Chapter One Larissa
Chapter One
LARISSA
Washington, DC
“IN THE LAST two months, numerous reports have been flooding the airwaves of what officials, government agencies, and media alike have deemed the most methodical retribution plot in US history. The common ties to each, substantial and indisputable evidence, which has perplexed authorities. Many reports have labeled this movement the ‘Smoking Gun.’”
Clicking off the rerun of this morning’s news on my cell, I take another sip of my coffee and eye the clock.
Two a.m.
I’m about to give up hope when I catch sight of the black SUV with government plates pulling up to the skyscraper.
Straining from where I’m parked, I manage to glimpse him from my vantage point as he exits.
His stoic posture shows no signs of the exhaustion I expected to see.
He’s been next to impossible to keep tabs on recently, no doubt carrying out the details of his latest accomplishments, which are currently running on replay like wildfire through media outlets.
Most of those reports streamed by their own channels, which make up FLEET Media.
He enters his apartment building, nodding to his doorman, who scans the area behind him. As predicted, he disappears into the building’s mailroom, which gives me seconds to make my decision.
A decision easily made because of his recent absence and his freshly aired good deeds, which have hastened the need for our long overdue introduction.
Thankfully, I’m one of very few who know where to look for him, which may be helpful if I can successfully access his audience.
My gut churns as I consider the magnitude of this undertaking.
A gut I’ve been overlooking my whole life in lieu of carrying out orders and exceeding the expectations I’ve been burdened with—but this feeling I can no longer ignore.
The stakes are too high, though the truth will only shackle us both and possibly tether us indefinitely.
Though this is what I’ve been preparing for almost half my life.
The question is, can I really trust this man?
If I’m wrong about him, it will be detrimental to my chances. At this point, my instincts tell me Tyler Jennings is the only person on this earth that I can trust, though gaining any reciprocal faith may be utterly impossible.
In a sense, I feel like I know him, but it’s become a sort of obsession to understand him over the years. Our secret lives are another commonality we share, but in entirely different respects, which makes this the riskiest decision I’ll ever make. It’s my desperation driving me now.
Though part of this is personal for me, it won’t be at all for him.
To him, it will feel like a threat and an unwelcome invasion—a dangerous one at that.
Finally having this conversation—this confrontation—means that any breath I take during our exchange and possibly after will be at his discretion.
This also means I’ll be voluntarily handing my fate over to another for the first time in my life.
However, if I don’t come forward now, both of us will be on borrowed time.
Self-preservation should be a priority for me—for most, it would be—but the fear of death has never taken too much residence in my life.
Though as I rattle in indecision while precious seconds tick by, I feel the trepidation in every fiber of my being.
Sheltered is not at all a word I would use to describe my upbringing, but it is through that upbringing that I’ve been privileged not to know this feeling.
Tragically true and fucking ironic—I’ve been protected by the very same entity that offers certain death.
And by taking this step, I’ll change it all.
This one act requires a bravery that I’ve never had to possess, and yet I feel it as the pendulum swings closer and closer, the ticking of time lowering its blade and scraping my scalp, which now prickles with awareness.
My life is about to change drastically, for better or worse.
It’s that awareness that has me out of my car and trailing him into his building.
Once inside and after executing my carefully mapped-out plan, I stand in wait, rattling with anticipation for the coming seconds.
Lurking just inside the hall next to the elevator, I ready myself before it dings and he steps out.
Dressed to murder a woman’s libido in his tailored suit, his masculine, heady scent reaches me as he stalks out without so much as glancing my way.
Stunned by the lack of reception, I soak in as much of his profile as I can as he passes me, completely at ease.
His glistening wingtips click against the floor, purpose in his stride, as if he’s about to start his day rather than end another as the right hand of the president.
I’m dazed by his proximity and the comparison to how I imagine this would play out, and he finally breaks the silent standoff by speaking up first.
“Mind telling me how the fuck you got on my floor?” He asks this in a tone that borders on arrogance and is heavily laced with irritation.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admit honestly.
“Should have been impossible.”
“It damned near was.” Gripping the leather straps, I hide any hint of the shake in my hands by tightening the belt on my raincoat. “May I please speak with you?”
Stopped at his door, his phone buzzes in his hand, the sound heavily amplified in the vacant hallway. As he answers, he finally lifts his penetrating gaze to mine.
Jesus.
The shift in the air is instant, and my heart begins to thunder in my chest as he pins me with his unflinching return stare.
“Pretty fucking aware, I’m staring at her,” he snaps, eyes lazily rolling down my frame in a thorough sweep as he tries to place me and fails. He wouldn’t recognize me. Until tonight, I’ve never come closer than the length of a few city blocks.
