Up in Smoke (Kisses and Crimes Book 2) Page 4

“’Fraid not.”

  “And he didn’t respond to my last two letters?”

  “Sorry, Miss Castalano.”

  “And you sent it to the right address?”

  “Yes, Miss Castalano.”

  “And to his business e-mail? Twice like I asked?”

  I could tell my secretary was biting back a sigh. Even the sound of my own voice was irritating me.

  “Yes,” she responded wearily. “I did all of those things…” She added in the last bit as if not to offend me. “…Miss Castalano.”

  I uncrossed my arms, taking an awkward step backwards.

  “Okay, Sienna,” I uttered absently. “Sorry for torturing you with this. Any other news?”

  I could almost hear Sienna’s inhale of relief.

  “Well, this reporter guy called. At least, I think he was a reporter. He said he wanted to talk to you. Something about getting your side of the story?”

  “Side of the story?”

  “Yeah, he was… odd. He didn’t really sound like a reporter. Frankly, he seemed too honest to be one, but he didn’t leave his name. Well, he wouldn’t give his last name, but he said his first name was Giovanni.”

  Giovanni? I’d never heard of a reporter named Giovanni.

  Huh. Well, whatever it was, it couldn’t be all good. Considering who my biggest client was, anyone from the press was treated like a bit of an enemy on sight.

  Reporters rarely made “house calls” to my office, and when they did, it was just for a sound bite, some wayward comment to substantiate rumors about whatever back door deal they suspected was in the works.

  My initial response? No fucking thanks.

  I nodded at Sienna, accepting the news, but her voice stopped me before I could turn. She scooted her chair up closer, shooting me a bewildered look, as she seemed to battle some internal struggle.

  I could see which one won out, just by the look of triumph in her eyes.

  “E-excuse me, Miss Castalano. I don’t mean to be too forward, but… Why not just call him? Mister Reed’s business number is available. It’s also quicker, and the only avenue we haven’t really seemed to try.”

  She picked her phone up off the receiver.

  “I could give him a ring now. It’s technically not lunchtime yet, and if I get him on the line, I can patch him through to you in about two…”

  “No,” I blurted suddenly. “No, Sienna, that won’t be necessary.”

  I literally had to stop my voice from rising another octave.

  “What we’re going to do is find out Mister Reed’s personal e-mail,” I breathed hastily, feeling the sudden panic subside. “And then we’re going to send him another message there.”

  Sienna winced, and though I should have left it at that, I couldn’t keep that big mouth of mine shut.

  I was frustrated.

  I wanted to take it out on Jax, and technically I knew I should, but he was totally inaccessible.

  I’d turned everyone around me into breathing punching bags, and obviously I just needed another object to beat.

  Poor unsuspecting Sienna.

  She was twenty-four, inexperienced, and this was her first job. She was innocent, completely wet behind the ears…

  And I was going to verbally beat her into a friggin’ pulp.

  “Is there a… problem, Sienna?” I leaned in, cocking a cleanly waxed eyebrow.

  “No, problem. I just… Well. I just know how these things go…”

  “How what goes exactly?”

  She wagged her eyebrows knowingly. “You know… this.” She motioned to the computer in front of her, pointed her index finger at the e-mail she was just writing, and I still didn’t get the hint.

  She tapped me conspiratorially. “Okay, so if you really want to know how to stalk your ex, use social media. Twitter is your friend. Facebook is your baby daddy. And don’t even get me started on how SnapChat can change your…”

  “Sienna,” I interrupted. “Sienna, it’s…” I sighed. “It’s not like that, okay? Jackson is not my…”

  I stopped, swallowing the next sentence. I was about to tell a goddamned lie. And I didn’t want to.

  I didn’t know how to classify Jackson, so I used the simplest terms I could think of. I crossed my arms.

  “Jackson is just business, Sienna. Nothing more.”

  She raised her hands in the air. “Okay, got it.”

  “Good.”

