Page 45 of These White Lies
I have serious reservations about going to a safe house. Already, I’m imagining cracked, brown sofas and boxes of old pizza. So, when Brady pulls up to a solid steel gate close to Midtown and presses his thumbprint into a scanner, I’mflabbergasted. The gate rolls back, allowing our car to drive through before immediately closing again.
Brady pulls through an almost empty parking garage, and around the side of the three-story, nondescript brick building, to a lower-level, industrial loading dock. Instead of a standard roll-up door, we are met by another solid steel door and thumbprint scanner. Fluorescent lights in the ceiling flicker on, illuminating a fleet of matching black SUVs, as he steers us into an underground parking garage.
I turn to stare at him. “You always wanted to be Batman, didn’t you?”
He chuckles. Pulling into a spot, he cuts the engine and pins me with a stare.
I raise my hands. “Wait until you come to my door. Got it.”
The muscle at the corner of his jaw works, but he takes a deep breath before answering me. “The rules and protocols aren’t for shits and giggles, Elizabeth. They’re to keep you safe. I’m not trying to control you.”
I instantly feel guilty.
“I know,” I admit. “And trust me, I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll do whatever you say. Protection-wise,” I amend, when heat flares in his eyes, setting off a storm of tingles in my stomach.
I wince when I bend to pick up my purse from the floorboard. Even with pain meds humming in my system, it still stings if I move too quickly, not to mention the bruises from wrestling with the man last night.
Brady rounds the hood and opens my door. Taking my heavy purse, he hangs it over his shoulder before helping me climb down, his hand on my elbow.
I let out a loud exhale when both feet are on the ground again. I know I’ll be fine with some rest, but I’m a little woozy from exhaustion and the pain meds.
“You okay?” His face creases with concern.
“Fine.”
Brady makes a quiet, growly sound but doesn’t ask again. With his hand outstretched near my waist, as if I’m going to suddenly tip over, we climb four steps to get to—of course—another metal door.
Brady’s thumbprint makes the door beep, and he pulls it open.
“You really like the toys, huh?”
He grins, green eyes lighting up. “I really do.”
I find myself smiling widely back at him, but when I register the room in front of me, I stop dead, eyes widening.
In front of me is a huge open space, decorated in matte black, stainless steel and rough brick.
Brady glances at me, catching my hesitation. “Converted warehouse,” he explains. “We’ve only been in about a year.”
“It looks like Restoration Hardware and the CIA had a collab.”
“Is that a compliment?” he asks, while ushering me inside with his large hand on my lower back.
I need tonotthink about how much I like his touch.
“I think so?” My dry comment makes him chuckle again.
He guides me past a scattering of desks, each equipped with dual monitors and sleek-looking keyboards. In the center of the room is a grouping of several low, comfortable-looking sofas and a couple of deep recliners arranged on a muted gray rug.
A row of digital clocks showing the current local times of various cities around the world hangs high on the far wall. Heavy wood doors break up the rest of the wall space. All are closed but one, through which I glimpse a kitchen. An open staircase climbs one wall with switchbacks, stopping on two landings above us.
Brady gestures toward it as he keeps pace with my slower steps. “First landing leads to offices—mine and Vincent’s. There’s also a conference room. Top level has four bedrooms,each with its own bathroom, plus a shared kitchenette and sitting area.”
“That’s where you want me to stay?”
He nods. “Until we establish a risk mitigation plan.”
“Risk mitigation plan,” I echo quietly. “How is that possible if we don’t even know what the risk is?”
