Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
MIRA
I spin on my heel, automatically going into position to attack and defend myself. Wow, I’m surprised those self defense classes paid off.
“Whoa,” the man says, holding up a hand to block me in case I did throw a punch. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“That’s exactly what someone who would hurt me would say.” I shift my gaze from the man to the doorman, who’s busy helping an older couple call a ride-share from their phone.
“I’m Agent Harris,” he goes on and reaches into his back pocket, retrieving his wallet. He shows me a badge.
“Really? FBI?” I raise my eyebrows. “Is the fine print going to say federal bikini inspector, Agent?”
His lips—which are full and oddly distracting—curve into a smile. “Had that one in college, but his one is real.” He lowers his hand and takes a step back, giving me space. I swallow my pounding heart and fully take him in. He’s tall, definitely over six feet, with a head of thick, dark brown hair. His hazel eyes glimmer under the lights of the hotel awning and it takes everything in me not to admire his muscular biceps that fill out the sleeves of his plain black t-shirt. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” I say and automatically run through a list of possibilities in my head. I’m not in trouble, no, I can’t be. But what if I am? Maybe I did something by accident and don’t remember, or my browser history is finally catching up with me.
Dammit.
I’m not in trouble. I didn’t do anything wrong. Worrying about getting reprimanded is a defense mechanism I picked up from years of narcissistic abuse, always walking on eggshells around Cory. The smallest thing could make him blow up, scream at me as he threw things in his rampage. Or worse, he’d leave the house, turn off his location on Find My Friends and would be gone all hours of the night only to come home and give me the silent treatment, sometimes lasting days. The record of him pretending I didn’t exist was four full days.
Four days of a grown-ass man walking past me as if I wasn’t there. Four days of not acknowledging me in public, pretending not to even hear me when I asked a question when we sat at the dinner table with his nieces, who are young but knew enough to know that Uncle Cory was being a grade-A asshole.
What did I do to deserve to be ignored like that? One would think it was something horrible, but it was just that I partook in a drinking game at a Halloween party we hosted. I was drunk, but not sloppy, falling down and puking drunk. It was the happy, dancing-on-the-table kind of drunk, and I had no idea he was even pissed about it until I woke up the next morning to his face literally inches from mine, telling me what an embarrassing slut I am for having a good time.
“About what you were doing in there.” He tips his head in the direction of the hotel.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I spit out, feeling my heart skip a beat. What if he thinks I’m a hooker? I hope he thinks I’m a high-class one at least. Stop it, I mentally tell myself, forgetting all the coping skills I would have told my clients to use in a situation like this. I’m feeling triggered by my past, and I’ll figure out why when I get home. “Or that I trust you’re a real FBI agent.”
“Want to call Headquarters? Ask them if Mason Harris is a real agent.” He holds up a finger and then opens his wallet again, getting out his ID.
“This could even be fake,” I press, leaning in just a bit to look at his license. He really is Mason Harris, and he also really is six-foot-two. According to this, at least. “And I’m not a hooker.” I internally wince. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.
“I didn’t think you were. I wasn’t trying to solicit you.”
“Now I feel insulted.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t laugh. “You do know I’m a federal agent, right?”
“I haven’t determined if I believe you yet.”
“I showed you my badge and my driver’s license.”
“Which could both be fake.”
“Who hurt you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m a woman living in today’s society. You’re a man. You just don’t get it.”
“Don’t pull that bullshit on me.” He inhales. “Look, I have a few questions for you about the man you were having a drink with. We can go down to my office and have a chat or we can walk around the block, get a drink at Miller’s Tavern, and just talk.”
“Fine,” I say, my heart speeding up. “I’ll get an Uber and meet you at the tavern.”
“We could just walk,” he says slowly. “It’s not far.”
“I’m in heels,” I retort.
“Okay, princess,” he mumbles.
“You’re kind of an asshole.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been told. Look, this isn’t a social call. I just need to have a chat about your friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” I rush out. “I just met him tonight.”
Mason shifts his gaze to the older couple behind me, who still can’t figure out how to use their phone to get a car. “Let’s talk about this over a drink, eh?”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing that he doesn’t think it’s safe to talk. Suddenly, the whole situation weighs down on me. I spent the last twenty or so minutes fake-flirting with a wanted criminal. I’m not guilty, but I can see how this looks. “I can walk. These heels are surprisingly comfy.”
