Chapter 2
TWO
Nice view. Shitty service
REED
I don’t come here for the drinks. They’re overpriced and watered down.
Plus, I’m not a big fan of alcohol anyway.
It isn’t the fresh air drawing me in either, especially since this is one of the few indoor spots in Florida where smoking is permissible in some areas.
And it damn sure isn’t the peace and quiet bringing me here.
After all, casinos aren’t known for being places of tranquility.
No, it isn’t any of that.
I come here to prove something.
To myself. To my past. To my future. And to my so-called parents.
Also, the real ones, wherever they may be.
And yeah, maybe I come for the view. But that’s just a little perk.
Tonight, something’s off about the view. She’s fidgety and nothing but forced smiles and nervous laughter. If I hadn’t been watching her a few times a week for over a year now, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
But I have been watching her.
It’s impossible not to.
A husky voice, weathered by long nights surrounded by tobacco smoke, pierces my thoughts. “Another drink, Reed?”
I cover the top of my glass with my palm and shake my head at her.
“Oh great.” My usual bartender, Katrina, rolls her eyes at me. “One of those nights, huh?”
The corner of my mouth threatens to quirk. “What type of night is that?”
“The type where you take up a barstool all night while nursing a single drink and leaving one less spot for paying customers.”
“I am a paying customer,” I object, feigning offense.
She tosses a bar rag over her shoulder and sharpens her glare. “The tip I’ll get on your one drink over three hours isn’t going to put my kids through college.”
“Fine. I’ll take a burger.” I crick my head to the side and raise my brows. “Is that better?”
“Not really,” she quips.
“Add bacon then.”
Tutting her lips, she retrieves the little device they use to enter their orders. As she types, she flatly intones, “One porterhouse, medium rare, loaded baked potato, and salad with . . .” Pausing, she widens her eyes at me.
“Italian.”
Grinning like she bested me—and she did—she continues, “Italian dressing.” Her shrewd eyes cut from the screen to mine and back again. “Strawberry cheesecake for dessert.”
I scoff, my nose wrinkling. “I don’t like strawberries.”
She slides the device into her back pocket and bats her lashes at me. “The dessert is for me. It’s the least you can do for scaring off my customers all the time.”
My spine stiffens, and I sweep my gaze around the bar. “What the hell are you bitching about?”
Sure, I usually look like a grumpy ass, but not so much that people fear me.
She leans down, resting her elbows on the bar. “Because you look like a cop. And no one wants to get drunk next to a cop in a casino.” Flashing jazz hands beside her face, she adds, “It’s a trap!”
My face falls as I scan my attire and posture. And yeah . . . she’s right. I look like a cop.
Technically, I’m a special agent at the FBI. But whatever.
Before I can protest, she dashes away as fast as her aging body will let her.
Too bad for Katrina, there’s only one casino in the area. And I had a shitty fucking day, so I need to be here tonight. This place helps me block out all the bullshit I don’t want to think about.
I tug at my tie, loosening it up and yanking it off my neck. Then I untuck my shirt and scuff my hair to look unkempt. Maybe if I’m not so put together, my profession will be less obvious.
Not sure any of that will help, considering the stiffness is on the inside as well as the out. But I don’t want to draw attention to myself. If Katrina is to be believed, I stick out like a sore thumb.
I don’t want that. Not because I’m here in any work capacity—I’m not—but I prefer to blend in. After all, I’m just a man fighting his demons.
And enjoying the view for some sick reason. Probably because I’m a masochist at heart.
On the first night I got this deep into the casino, I recognized the curvy blackjack dealer, despite the change in hair color from the last time I saw her.
Ever since, I have found myself picking seats with a view of her.
Oddly enough, I’m unsure whether I’m watching her out of old protective habits or because I don’t trust her.
Probably a bit of both.
More likely, it’s the twisted obsession I’ve never been able to shake.
With that, my attention returns to her blackjack table right as another dealer approaches. I toss back my glass and chomp on an ice cube while I study the interaction between Little Miss Perfect and the other woman, who appears to be taking her place. Must be Lila’s break time.
Although there’s nothing unusual happening between the two dealers, I notice Lila’s eyes tracking a man hanging out by a slot machine a few feet from her table.
My hackles rise, along with the hair on my forearms.
Something is . . . off.
As the other dealer takes over, Lila sharpens her glare at the man before leaving the pit. He drifts a few feet behind her, following her as she goes.
If my Spidey Senses weren’t already tingling, they would be now.
Without warning or reason, she pauses to cast a fierce glare over her shoulder in his direction. Instantly, he backs off and looks around the room, trying to act casually.
Damn.
Never saw her make a face like that before. Not when we were kids, and not over the last year of watching her.
I’ve only ever known Lila Kent to be cavity-causingly sweet. She’s a master at pretending to be the kind of sugar that makes your stomach ache when you have too much. Cotton candy and Jolly Ranchers. That’s her.
On the outside.
So what is it about that guy that has her shooting daggers and breaking her candy-coated facade?
