Page 155 of Only the Wicked
After a lengthy debate about rules and stakes, we sit around the table playing quarters until nearly midnight, the tension from the day gradually melting away. There’s something therapeutic about the mundane ritual—friends around a table, talking and laughing, no life-or-death decisions required.
With a yawn, I stretch and say, “Alright guys. I’m calling it. So, which room in this place are you giving me?”
“That’s right,” Jake says. “Spy girl has yet to spend a night in this here humble abode.”
I roll my eyes and look at Quinn. “Is there still an extra room downstairs?”
There’s a knock on the front door and all of us look at each other like we’re uncertain we heard correctly.
Jake stretches his jaw and gets up, moving toward the front door.
Hudson calls out, “Wait a minute, Jake.”
We’ve all had a bit too much to drink, but Hudson has the presence of mind to locate a firearm.
Given everything that’s happened, it’s not the worst idea, but it’s hard to believe anyone would come after us down here. That’s the reason this location was chosen. It’s off the beaten path and where we won’t be observed.
“Look who can’t stay away,” Jake bellows, his voice carrying the warmth reserved for people he’s decided are worthy of trust.
The firearm disappears from Hudson’s hand as footsteps sound in the entryway. My heart seems to stutter, then race, responding to a possibility my conscious mind hasn’t fully processed yet.
Rhodes strides in, silhouetted against the porch light. He looks exhausted—shadows beneath his eyes, his normally perfect posture slightly curved with fatigue—but to me, he’s never looked better. Real. Present. Here.
Our eyes lock across the room, and everything else fades to background noise—the team’s murmurs, the clink of glasses, Jake’s knowing chuckle. In that electric moment of connection, something shifts inside me, a certainty crystallizing where doubt once lived.
I’d told myself I’d see him again, that what we built in those intense days wouldn’t simply evaporate when I left D.C. I’d even half-convinced myself it was true. But watching him cross the room toward me now, having followed me to this remote mountain outpost after such an exhausting day, erases every lingering question.
We’re real. Not an operation, not a temporary alliance, not a vacation fling. Something enduring that neither government pressure nor professional obligation could sever.
“I thought you’d be stuck in D.C. for weeks,” I say, my voice betraying more emotion than I’d intended as I rise to meet him halfway.
“Oh, I’ll need to return. But I’m not their employee. Tomorrow’s gonna be a shit storm. Nothing I can’t deal with remotely though. For now, it’s better I’m on the East Coast to deal with it,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal he ended his day and flew down here.
“Have you got a bag?”
He twists, showing me a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Your stuff's in that?”
“Doesn’t take much.”
“Alright, you two,” Quinn says, getting up and pushing her chair under the kitchen table. “Extra rooms downstairs. Take a left at the end of the hall. I’m calling it a night.”
One by one, my team files downstairs.
Jake calls out, one foot on the stairs, “There’s thin walls in this joint. Just saying.”
“Jake!” Quinn yells from downstairs.
My cheeks heat in embarrassment, although it’s unnecessary. These guys aren’t judging, at least, not really.
“You ready to go to bed? You need anything? Water?”
“Nah. I'm toast. Ready to call it a night.”
I go back to the entry where I left my bag, and Rhodes takes it from me, telling me to lead the way.
We walk through the downstairs hallway, navigating the unfamiliar space together. Behind closed doors, evidence of the team’s nighttime routines filters through—lights casting thin golden lines beneath doorways, floorboards creaking under unseen footsteps, water pipes humming as faucets run. The house smells of fresh laundry, coffee lingering from earlier, and a faint woodsy scent through an open window somewhere.