He leans back against his front door, seeming to settle in for whatever entertainment this interlude will provide, ending his call and pocketing his phone as the elevator doors open behind me.
Glancing back, I watch two men I don’t recognize from his security detail step out, and I brace myself before addressing him again.
“Tyler, please, just give me five minutes.”
Seconds tick by as he glowers at the suit-clad giants at my back, who, by their grip on me, are more than pissed I managed to get past them. From the unforgiving expression on Tyler’s face, I have no doubt they’re ready to drag me out of the building and not so nicely dispose of me.
“Sorry, sir,” one of the suits says, “she passed the preliminary check and was very convincing.” He nods toward me. “We’re happy to escort her from the building.”
“Tyler, please don’t be unkind. I only want a conversation,” I utter softly, using the best keyword I can to convey the nature of my business with him. Conspiracy is way too obvious, and it’s idiotic to assume that everyone in his employ is aware of where all his alliances lie.
Tyler’s expression doesn’t change despite my use of the word as he clips out, “I’ll handle it.”
“She was checked at the door,” one of them says, releasing his grip on me while letting Tyler know I’m unarmed.
Feeling the twin glares at my back as the elevator doors close behind me, Tyler lifts his chin, prompting me to approach.
Turned now and facing me fully, he scrutinizes me deeply as I near, heels clicking on the immaculately polished marble floor.
I’m nervous, and it’s apparent, though I don’t fucking like it.
My instilled resolve batters me in that I cower for no man under no circumstance, but maybe witnessing some vulnerability from within me will help my case with him.
Then again, if I turn back now, I can go back to my life as I once knew it.
It’s the idea of what that future will entail if I do that has me hastening my steps toward him as the salvation he could very well be.
When his phone buzzes again, he pulls it out and lifts a finger at me, halting my advance on him.
“Jennings,” he clips into the mouthpiece, his eyes scouring me curiously.
Stopped a few feet away, I soak in his details up close for the first time—thick brown hair the color of coffee splashed with cream.
I imagine his eyes, impenetrably bronze at present, would be a warmer brown under different circumstances.
It’s his arresting bone structure that truly sets him apart.
That and his crimson-stained lips. The small white scar on his chin interrupts the darker tone of his skin, its tint seemingly natural, which could only be earned by hours in the sun.
I assess all of this in a matter of seconds.
Getting this close to him in this capacity is a minor miracle within itself—not that I’m incapable of garnering any audience of my choosing on any given day.
It’s just the nature of this interaction that changes my position and, pathetically, has me at his mercy.
With some submission may come liberation and a chance to take control of my future, my path, and on my terms.
A chance I may never get again, but one I gained through the small window I created due to my sharp observations while conducting surveillance.
If it wasn’t for his needy tenant, I would never have gotten into the building in the first place. Taking note of the placement of the cameras as he ends his call—which only consists of him listening—I gesture toward his door. “I don’t think we should converse out here.”
“Well, here is where you cornered me, and why is that?”
“I prefer we’re in a more private place when we properly introduce ourselves.” I lift my chin toward the cameras.
He tilts his head, eyes calculating, before a slow, amused smile lifts his lips. “And just what kind of introduction do you see happening?”
Doing my best not to roll my eyes, I erase the last of the space and spill my first confession. “I know.”
“Know what exactly?” His tone has changed somewhat, his lilt slightly playful, eyes twinkling and evaluating as if he’s … considering me?
“Everything you don’t want me to,” I whisper.
“Is that so?” He thoroughly rakes my person again, not bothering to mask his increasing amusement. “And what is it you don’t think I want you to know?”
“Tyler … I know who you are.”
He bulges his eyes animatedly. “Congratulations.”
“Okay, let’s put it this way: I know what you are.”
“And what exactly am I?” He dips his head to make up for our height difference, his eyes scorching a line from my throat to my lips and back to my eyes.
Unflinching, I stare back, utterly confused at the sudden change in his reception. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude or unkind,” I repeat for emphasis, “but it’s imperative I speak with you privately.”
“Sure it is, sweetheart,” he muses, raking his lower lip with his teeth as he considers me again. “Arrogant prick,” he utters in a whisper that I’m certain he didn’t mean for me to hear. A long silence ensues before a sloppy smile appears, along with a dimple.
“Why the hell not,” he chuckles before turning, tapping his keycard, and unlocking his door. Stepping in, he stops just inside his entryway for me to follow. The second I clear the threshold, I’m pinned to the back of his door.