Page 4 of Chained
“Will you take me on?” Terry asked.
“Remains to be seen. I like to do a trial period.”
Terry had expected this from Townsend’s briefing, although he didn’t know what the trial might consist of. And he really wanted to put his clothes back on, dammit. “Okay. Do you need to see me act? If you give me a script, I can—”
Whitaker erupted in laughter. “No, kid, I don’t want to see you act.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Whatever I tell you.” He set a warm, smooth hand on Terry’s bare shoulder. “It’s all about seeing whether you have the raw potential.” He took his hand away and glanced at his watch. “We need to wrap this up. Where do you live?”
“Culver City.”
The answering sneer clearly conveyed Whitaker’s opinion. “House? Roommates?”
“I have an apartment by myself.”
“For now, you’re gonna stay here. More convenient, and I can keep an eye on you. If this works out, you’ll buy yourself someplace nice after you sign your first contract. If it doesn’t work out, you can go back to your shithole in Culver City.”
Fuck. Terry hadn’t anticipated being stuck so closely with Whitaker. But maybe this would mean he’d be in a better position to collect evidence, and anyway, he couldn’t think of a good way to refuse.
“Get dressed,” Whitaker ordered as he marched toward the door. “Someone will come and show you where to go.” He whistled—three short, sharp tones—and the solo dog leapt to his feet and followed Whitaker out the door. The other two remained.
It was a relief to have his clothes back on, even if the remaining mastiffs had stared at him the whole time. The best part, though, was knowing his gun was within reach again. Having to use it almost always meant an assignment had gone all to hell, with brute force the only way out, so he hoped he wouldn’t actually need the weapon. But it was a comfort nonetheless.
“You guys are really well trained,” he said to the mastiffs as he waited. “I hope you get to do doggie stuff when you’re off duty. Chase tennis balls, dig holes, shit like that. Life’s too short to spend it all at work.” He snorted and shook his head at his foolishness. He’d heardlife’s too shortfrom Amos, the only man with whom he’d had anything resembling a relationship. Terry hadn’t listened to that advice—hadn’t even been willing to let anyone know they were together—and pretty soon theyweren’ttogether anymore because Amos wasn’t willing to remain hidden in Terry’s closet. But Terry still had his dream job, right? And Amos? He was buried in Mount Sinai.
Terry waited so long this time that he got tired of standing. Pacing seemed to unsettle the dogs, so he sat on a barstool and gazed at the shelved liquor bottles. On those infrequent occasions when he drank, it was cheap stuff. Nowadays, he was sometimes tempted to take more than an occasional belt, but he rarely gave in. An agent needed to maintain a clear head.
He’d expected Ms. Stroman to return and guide him, but a man entered instead. He was stunning. A little shorter than Terry, but judging the way his tailored suit hugged his body, he was solid muscle. He had closely cropped dark hair, and despite his strong jaw and severe expression, his eyes were a soft brown.
“Come with me.” A deep voice, but quiet.
Terry hopped off the stool and followed him out of the room. To Terry’s relief, the dogs trotted down the hall in the opposite direction.
“I’m Terry Brandt,” he offered as they passed swiftly through a dining room.
“I know.”
“And you are?”
The man shot him a quick look. “Edge.”
“Like the U2 guitarist?”
The only response was a grunt.
“I like U2.The Joshua Treeis an amazing album. I wanted to see them when they went on tour for it, but I was out of town when they were in LA.” In fact, he had been helping wipe out a band of ghouls near Reno, a nasty bloodbath that had almost cost three agents’ lives. “I hardly ever get to see concerts, which is too bad. I missed The Smiths too, and now they’ve broken up. Maybe Morrissey will do a solo tour. Do you listen to him?”
Terry knew he was babbling. It was a technique he sometimes used to distract people: they assumed he was kind of an idiot and they’d fail to notice that he was actually concentrating on them or on his surroundings. It was a way to do some surveillance in plain view. But it was especially easy to act the bumbling fool in Edge’s presence.Focus, he silently warned himself.It doesn’t matter that he’s sexy.
By now they had walked through another living room, this one bigger than the others, and out a set of the multiple French doors that gave access to the manicured lawn. Edge hadn’t answered Terry’s musical inquiries.
“Is Edge your last name? Or a nickname?” Terry almost had to lope to keep up, and he had little chance to take in the scenery. Fountains and statues here and there, tennis courts in the distance, and, of course, a swimming pool big enough to host the Olympics. Pretty much what he expected with a Beverly Hills mansion, although the size of the guest house—big enough to qualify as a mansion in its own right—did surprise him. And it was apparently their destination.
Edge led Terry inside and up a wide stairway with decorative ironwork railings. The interiors were decorated in dark wood, cream paint, and colorful tile. Terry preferred this Spanish villa look to the French chateau-modern interior of the main house.
Wordlessly, Edge threw open the last door in the hallway and gestured at Terry to enter. It turned out to be a spacious bedroom with a sitting area and a full bathroom. It lacked a kitchen, but it was bigger than Terry’s apartment, and the furniture was nicer by far. The enormous canopy bed had such a high mattress that it came with a little set of steps.
