Page 5 of Secrets

My eyes flash to Jenna, a field agent and really, my only friend, as she sidles up to my desk. Her onyx locks are confined in a low bun, slicked in place by military-grade gel I once bet her was so strong it could plug up a hole in a boat—though she wouldn’t let me test the theory—while her pale face is tighter than normal, features drawn back as tight as her hair.

“Long day?” I ask, already grabbing my bag from the bottom drawer of my desk.

“Nope.”

“Liar.” I smile, needing neither convincing nor further details. “Let’s go.”

As we turn the corner and The Four appears, my body acts as if I’ve injected Lexapro straight into my bloodstream. My muscles and mind relax, morphing into mush.

Well, maybe not mush, because that sounds as though I’ve been in some horrific accident—so more like floating on a cloud. A really heavy cloud filled with decent liquor and teeming with music that makes me want to shake my ass for a good hour.

Yeah, that sounds much better.

Letting out a long breath, I ogle the bar sitting pretty on the corner of the strip. Vintage-style posters plastered against the windows cover most of what’s inside, while a singular sign rests at the top of the double doors, its illumination dim, as if the bulb is seconds away from flickering out. When we reach the doors, Jenna grips one of the long-rusted iron handles and jerks the door open.

Inside, we’re met with a familiar, earthy scent, stained with tequila and hearty laughter. An invisible welcoming arm wraps around me, pulling me forward into a place that can only be described as a second home. Weird, I know, considering this bar literally resembles a speakeasy from the Prohibition era—which is ironic, since it’s almost exclusively visited by cops—but there’s no other way to describe it. Not with all its history, at least.

Low lighting from the overhead hanging beams casts long shadows over the dozen tables scattered about. A group of familiar faces stand around the pool table—some watching the TV mounted nearby, others focused on the balls as if playing a high-stakes game of chess—while a small dance floor sits vacant. Its only company is the small flickers of light, gifted by the miniature disco ball dangling above.

There’s nothing amiss, nothing out of place or unusual, but there is something different in the space. Something that doesn’t belong. The fine hairs at the nape of my neck rise, but instead of unease or discomfort, it’s from excitement. Thrill.

How odd.

Little Tim, the bartender who’s served here longer than I’ve walked this earth, stands behind the long bar. He’s mopping up a spot on the dark wood counter, chatting away with a local badge, a serious expression tightening his features. But then his eyes lift to me and his iconic toothy smile makes an appearance.

I nearly skip to him, plopping down on the worn stool with less grace than a federal agent should. I wave to the cop as they nod in greeting before drifting away.

“Hey, Little T. How’s it hanging tonight?”

“Jess the Mess. I missed you yesterday.” He flings the towel over his shoulder, placing both hands on the counter. “What on God’s green earth was more important than your nightly shot of gin?”

Little Tim, contrary to his nickname, is six-five, close to three hundred pounds, and has mounds of muscles under his layers of softness. He’s also my dad’s childhood friend, having been around for every event, both big and small, including my parents’ wedding, my birth, and he was the host of a food train for my family after my mom died. A time when we couldn’t be bothered with thinking, let alone cooking.

It’s because of our long history and his many years running a bar where he’s heard every story, tall tale, and whisper in between, that the man can sniff out a lie faster than I can smell freshly baked cookies coming out of the oven. Which says a lot.

So instead of that lie, I tell him the truth. Yanking my hair from the annoyingly tight ponytail, I push out a weighted sigh. “I might have…borrowedsome evidence on the case I’ve been working for a while.”

A while.

I laugh at myself. Two years is way longer thana while. Hell, it’s more like an eternity.

“Borrowed?” Tim lifts a bushy, salt-and-pepper brow. “Or stole?”

My head rolls back with a groan. “I just needed a quick swab. It’s not like I took the vial and didn’t return it or?—”

He raises his hands in mock surrender to stop me. “I’m not judging you, Jess. I’m only trying to get the correct information.”

A smirk steals my lips. “Took with preemptive permission.”

He shakes his head with a small smile as he makes quick work of pouring me a double shot. When he glides it across, I greedily grab it, swallowing the whole thing in a single gulp. The liquid immediately sears down my throat, spreading warmth through my veins.

I do that little sour-face, whole-body jiggle, before slapping it back down on the bar. “I just don’t get it. This guy should be so fucking easy to catch, Tim.”

“Who are we talking about?” Jenna drops onto the stool next to me, back from the restroom—or was she saying hi to some friends? I don’t even remember her wandering off.

Clearing my throat, I gesture for Little Tim to pour me another. “Who else?”

Jenna rolls her eyes. “Honestly, it could just be time we let that go. I mean, if the big guys aren’t worried about it, perhaps it’s time to focus on the other—smaller—criminals. Or hey, I don’t know, the ones that are here in Georgia.”

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