Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(8)

“Sure, but she took meetings for Wednesday, and there’s a six-hour time difference. Alex needs to acclimate.”

I make a noise of rage. “You arrogant, controlling, manipulative motherfucker.”

Max’s eyes go to his smart watch, where I’m sure he gets an incoming message every seven seconds. Ignoring the insults, he asks, “She honestly didn’t recognize you?”

“No!” I bellow.

He glances up and smiles. “Ouch.”

I want to choke him. I really do. It might be the end of me, though. This fucking apartment is probably equipped with a mechanism that senses danger. If I lunge for him, the ping-pong table would probably swallow me whole and digest me slowly. Like a high-tech Venus Flytrap.

“Just tell me why,” I say. “Why me? Anyone could stand next to Alex and ward off her ex-boyfriend.”

“Because you’re real,” Max says, simultaneously typing about ninety-eight words per minute into his watch. “Your story checks out. Professional athlete. Friend of Alex’s family from way back. You don’t have to fake anything. Even your ill-fated meeting this spring fits with the story. Old friends who reconnected.”

Or failed to. When I roll my eyes, I catch a glimpse at the clock on the wall. It’s titanium, and probably doubles as a grenade launcher. In this place, nothing is exactly what it seems. Except for the time, which is pushing three o’clock. “Fuck me. I really do have to go home and pack.”

And here I thought I was going to spend the evening watching violent movies in my underwear and eating take-out. As one does. But now I’m getting on a twelve-hour flight?

How do I get myself into these situations?

“Safe travels,” my brother grunts. He taps the screen, oblivious to my irritation. “I just deposited two grand into your bank account. Good game. And don’t let that fucker near Alex.”

“I won’t. Jesus.” Just because I don’t want this job doesn’t mean I won’t do it well. This ex of hers hits women? If he so much as blinks in our direction, I’ll crack him in half. And I’ll enjoy it. “Later, then.” There’s no chance Max wants a hug or to walk me out, so I just turn and head for the exit.

“One more thing?” he says.

I pause on my way to the elevator. “What now?”

“Don’t fuck her. She’s vulnerable right now.”

“Oh, please,” I mutter, remembering how quickly she shut me down in Florida.

Then I get the hell out of there.





I’m barely out of the building by the time Max’s travel coordinator starts sending me texts. Check your email for a packing list. Car arrives in 2 hours, 7 minutes.

I read the email on the train back to Brooklyn.

Pack the following clothing:

White dress shirt

Business suit in gray or navy blue

Silk tie

Dress shoes

Casual shoes

Resort wear for a 5-day stay. (Laundry service available)

Bathing suit, beach wear

Socks, underwear, toiletries

Technology and Identification:

Personal electronics and chargers

Passport

Weaponry and tech equipment:

K-Tech phone

Await further instructions and hardware.

I’m on the road with my team eighty nights a year. It’s a hard way to live, and probably goes a long way toward explaining why I’m single.

But the upside? Packing a suitcase is as easy as breathing. Within thirty minutes of stepping into my apartment, I’m done. Then I ask the front desk to hold my mail. That takes three more minutes.

Then? I search my brain for anyone else who might need to hear that I’ll be gone for five days, and I come up mostly empty. My calendar has me out to dinner with my teammates on Thursday night. But that happens seventy nights a year. I’m not sure they’ll even miss me.

Max is just lucky that I’m aggressively single.

The black sedan that Max’s travel team sends to pick me up is right on time. “I’m heading to the private air terminal at LaGuardia,” I tell the driver.

“Yessir. It’s been handled.”

Of course it has. This car was probably hired before I even turned up for lunch today.

What a dick my brother is.

Sometimes, my conscience adds. Max is a good man. A loyal man. In a foxhole, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my side. But he doesn’t do emotions like normal people.

He used to, I guess. When we were kids, he was pretty normal. We cried in the same Disney movies. He smiled as often as anyone else.

Something changed, though, after he went to work in Washington, DC. My brother was a spy, even if he never admitted it. “Intelligence analyst” is as much as he would ever say. And that job wears on a guy, I guess. He spent several years in Washington before leaving whichever agency had crushed his spirit.

I don’t know the whole story. And he’ll never tell me, anyway.

When we reach the airport, my sedan pulls up behind an identical black sedan, whose driver pulls a mango-colored suitcase from the trunk.

Alex waits on the curb, looking both impatient and ridiculously attractive. She’s changed into a more casual dress, but her long, shapely legs are still there, taunting me. If she were even a little bit more receptive, I’d already be plotting to have those legs wrapped around my naked body later.