Page 15 of Isaac

And that’s what I’m trying to make myself feel—anger—as I enter the apartment and toss my keys onto the counter. The sound echoes through the dead silence like a gunshot. My brain is exhausted after a night of hard techno and I wince at the noise, suddenly paranoid that someone might hear and discover my true identity. But the moment passes quickly, and I'm left wondering why I even thought that.

No one in Purgatory is suspecting me.

At least, I hope so.

Another week slips through my fingers like sand, each day at the club blending into the next useless one in a haze of sweat, loud music, and deception while I’m patiently waiting for the team meeting everyone’s finally starting to discuss.

I sincerely hope Seven didn’t bullshit me and Thoreau will be there, but the man is pretty much invisible, so I don’t hold mybreath. Instead, I work out a backup plan in my head—get closer to Jeremy.

Use his sister if necessary.

Big moment, Hawk, I think in the privacy of my mind as I stand outside the back room on a hotter-than-hell afternoon, three hours shy of my shift.

Despite the ACs blasting on full, I can still feel the unforgiving heat seeping through my basic black tee and worn jeans. It’s hot as fuck outside, hotter than it has been these past few weeks.

I can hear voices coming from inside the room. Mundane chatter mingling with an undercurrent of jazz notes and punctuated by steady footfalls.

They sound disarmingly normal. Like regular people hanging out and not a bunch of shady individuals involved in all sorts of questionable activities in the seedy underbelly of Vegas.

Inhaling sharply, I push the door open and step into the room.

"Hey! Look who finally showed up!" Seven greets me with a grin from across the way.

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Good man," someone says off to the side, claps me on the shoulder, and shoves me a beer. I slowly make my way through the clusters of people and shake a few hands. Although I know most of these guys, there are still a few unfamiliar faces.

But no Thoreau.

Disappointment washes over me.

"New guy." Jeremy waves me over to the corner of the room where he is sitting at the table. "Come here."

"You like tacos?" Marco asks. "Cuz you're in for a treat tonight. We got the best ones in town today."

I'm embracing life's rhythm and going with the flow—savoring some food, bantering away, knocking back anotherbeer—all while counting the seconds for Thoreau to make his grand entrance.

It’s just a touch over an hour before my shift starts—a round of sobriety to clear any alcohol fog from my brain by the time I slip into work mode.

I’m convinced my target won’t show up.

And then he appears.

Isaac Thoreau strides into the room like a storm. His presence commands immediate attention and reverence from all those around him. The air crackles with unseen electricity as he moves.

I’ve forgotten about everything else. My attention zeroes in on him, carefully observing every detail of his appearance. His—possibly intentionally unkempt—jet-black hair falls onto his forehead, longer on top and shorter on the sides and back.

He's about my height, fit without bordering on intimidatingly bulky. The black silk shirt he’s wearing is casually unbuttoned down to reveal a well-sculpted upper portion of his chest. A silver chain around his neck seems to only highlight the paleness of his skin. A rare sight in the desert, almost as if the man never goes outside when the sun is up.

Unlike most guys in the room sporting jeans and khakis, Thoreau is wearing fitted dress slacks. There’s a massive watch on his wrist that somehow looks authentically classy instead of flashy.

But it’s not the clothes or even his apparent youthfulness that catches the eye. It's this fresh-faced charm underlining his mature demeanor—an effortless blend suggesting he could easily grace the glossy pages ofGQor rule any magazine cover if he so desired.

The mugshot the FBI has tucked away in their files doesn’t do Thoreau justice.

"Here's to the boss!" someone yells, raising their glass in a toast. The others echo the sentiment.

I’m in the back of the room and away from Thoreau’s line of view while he’s shooting the shit with the rest of the guys gathered here, but when he draws closer, Seven nudges me forward and in the direction of Thoreau and shouts drunkenly, "Boss! Have you met the new guy?"

---