77. Aponi
Aponi
T he rec center was quiet. I’d stayed late, going over files I already had memorized, pretending I wasn’t waiting.
But I was.
Tag had said he’d stop by. Help strategize next steps. Grab food. Nothing official. Just... him and me. I was going to suggest he stay at the rec center. There was plenty of room and it had a kitchen.
So when the door creaked open and I heard his voice echo down the hall, something fluttered in my chest.
Then I heard hers.
A soft, breathy laugh.
I turned the corner too fast and regretted it immediately.
She was stunning.
Wavy blonde hair that fell over her shoulders like something out of a shampoo commercial. High heels in a neighborhood where most people wore sneakers. Her hand casually resting on Tag’s arm like it belonged there.
I froze.
Tag looked up. “Hey. Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
I shrugged, folding my arms. “Couldn’t sleep.”
His companion turned toward me. “You must be Aponi. Tag’s told me so much about you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Has he?”
She smiled—bright and polished and probably fake. “I’m Camille, an old friend of his.”
Of course, she had a name like Camille. Not a battle-hardened detective or trauma-worn fighter, but Camille, who probably had a matching set of luggage and used perfume that didn’t come from a drugstore.
Okay, I’ll let the two of you check out the place. I’m sure Camille would like a look around,” I said, grabbing my coat and turning. “I was going to ask if you would like to stay here. That way, you don’t have the long commute.”
“That would be great.”
I walked outside, climbed into my car, my Apartment was two blocks away.
Tag followed me out. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Damn it, I couldn’t keep quiet. “I’m just surprised that you go for women like Camille,” I was becoming angry. “I’m nothing like her. My skin is dark, my hair is black and straight,
Tag’s gaze sharpened. “What are you talking about? You think that’s what I want?”
“I don’t know what you want,” I said. “You don’t let anyone close enough to find out.”
He didn’t blink. “I know what I don’t want. And it’s someone fake.”
His hand lifted, not touching me—but close.
“You think those cheekbones of yours are a flaw?” he said softly. “You don’t even see it, do you?”
“See what?”
“That you walk into a room and people feel it. That kind of presence doesn’t come from a bottle, Aponi. It comes from surviving.”
My throat tightened.
“Next time you compare yourself to a woman like that,” he said, voice like gravel and warmth, “make sure you’re not selling yourself short.”
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
But somewhere deep in my chest… the wall cracked.
Just a little.