  “So… stalking him? Just business?” She raised an eyebrow.

  I didn’t even know how to answer that shit. “Uh, sure.”

  “And we’re going to, you know… keep stalking him, I guess?”

  “Mmhmm.” I wanted to fucking die I was so embarrassed.

  She accepted my answer with a nod.

  “Well, if, um… you know, ‘business’ isn’t booming these days, just let me know. I know a cheap bar around the corner with lots of hot guys.”

  She winked, and I gave her a smile that threatened to crack.

  “Thank you, Sienna, really, but that won’t be necessary.”

  She leaned forward, whispering. “Tequila is always necessary.”

  At last, I found the nerve to laugh. Unless Sienna had 200 proof agave grade in an IV, a sterilized needle shot or a pill-form, no amount of tequila was going to cut it.

  I needed to bathe in tequila for it to help at all.

  Going to spy on a wealthy politician at a “work event” was bad enough. Needing the last man you’d ever want to see again in order to pull it off was even worse.

  “Thanks,” I told my co-conspirator. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to take you up on your offer.”

  I returned to my office.

  My fingers shaking, my nerve hanging on by a thin thread, I took the Halloween party invitation out of my desk again.

  I wondered what I would wear. I wondered how I was going to pull off this batshit-crazy plan of mine. And I wondered…

  If Jackson Reed was “just business,” if I really wanted nothing more than his help… then why did my stomach drop every time someone mentioned his name?

  NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE

  JACKSON

  Business had never felt so right… and so wrong at the same fucking time.

  I was riding high. On a road to the suburbs of Westchester County out of the bright lights of the City.

  And I had all the essentials.

  My gun. My camera. My costume.

  Oh, yeah… And a ten percent “down payment” from my mysterious caller. The newest, and most likely, wealthiest client I had to date.

  I couldn’t believe I was going through with it. But then again… that’s exactly what desperation makes you do, doesn’t it?

  Creating a business—a successful one—was like pursuing an uncatchable woman. It was the chase, the thrill, the whisper of possibility that drove you further and further into obsession.

  The idea dominated your every move, possessing you wholly until the only two possibilities were growing your own fangs… or being eaten alive.

  I’d become the monster with the fangs. Possessor and possessed.

  I knew what the pursuit was like. All too well. I’d let the woman get away from me. I wouldn’t let the business.

  And so I went.

  I couldn’t see anything but the light at the end of the tunnel, and the tunnel could be oh so dark…

  It was just business. Just business. I wasn’t exactly there to have fun. I looked behind me at the mask in my back seat, grinning.

  Well, I wasn’t there to have a lot of fun.

  A balmy October night turned breezier as the sun set, and the thickly padded suit I had on couldn’t even ward off the impending cold. The heat inside my Audi hummed quietly as I turned the corner towards the house, approaching the motor court in front of the well-lit French chateau-styled behemoth.

  A grey-stoned street lead the way up to the grey-stoned edifice. More castle than home, I hesitated in my car by the front door as the valet in front
of the heavily bricked steps approached my driver’s side.

  “Hello…” he paused, glancing at my car and then his clipboard. “Mister Reed. Wonderful of you to come.”

  Our eyes clashed across the surface of the clipboard. I knew within that clipboard the younger valet had enough information about me to rival the IRS.

  The make and model of my car. My full legal name. My social security number and a pint of blood.

  It was required.

  That’s what happened when you were invited to a party at the incumbent senator of New York’s vacation home. Mr. Robert Fletcher himself.

  I braced myself, knowing that my suit would be poked and prodded within an inch of its life. My cell phone would be taken, my body scanned for signs of any electrical devices, and I wouldn’t even let myself start thinking about the metal detectors.

  I knew I’d pass through at least two before I’d even get wanded.

  And that was fine with me. My camera was untraceable, my firearm purely plastic and I could have smuggled three more weapons into the fabric of my faux muscle padding.

  These were the benefits of being ex-FBI.