“You sure? I can get us a car.”
“It’s a nice night out.”
“It is,” he agrees and we start walking. I keep a careful distance, and once we round the corner, he takes a little device out of his ear and puts it in his pocket. Okay, I suppose he is legit.
“I should, um, tell my friends I’m going out,” I say. “They have my location.”
“Smart,” he says back. “And yes, tell them you’re going to Miller’s Tavern but refrain from mentioning you’re being questioned by the FBI.”
“Okay.” I nod and get my phone. Kat is the only one who’ll watch where I am. Elsie is either in bed now or getting ready for bed and Zara is working nights at the hospital and every night is a busy night when you’re a nurse in the ER in Chicago. I hate lying to my friends so I send a non-lie that’s not the truth either.
Me: Met a cute guy…gonna grab a drink with him at Millers near the hotel.
I put my phone back in my purse and quicken my pace, trying to keep up with Mr. FBI until we get to the tavern. We take a booth in the back.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Mason says, flicking his eyes around the tavern. It’s probably a habit he’s picked up and doesn’t even realize he’s doing anymore as an FBI agent. Hyper vigilance can be learned, and also be the result of experiences…most commonly trauma. I know for myself, I’m always aware of everything going on around me because of years of having to defend and explain myself to someone who would argue about the sky not being blue, but a specific shade of cyan.
“What’s your name?”
“Mira,” I tell him. “Mira Martin.”
“Okay, Mira, and what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a therapist.”
“And how did you meet the man you were having drinks with?”
The fact that he’s not saying Enzo’s name is deliberate, I’m sure of it.
“Kind of a funny story,” I start, deciding to just tell the entire truth. The truth usually comes out anyway, and having to dig your way out of a tangled web of lies is less fun than just spitting out the truth from the start. “I was hired to flirt with him to see if he would flirt back.”
That was definitely not the answer that Mason was expecting. He looks at me for a second and then smiles. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Why?”
“To see if he would be loyal. The woman who hired me has been dating him for the last several months and was suspicious that he wasn’t faithful, even though they said they were exclusive.”
“Did he pass the test?” He smirks, already knowing the answer.
“Hell, no. They never do.”
“Never do? So you’ve done this before?”
“Yes,” I say back, holding his gaze. “It’s, uh, something I do in addition to one-on-one sessions.”
“What kind of therapist are you?” He tips his head to the side and I hate how adorable he looks on top of being drop dead gorgeous.
“If you really want to know, I specialize in couples therapy and often continue seeing my female clients after the relationship ends. My areas of expertise are trauma and attachment styles.”
“I thought couples therapists were supposed to fix relationships.”
“Not all relationships are worth fixing and I’m not going to sugarcoat anything to my clients just to keep them coming back.”
“Interesting.”
A waitress comes over to take our order. Mason orders a beer and a basket of cheese fries for the table. I just get an iced tea.
“Look,” I begin again. “I know I might seem a little unorthodox for a couples therapist to do what I do, but I would rather have my clients find out the truth, one way or another. There’s no point in going through the heartache of session after session trying to fix a relationship that really shouldn’t have ever been started in the first place.”
He considers my words for a moment and then nods. “I like your approach, no nonsense. But back to the man at the bar.”
“Lorenzo Moretti,” I say quietly, leaning forward. “I was told his name is Matthew Baker. Obviously, he didn’t give his real name and is probably seeing a bunch of women under different guises. I saw his name on his credit card,” I add, knowing Mason will ask. “So not only was he very flirty with me and asked me out, but he has been lying to said client for months now, which will be fun to tell her.”
Mason just slowly bobs his head up and down, considering everything I just said.
“What do you know about the Moretti family?” he asks.
“Not much,” I reply. “Just that they’re rumored to be in the mafia.”
The waitress brings us our drinks and he picks up his beer, taking a long sip. “Did you turn him down?”
“Who—what, wait. You mean Enzo?”
“Yeah. Did you turn him down?”
“Not entirely.” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
Mason smiles smugly, leaning back against the booth. “How do you feel about working with the FBI?”