Page 7 of Tattletale

I exhale. “Well, too bad she already has company,” I mutter out as an excuse.

“Who, Bishop? He can’t afford her. He just likes to flirt, hoping for a pity appointment. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to keep you company.”

“No, thank you, like I said—here to drink.”

The brunette shoots me a half-smile. “Except you don’t have a drink.”

Ah, fuck.“Caught,” I say with a laugh. “I actually haven’t seen a bartender.”

“She slipped into a private room with some suit. I’m sure she’ll be back any moment. But I’m happy to make you something.” She leans in close and puts her lips against my ear. “All you have to do is order,” she says in a raspy whisper.

This should turn me on.She’s gorgeous. The old Lance would make sure Cricket is okay, get her home safe and sound, then sneak back out to Club LaRoe to handle this beautiful creature properly. But something has been off for a couple of months now… Ever since that unexpected kiss with Cricket in the break room at PALADIN headquarters a while back.

We got caught up in a moment. It meant nothing, or so I thought. But it’s been months, and I can’t stop thinking about her lips. It’s driving me crazy. I’m sure Cricket’s gone home with other men since then. In her thick-ass Irish accent, her exact words were, “Forget about it, Lancelot.” She used my full name, like she only does when she’s mad at me. Obviously, the feelings didn’t linger for her like they did for me.

I can’t forget. I’ve tried.

Lately, I’m worried about her safety, like I’m suddenly terrified to lose her. I have to bite my tongue because treating Cricket like a damsel in distress is a good way to get a blade pressed against your throat. She’s a feral little thing. Actually, quite scary, if I’m being honest. Maybe that’s why my heart kicks into hyperdrive every time she enters a room lately—the thrill of wanting what I know I can’t have. My best friend put a spell on me with one, stupid kiss.

When I don’t answer, the woman swivels back around so we’re both facing the glass shelves of the bar. My lack of advance doesn’t deter her. She stays planted on her stool, and now I feel obligated to fill the lull in conversation. “What’s your name?”

“Kezia Silver.”

That catches my attention. I turn fully to face her. “That’s your real name?”

She nudges my shoulder playfully. “Silver is for theatrical purposes. But Kezia is real.”

“You’re Romani?”

Her smile grows wide. “You’re familiar?”

“I’ve traveled a lot. Nomads tend to find other nomads,” I offer. “You don’t look Romani, though.”

“It’s an honorary name.” Her eyes shift forward as if she’s speaking to the bottles of liquor on the bar shelves. “I took a bullet straight through here once”—she taps her chest with two fingers—“grazed my heart. I should’ve died. A Romani tribe found me clinging to life. They nursed me back to health for months. By the time I healed…”

“They were your new family?” I ask.

She nods. “For a long time, until our paths went different ways.” She turns again to look me in the eyes, piercing me with her sharp gaze. “Your turn, Babyface.”

“Babyface?” I scrunch my brows with an incredulous look.

She laughs. “Yes. You look like you took the wrong turn on your way to rowing practice your freshman year at Harvard.”

I glower. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.” She lifts one brow. “You stick out like a sore thumb here. You’re going to blow your cover.”

“What?” My mouth falls open at her last statement.

“What’s your name? Yourrealname,” she insists. “I gave you mine”—she places her hand over her heart—“as a show of trust,assassin.”

My heart stops.I’m made.

“Okay, who the fuck are you really?” I growl out.

“Calm down.” Kezia grabs my hand and slowly drags it up her thigh until I feel a small pistol. “An assassin knows how to spot one. I’ve been watching you since you sat down.”

I glance around the club, ensuring no eyes are on us. The room is so dark, barely lit with table lamps and neon signs. “Are you an assassin or a spy?” I murmur. “You sure know a lot about this place.”

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