Page 60 of Lone Spy

"Well," I say, trying to inject some lightness into my tone. "I did touch your tattoo first."

He flinches like my words hurt. "That's no excuse. I am sorry."

"You're having trouble resisting me." I say it teasingly, so that he can scoff at my words and we can get back to our regularly scheduled program of silent judgment and annoying client.

But he doesn't scoff. His eyes land on me so hard that I almost fall. The want in his gaze tears at my chest. My heart pounds, the sound of it filling my senses.

Ash steps back and turns his body toward the elevators. I'm supposed to move out now and lead the way. So I do, my movements wooden. We walk to the elevator in silence, our footfalls quiet on the carpeted floor, Ash following me like the good security agent he is…

Inside the elevator we stand like we always do—Ash in front of me, blocking the doors. The small space seems to shrink with each passing floor. The air between us sparks so hard it almost hurts. Hurts so good.

"I wasn't supposed to tell you," Ash says.

For a brief, wild moment I think he means he wasn't supposed to tell me how much he wants me with those looks, and that grasping touch. But of course, he means about Linda. "I appreciate it."

"You saved my life. I owe you."

"Good." I didn't mean to say it out loud, but Ash seems to do something to my inhibitions.

ChapterTwenty-Five

Rain miststhe car window as Linda Whitmore drives. Her helmet of hair is under one of those plastic hoods—the kind of thing women wore to church when I was teenager to protect their curls. They'd come into the diner where I worked, scented of floral perfume and summer rain, the plastic hoods shedding droplets onto the entry rug and dripping a trail to their table. The busboy, Fernando, would have to mop them up so other people didn't slip.

Linda's is dotted with rain, as is her trench coat. No American flag pin on its lapel. So more subtle than when we met before, but she was parked right in front of the hotel, leaning against her black car for all the world to see when Ash and I came out the front door.

"Fucking idiot," Ash muttered under his breath. We ignored her and broke into a slow jog, the rain pitter-pattering on us, as we left the protection of the hotel's awning.

Linda was smart enough not to say anything. But I felt her stare on my back. And I heard her car start. Ash and I ducked down the first side street we came to and waited for her to join us in the cobblestoned alley.

She stopped next to us and rolled down the window. "Get in," she commanded. As if we were not waiting for her. It's like she graduated spy school from Cliché University. I climbed into the passenger seat while Ash got in the back.

Her wipers swipe slowly, brushing away the misty rain. I wait for her to speak because I have nothing nice to say. "Do you have the compass?" Linda asks as she pulls back onto a main boulevard, lined with shuttered cafes and large leafy trees.

"No," I lie. “It was lost in the explosion."

Her head whips toward me, a flash of fear in her eyes. God, she's bad at this. She turns forward again and clears her throat. "How could you be so careless?" she asks.

My breath comes out a short, amused huff. "When was the last time you were knocked unconscious and forced to flee a burning skyscraper? Trust me, all you're worried about is survival."

"I'm always thinking about my country," she says, her tone haughty. Ignorant.

"I was attacked afterwards, you know? In the ambulance."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Do you know what happened there? Who is after me?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "Your film has angered a lot of people." Linda sneers the wordfilmlike it's a porno. "Your premiere in LA was also attacked. When you go against God, he stops looking out for you."

I turn to stare at her profile. Her nose is too perfect, something she might have picked out at a surgeon's office. And her forehead doesn't move enough—botox. God's plan for her doesn't seem to be the one she wants to stick to; not sure why she'd have a problem with people choosing not to become impregnated every time they get laid.

The small pill I popped this morning comes into my mind's eye as it has so many times since I first read the script forThe Benefactor. What would my life be like without it? How many lives have been saved, how many lives made so much fuller, because of the choice it gave women?

I'm trapped in a car with a woman who couldn't hold the position she does if it wasn't for the war waged by women like Katherine McCormick. If it weren't for the sacrifices of the Puerto Rican women who risked their health in the trials to bring the pill to market. Women who were lied to by the scientists funded by McCormick. Fuck, the world is a twisted, messed-up place.

"Aren't you supposed to be looking out for me?" I ask. "Or is God my handler now?"

Her eyes narrow, the skin around them not wrinkling like it should.

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