Katrina arrives with the salad I didn’t order right as I’m rising to investigate. I need to get to the bottom of this . . . whatever this is.
Once an agent, always an agent.
I grab my drink to give me something to do with my hands. “Kat, I’ll be right back.”
She pouts, glancing at the salad briefly.
“Eat it yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Dessert and a salad? Plus the five dollars you’ll leave me at the end of the night? Wow. You’re such a giver. Another shift of tips like these, and I’ll be well on my way to financial independence.”
If Katrina’s sarcasm were liquid, it’d drown the world.
Instead of snarking back like she’d expect me to do, I saunter out to the casino floor.
Same as it always does when I leave the relative protection of the bar, my heart races and my palms grow sweaty.
The lounge area has cream colored tile flooring, and the gaming tables sit on gaudy red carpet. Separating the two areas is a row of black tile. I’ve always looked at that row as the danger zone. A barrier for me.
It’s a metaphorical police line. But it’s one I don’t cross even with my badge.
There’s a twitch in my jaw that grows stronger with each step. The cling and clang of the slot machines threatens to distract me, but I focus on my target. I can resist slots easily. They were once my warm-up while I waited for a lucky table to open.
The familiar bounce and rattle of the roulette ball make me clench my fist and inch closer to the black tile border. That game is dangerous for me.
My pulse thrums in my neck wildly. Yet I march on so I can keep whatever is happening with Lila in my sights.
Rather than so much as glance at the craps tables coming up on my right, I let the rhythmic sway of Lila’s flowing hair steal my focus. With each of her steps, it bounces lightly. It’s gotten longer these last few months.
As a blast of air conditioning sails over the top of my head, I notice dampness on my forehead.
I’m fucking sweating.
This is bullshit. I’m better than this.
Rolling my shoulders, I saw out a serrated breath and get my shit together.
Better.
Lila safely leaves the floor via an employee-only door, disappearing from my view. With her secure, my sole focus shifts to the man she’s obviously been communicating with. Is he friend or foe?
On the surface, you’d think they were adversarial based on the break in her polished veneer. However, only a dipshit believes what people reveal on the outside.
The guy freezes about ten feet from the door Lila used. Abruptly, he spins to face me.
And fuck. He’s staring straight at me.
Which means he knew I was following him. I’m getting sloppy.
After flashing me a slimy smirk, he breaks to the left, turning on a dime to dart down a row of slot machines.
I set my glass down on a planter box. “Shit,” I mutter as I break into a light jog, weaving through the masses to trail him.
Although I have no legal cause to apprehend him, innocent people don’t run from law enforcement.
I pursue him through the casino, my pace picking up as he breaks into a full-on sprint. Definitely not innocent.
After I blow by a security guard, he falls in line a few feet behind me. “Hey, stop!”
“I’m FBI,” I yell at the guard, not breaking my stride.
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “Stop running and show me some ID.”
Idiot.
“Not until I catch the unsub.”
“Don’t make me take you down,” he warns, his speech becoming choppy.
Something tells me he won’t catch me if he’s this out of breath already. Call it a wild hunch.
The beep of a walkie-talkie sounds from a few steps behind me. “Command, I’ve got a runner.” He sucks in a craggy inhale, his voice growing more distant. “Main level. Corridor B. Heading to—” A longer pause to tug in another wave of air. “The main. Lobby.”
My steps slow for a second while I consider whipping my badge over my shoulder at him, but fuck it. He’s likely unarmed and won’t shoot me in the back.
Hopefully.
Unfortunately, my slight falter while deliberating gives the unsub the chance to pull farther away. Son of a bitch. He’s a fast fucker.
If I’m still trailing him from this far back when he gets out of the front lobby entrance, he could lose me easily. There are too many directions he could go. And it’ll be busy out there at this time of night, giving him a chance to blend in with the crowd even more than he has inside the casino.
Pumping my arms faster, I fire up the afterburners.
As predicted, he sails through the lobby and out the main exit. My feet draw me to an abrupt stop once I hit the concrete of the porte cochere. My head swivels from side to side.
There’s no sign of him.
He got away. Dammit. And I don’t even know what he did.
The rent-a-cop finally catches up to me. He attempts to speak, but he has to bend at the waist to gasp for air.
Before he asks again, I flash my bureau ID and badge at him. “Take me to the surveillance control room. I need to review your footage.”
He shakes his head, lips pursing harshly. “I have to call this in. Nobody gets in there without approval.”
My teeth grind. “Just take me to the security office. I’ll discuss it with your boss directly.”
Reluctantly, he nods and leads me back inside.
While we head up there, I’ll figure out what the fuck I’m going to say to his boss. Because let’s face it. I’ve got nothing concrete. Something tells me I won’t get into the video room if I tell them that my little sister’s best friend gave him the evil eye and then he ran from me.
Not exactly much of a case there. And it’s not like my bubbly personality will win over the head of security. More likely to be the opposite.
Guess I’ll need to improvise.