So I filled out my application to join the FBI, along with about a hundred thousand other people. Without an “in,” I doubt I’ll ever hear from them.
Sinclair is my in.
“Listen, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. Is this case a big deal? Yes. But I can’t say you won’t have other shots. I also can’t say you will. Sinclair can make anything happen if you impress him. If you don’t . . . he can be a real dick. Plus, jobs with the FBI are competitive. The ones who make it are there because they do what they need to do.”
I feel even worse now than I did five minutes ago. “ ’kay. Thanks, Warner. ’Night.” I hang up, his words cycling in my head.
They do what they need to do.
A snort by my heels reminds me that Stanley is waiting, staring at me, those giant bat ears perked. “Demanding little brat.” I crouch down to scratch his belly, my focus drifting across the way, into the fully lit bedroom, while Luke’s in the shower. Searching for an answer.
A part of me simply waiting for him to emerge so I can get another view.
“How do I get through to this guy? Huh, Stanley?”
With an excited butt wiggle, he flips over and pushes his snout past the blinds. When his bulging eyes spy Licks across the way, he throws his head back and begins barking frantically.
“Get back!” I grab him by the belly and drag him away from the window, his claws grating against the hardwood floor. “Our target knows you now. He’ll know we live here,” I scold.
And then I freeze. Suddenly, I know what I need to do.
Deep into the gray area we go, Clara.
Chapter 9
LUKE
The hot water sliding over my stiff, tired muscles felt good. The soap seeping into the puncture wounds on my leg did not.
I towel off, thinking about Rain and that fucking little mutt. And Licks, for doing absolutely nothing. I swear someone could be stabbing me to death and that fat bastard would just sit there and drool.
I had the perfect “I’m getting laid” card tonight, after her dog bit me. On her knees in front of me, she looked ready to do just about anything to make up for it, stirring my blood and my cock. And then my burner phone had to ring.
And I panicked.
I seem to panic every time that phone has gone off this past week, since Rust handed it to me, along with the numbers of two fences I’ll be funneling his requests through.
It ended up being a short conversation, not that I wanted her overhearing any of it. Rodriguez, one of the fences, saying he picked up a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. I said no, we only buy based on orders coming in from Vlad. Otherwise, we’ll be collecting cars, and that’s too risky. That’s one of Rust’s rules and it’s a sound one.
So far, I just take requests from Rust and pass them on to Rodriguez, and I’m done. Nothing stressful. Sure as hell nothing that seems worth the kind of money Rust has thrown my way.
Nothing I’m going to complain about to him.
But all the same, I wonder if that nervous bubble that bursts inside my stomach every time the burner phone rings will ever go away. If I’ll always be on edge, wondering what people know. Wondering if Rodriguez is a guy I can truly trust.
If this is really what I want to be doing with my life.
Rust promised that Rodriguez is trustworthy, that he’ll never name me to the street-level fence he uses. That what I’m experiencing is only virgin jitters and I should always be wary, but soon it’ll feel like just another business call. With two layers between us and the thieves, we’re protected.
I could have turned around and chased Rain down inside her building, after hanging up with Rodriguez, but I make a point of not chasing women.
Maybe it all worked out for the best, anyway. She lives right next door. Too fucking close. Start up with her and the next thing I know, she’s everywhere. With everything going on right now, I need more space, not less. I can’t believe I didn’t notice her address on her invoice at the garage.
It sucks, though. I kind of like her. She’s gorgeous. She seems smart, and surprisingly nice for a girl who’s “figuring out life” on her daddy’s dime. I find myself already wondering when I’ll run into her again as I step out of the bathroom and into my bedroom . . .
My legs lock up with the view of the lean, practically naked female body across the way.
Rain, standing in the middle of her bedroom.
In next to nothing.
I tighten my grip of the towel wrapped around my waist as I step forward. I’ve rarely noticed the condo in the twin building across from me. From what I remember, the blinds are always drawn. They’re not now, though, and Rain’s busy filling her dresser drawers with folded clothes, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and G-string. The woman is no stranger to the gym, her curves sharp, her muscles carved. Does she know that we live parallel to each other? That my bedroom looks right into hers?
I stand there and watch. I watch as she tosses her empty laundry basket to the floor. I watch as she picks up a book from her dresser and sets it on her bed. I watch her lift a glass of red wine to her lips. And I feel myself react. I adjust my towel accordingly, unable to peel my eyes from her as she dives into her bed, stretching out on her back, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, her legs long and sleek and bent, one folded over the other.
Is she doing this for my benefit? Because . . . damn . . . it’s working. On impulse, I grab my phone and search out her number, remembering that I had programmed it in there.
I hit “call.”