the hell out of there.
Finally back at my apartment, I slipped by the mailroom to check my box. There was a little letter from “Uncle Tommy,” who was actually Agent Braxton. The rickety old elevator shook its way to my floor, and gave me enough time to get to the end of Uncle Tommy’s messy scrawl. I shoved it in my pocket as I reached 27A, a small place on the first floor. I’d only seenit in pictures, but it wasn’t as awful as I’d expected. Clean and neat, with yard sale finds and thrift store furniture. It wasn’t much, but until the assignment was done, it was home.
Uncle Tommy had written to welcome me back to Atlanta—Braxton’s way of saying congrats on not dying on your first day, I guessed. It also reminded me to keep in touch, and boy did I have an update for him. But now that the adrenaline had worn off, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. I threw my keys and the letter on the counter, kicked off my boots, and stripped as I headed down the hallway. I tossed the bundle of clothes in the corner of my room, and fell into my bed. It’s not the soft, cushy one Kaitlyn McGrady had splurged on back in her old apartment, but I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
When that stupid phone rang the next morning, I groaned and snuggled under the covers I’d evidently crawled under at some point during the night. Those assholes couldn’t have given me a full eight hours of sleep? I resisted the urge to throw the damn thing through the window, and climbed out of bed to get it from the pile of laundry I had thrown it into. Pressing it to my ear, I snapped, “What in the fuck? It’s the ass crack of dawn!”
I heard a low chuckle on the other end of the line, and Dalton’s overly cheerful voice greeted me. “Ah, good morning to you, Vixen—lovely to hear that sweet voice so early. Gets the day started off right, you know?”
I decided that the next time I saw him, I was definitely punching him in the throat. Seemed like a Nicky thing to do. And it’d certainly make Katie feel a lot better, as well.
Sitting back down on my bed, I ran a hand through my hair as he continued. “So, here’s the plan. Tony is going to pick you up and bring you back here. So be ready at 10:30. Cool?”
I glanced at the clock on the phone. “Not cool, asshole! It’s alreadypast ten. And it’s Nicky! Nicky, not Vixen or baby girl or whatever.”
I swore I could hear him grin through the phone. “Whatever you say… Vixen.” I growled, and he laughed again. “Wear something you won’t mind getting dirty. See you soon.” Then the twat hung up on me.
Swearing loudly, I stomped to my bathroom and groaned. I looked like an angry, fuzzy red panda. I hadn’t taken my makeup off before bed, not being used to wearing any. My mascara and eyeliner had smeared, and my hair looked like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket. I glanced at the clock on the wall, swore some more, and started scrubbing at my face as quickly as I could. I found Nicole’s potty mouth oddly freeing, and tried to plan my next move. As I got ready, through my sleep-addled brain, I wondered how in the fuck this Tony knew where to pick me up. Someone must have followed me home, and I’d been too tired to notice. Well, that’s just fantastic.
I was waiting outside my apartment building with my helmet under my arm when a black Ford F-250 pulled up. The window rolled down, and I found myself looking at a guy who was definitely Italian. Tony, I’d assumed.
“You getting in?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’m riding my bike.”
