Page 11 of Secrets

When I’m inside, my eyes linger on the bar a moment longer, the memory of the agent’s smile playing over my mind.

This job should be easy. At least, that’s what the logical side of my mind tells me. But that spot deep in my gut pinches, telling me it won’t go as smoothly as I hope.

Guess we’ll see.

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the heavy fog laying on my forehead with the weight of a five-pound dumbbell.

I had way too many fucking shots, and my beloved croissants weren’t enough to soak up the night’s overindulgence Imayhave partook in. Partook? Partaken? I’m not really sure, but my entire body feels like shit, and my eyes are almost too heavy to open. At least, until I notice the second, and arguably more important thing; the even heavier weight on my shoulders.

One at a time, I peel my eyelids open, the effort required both painful and embarrassingly difficult. Thankfully, there’s only the soft glow of a recent sunrise illuminating the single window on my right, so when my eyes do finally open, it isn’t too bad. But as soon as I feel the relief, my vision focuses on a hideously colorful abstract painting on the wall in front of me, causing a small jolt of pain to ripple through my head.

Even in the room’s dimness, the canvas is bright and the trillions of neon colors have absolutely no direction or pattern. I imagine it’s what I would paint in college, high on shrooms, after being told to illustrate the inner workings of my brain, and the mirror image makes my head throb worse.

A low moan draws my attention back to the pressure at my side.

My gaze shifts from the annoying art and toward the person lying beside me.

For the shortest second, I see red. The darkest shade of a raging fire in the middle of the night. The explosive colors in the flames mere highlights that frame a beautiful face. A face I can remember in detail, even through the haze of liquor.

I lift a hand, dragging it toward the strands, but when I thread my fingers through them, they morph into a disappointing blonde not different from my own.

The sleeping woman grumbles something inaudible as she shifts to look up at me. Her chocolate eyes are as far away from green as possible. “Good morning.”

A tight band of disappointment squeezes my rib cage.

That’s right.The red-headed woman left the bar before I started playing pool. A game that landed so much in my favor, Berks wagered a night with his on-again-off-again girlfriend in pure desperation since he had nothing left to lose. She was so pissed, she said she was staying the night with me regardless, and I happily agreed. In part because I love pissing off Berks, but also, in hopes to relieve some of the tension Elena left in her wake.

Elena.

My mind wraps around the beauty of her name, the fleeting smile on her face etched in my memory, making me want to punch myself in the gut. Why didn’t I get her number?

“Last night was…” the woman at my shoulder trails off, reminding me she’s there.

I clear my throat, nodding at my lack of ability to recall literally anything, and paste on my signature smile. “Incredible. Fantastic. Amaze-balls.”

“All of those things.” A light blush covers her cheeks, or it might be the remnants of her blush that were smeared last night, but she gives a bashful grin. “You’re so…commanding.”

My smile morphs into something more genuine. I’m not what anyone would call a top. In fact, I’m literally the exact opposite. But since finding one around here is damn near impossible, I’ve had to adapt, had to take the reins. So the compliment is nice, and helps chip away a bit of the insecurity that still lingers.

I blow out a breath. “Well, now you have some tips for Berks.”

The woman’s lips curl up higher. “Do you want breakfast or any?—”

A low rumble of a phone vibrating on the nightstand next to us cuts her off, and when I see it’s mine paired with the contact that flashes across the screen, I nearly jump up to answer it.

“Sorry, I have to—” I awkwardly maneuver my arm from under her before reaching across and grabbing the phone. “It’s work.”

“No problem, I totally get it.” Her big brown eyes crease with her polite smile. “I’ll just put some coffee on.”

“Thank you.” I hit the green circle to answer the call, shove the phone to my ear, and watch her slip from the bed, wrapping the dark blue sheet around her. “Frances.”

“Hello, Agent Frances, this is Darlene with analytics. We’ve got some news.”

Rising from the bed, I begin the search for my clothes. The room is neat, making it easy to spot my underwear on a nearby lamp and my bra beneath it. “I’m hoping it’s good.”

“Yes and no. We were able to detect the chemical makeup of the vial’s contents, but almost all the components are very simple to come by and won’t help you in the slightest to narrow down any suspects.”

After securing my bra, I shove on my pants. This conversation isn’t going exactly how I’d hoped. I need something concrete. Something that incriminates Alexi unquestionably. “You say almost. So I’m guessing a few ingredients weren’t so easy to source?”

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