  By the time I made it through the security fires of Hell at the front door, I really felt like a superhero. I slipped on my mask to complete my outfit… and strolled further into the house as the sound of music and clinking champagne flutes welcomed me in.

  I went straight for the bar.

  An overeager bartender in a black vest accosted me the second that I approached. He smiled widely, shaking a silver-plated martini shaker like it was a pair of maracas, and for a second… I almost mistook him for my agency associate Jeff.

  Except this guy was bearded, and he had blond tufts of hair on his head so frazzled that it would have put Donald Trump’s toupee to shame. It was a monstrosity: Don King-esque and Burt Reynolds-ish in nature.

  I was annoyed immediately.

  “What’ll it be, Mr. Wayne?” he blurted at me. I tried to appear disinterested, but it didn’t affect his enthusiasm in the least.

  “Bourbon. On the rocks. Whiskey, if you got it.”

  I didn’t make eye contact.

  “And call me Bruce, why don’t ya?”

  I threw the last part over my shoulder with a self-assured grin.

  “Sure thing,” he commented spiritedly. “Bruce.” He poured. And the sound of liquor making its way into my glass was so self-satisfying that I almost moaned.

  Fuck, it’d been a rough week.

  The bartender, quiet for the first time since I arrived, placed my drink at my fingertips. I took my first sip of the whiskey, and I let my curious eyes roam. With hungry eyes, I gobbled up every detail of the dance floor.

  The main entertainment room was hardwood-floored, flanked by spider web decorations and lighted candles. A ghoul-like, orange-ish gold glow permeated the air.

  For all its pomp and political circumstance, everyone seemed to be having a shit-ton of fun. Partygoers had come fully costumed. People—young and old—had dressed head to toe in elaborate get-ups.

  I was feeling damn good about my own Batman suit. I smiled at the thought of the weapons beneath it. I smiled at the thought of wiping the senator’s smile off of his arrogant and badly-Botoxed face.

  And where exactly was our beloved Senator Fletcher, any-fucking-how…?

  I’d seen the mayor of New York, a former Secretary of State, and what I was convinced were a few prostitutes.

  The champagne wasn’t in short supply. Eager waiters with trays floated throughout the dance floor, serving overfilled crystal flutes. It was almost like they were choreographed, criss-crossing across the floor to a David Bowie beat that put a haunting and melodramatic melody in the air.

  Despite what I knew about the bastard, the senator had organized this party right. The booze, boobs, and the dollar bills were flowing. It was pure-D fucking debauchery.

  I laughed to myself. It was a shame that I couldn’t enjoy more of it.

  I downed the last of my whiskey, holding my glass out for another, before making a beeline towards the stairs. I turned the corner.

  And that’s the moment when I saw her.

  My mind had been playing tricks on me all night. In my head, the whiskey had a bit of a tart flavor, the bartender was somehow the associate I suspended last week and the woman in the Harley Quinn costume across the room… looked strangely like a woman I knew couldn’t possibly be here.

  I wondered already if I’d had too much to drink.

  Because Harley Quinn had never looked this fucking good to me.

  Unlike the red and black body suit that the comic version had often worn, this costume was a semi-checkered dress. The jester hat, complete with the Harley-white makeup and mask, hid most of the woman’s identity.

  But where the makeup had concealed her, the black and red dress had not.

  Black fish net stockings ran clear to her mid-thigh, stretching from the toe of her platformed combat boots to the frilly hem of her two-toned dress. Like a second skin, the outfit hugged her.

  It was tight in all the right places I could see… and loose enough to keep my mind wondering about everything I else couldn’t.

  For the first time in eight weeks, desire—darkly hot and unexpected—slammed squarely into my pelvis. My stomach tightened. I tried to ignore it but there was no denying it.

  I had a hard-on for the sexy comic book villainess on the other side of the room.

  I inhaled what was left of my second drink.

  And I started to walk towards her… until a hand landed roughly on my shoulder. I turned. To my surprise, it was the bartender. He had abandoned the bar… and was looking at me with freakishly gold eyes.

