Page 14 of Dirty Love

And we won’t talk about how the feds didn’t even notice my temporary takeover of their financial crimes division’s website.

Jason strong-arms Derew out of the room, then we sit across from Tabitha. Oversized white leather couches, nothing like the room next door. I look around, taking it all in. Her guitar, complete with banged up case covered in the dreamer stickers of a teenage girl. Nearly a decade in the spotlight hasn’t changed her hopes and dreams.

And clearly, she hasn’t actually achieved them yet. I set my phone on the coffee table between us and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I let my hair flop in front of my eyes a bit and give her an understanding look.

Women love this shit.

They have no clue that I’m dead inside, that I pummel other men to bloody pulps for sport and I’ve killed my enemies and then gone out for ice cream.

Mint chocolate chip cures all.

“Ms. Leyton,” I start.

She cuts me off. “First of all, I don’t believe you guys are feds. Second of all, there’s nothing polite about me, so call me Tabitha or baby girl or nothing at all. Got it?”

No, I don’tgot it. What the fuck does she mean we don’t look like feds?

Iwasa fucking fed. Not the FBI. Fuck that child’s play. But I was one degree of Kevin Bacon away from the President of the United States of America for six years. I know how to wear this badge even if it wasn’t given to me by a deputy director of national intelligence.

“Tabitha.”

She gives me an arch look and I smirk. Does she think I’d call her baby girl?

My dick chubs up and she smirks right back. Fuck. I refuse to look at her painted red lips. I hold her gaze and return my expression to cold disinterest. “We don’t need to call you anything. We’re just here to find out what your financial connection is to Gerome Lively.”

“Uhhh…” Her mouth drops open and while she’s busy flicking her eyes to the right—liar, liar, pants on fire—I take a mental picture of those parted lips, that pink tongue, the hint of pearly white teeth.

My cock shoving into her mouth and her startled cry of surprise.

Fuck. Me.

I never do this. I never mix business and pleasure, because my brand of pleasure isn’t acceptable for public consumption. I force myself to think of computer code. Command prompts and dial-up connections. I drag myself back to being that skinny-assed kid who was sure he’d never get laid, so he spent too much time deep in the dark corners of the Internet learning about the wrong kind of sex.

“What did you think we were here to discuss, Ms. Leyton?”

She scowls at Jason, but she doesn’t tell him to call her baby girl. “I have no clue.”

“But you do know Mr. Lively.”

“Sure. He’s loaded. I know a lot of rich people.” She flips her hair over her shoulder—dark red hair, porcelain skin. She’s like a fucking doll. A bratty doll that needs to be spanked until she screams, which isn’t even my thing. I don’t like games. I like a soft pair of tits and a sweet ass, a wet mouth and zero back talk—and if all of the above can come in a guaranteed-to-be-anonymous and doesn’t-mind-being-railed-in-the-ass package, all the better.

Tabitha fails on at least two of the six points.

Her tits are spectacular, though.

And that mouth.

I stand up.

Her gaze follows me.

Good. I’ve got her attention. “Can you tell us about a trip you took in August, two years ago, to the Florida Keys?”

She frowns. “No?”

“No?”

“I didn’t go to Florida two years ago in August.”

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