  Gold eyes that I realized, upon further inspection, could not be real. In fact, they weren’t… They were contacts.

  And the man standing in front of me was exactly who I suspected him of being.

  All I saw was fucking red.

  I said his name. It wasn’t even a question. “Jeff.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Hey, Bruce.”

  The blond wig, the contacts, the beard. Was I so distracted that I didn’t notice it before? Was my dickhead really that much harder than my real head that I didn’t see the signs?

  It was as obvious as the fake hair on his head. Jeff was the bartender at the back, and he was crashing the goddamned party.

  I stiffly grabbed his collar. I leaned into him.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  He spoke in a whisper. “I’m helping you.”

  “Helping me?” I looked around for onlookers, lowering my voice. “You’re going to help me right into a grave… or a murder one charge if you don’t get the hell out of here.”

  “I know about the Chambers file. Face it, Jax,” He smiled directly into my face. “You need me.”

  I stared angrily. “Sure I do. Like a cock in the middle of my forehead, I do.”

  “Whoever said having two cocks was a bad thing?”

  “And how do you know about the Chambers file?” I stepped closer. “What have you been doing? Camping outside my office?”

  He held his hand over his heart. I couldn’t tell if his outrage was mocking or genuine.

  “Ouch,” he winced. “Jax, I would never... I haven’t been stalking you at all. I just… wiretapped your office. No big deal. Now, if you just listen to me…”

  I grabbed his shiny vest. “No, Jeff. You listen to me. You have five seconds to get your a…”

  The words stopped as another hand landed on me. And unless Jeff had another extremity, it wasn’t his five fingers that had suddenly settled on my neck.

  The hand pulled downwards roughly, and my mask came with it.

  Stunned, I rotated quickly on my heel… and found myself staring into brown eyes that were unfocused, sleepy brows that lay behind a thick layer of laughably big bifocals.

  It was Velma from Scooby Doo, and she was drunk off her ass. I caught her, stopping her tumble with my hand
s, before she could fall.

  “Whoops,” she cried. She gripped my forearms for balance. “Sorry!” She perked up soon after. “Batman! Here to save little ol’ me.” She threw her head back, feigning fainting. “Save me, Batman! Save me!”

  I suddenly had an unexpected situation on my hands. I thought about dropping Velma’s wasted ass, but a pretty blonde, dressed in the outfit of a white angel, rushed forward to help me from a few feet away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at me. “She’s really fucking trashed.”

  I smirked, replacing my mask. “Hadn’t noticed.”

  She picked her friend up, grinned, and when she walked away, there was a twinkle in her eye. I think she winked… and by the time I caught the gesture, my mind was already somewhere else.

  I had the distinct feeling that I was forgetting something, that something was missing.

  I turned when I realized that I was.

  He was gone. Jeff had left the scene without so much as a goodbye. No warning. No tap on the shoulder. Not even a strand left of that blond rug on his head.

  He had fucked me.

  And what really scared me was that I knew that he wasn’t missing.

  He was hiding.

  And whatever he was up to was going to threaten what might be the biggest assignment of my goddamned life…

  BAPTISM BY FIRE

  JACKSON

  I wasn’t exactly blending in.

  I was six-two (six-four, if you counted the costume) and I was roaming the upstairs hallways with padded shoulders wider than a doorway.

  Jeff was nowhere to be found.

  I wandered into half-opened bedrooms, sneaked my way into bathrooms, and the only things I found were lines of coke and various forms of fucking happening within ear-shot of each ill-concealed doorway.

  The lighting on the second level of the mansion was even dimmer than that of the floor below. I squinted through the eye-slits of my black rubber mask. I hadn’t exactly thought my costume all the way through.

  It was bulky. I had virtually no peripheral vision, and my weapons were tucked within a layer of lining so thick that it could probably withstand a hollow-tipped bullet.

  Fuck, I was rusty.