9. Zoe
9
ZOE
“We need to be more convincing.”
They’re the six words out of Gallagher’s mouth the moment we’re alone in our hotel room. I’m still lost as to what the hell happened in the lounge. I was in the middle of serving some of the patrons who’ll be competing in Boone’s tournament when he suddenly appeared at my side and pulled me away.
He was silent and tense the entire trip up to our room. A rarity for him.
Gallagher’s the type to be loud and mocking even in anger. He’s the guy who makes a scene even when he flies off the handle. For him to be so silent tells me I don’t have him as figured out as I thought.
He slams the door, flexing his hands open and shut. His fingers are long and tattooed, drawing my attention as they curl into tight fists again at his side. On his knuckles he has the words STEEL KING inked. The rest of both hands are tattooed to replicate a skeleton’s bones.
The design work is actually good, but I’m more distracted by how nice his hands are otherwise. His palms are wide, a little rough and calloused but not too much, knuckles large and round, fingers noticeably longer than mine…
I’m so distracted that for a second I forget why I was observing him in the first place—Gallagher’s pissed. He’s livid , pacing back and forth in the short hall of our hotel room.
I blink out of my temporary stupor and start dogging his steps. “Will you tell me what exactly your problem is? Why did we leave?”
He mutters something indistinguishable under his breath, anger clenched onto his usually relaxed face.
I’ve had enough breadcrumbs. Enough searching for context clues. I step in front of him and push at his chest to slow him down. The only problem is, I don’t think about how touching Oswald Gallagher’s chest will send a warm current shooting straight through me.
It’s like even that slight touch has made us exchange energy. Palms flush on his lean, firm chest, suddenly I’m warm all over. I might as well be running a fever as his eyes connect with mine and we find ourselves closer than we meant to be.
I immediately drop my hands and take a wide step back. “Tell me what the hell happened.”
“Boone’s still suspicious.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do I know that?” he repeats, his tone snappish. “’Cuz I know Boone better than you do, Strauss! He wouldn’t stop talking about you. He was testing me.”
My brows knit, trying to make sense of his conclusion. “Testing you how?”
“He kept… he was… he wanted to get a reaction out of me!”
“ Examples , Gallagher!”
“He and Chmura were making comments about you—sexual shit they knew would get a rise out of me!” he yells in my face. “He was testing me, trying to see how I’d react. It’s disrespectful to talk about a guy’s girl like that!”
I let his anger linger in the air for a moment and then calmly say, “But I’m not your girl, Ozzie.”
“It doesn’t matter. They think you are!”
“Okay, so you left to show them you wouldn’t stand for the disrespect… right?” I raise my brows.
He’s started pacing again, stepping around me to make it to the balcony. His hand slips into the pocket of his Dickies and he pulls out a carton of Ember cigs.
“Oh no you don’t! No smoking in this room… or anywhere around me.”
“I need to take the edge off. If I can’t drink like I want or fuck like I want or get hi?—”
“What, high? That doesn’t surprise me. Give them to me.”
I approach him with my hand out like a parent about to confiscate something. He raises his brows at me, so incredulous that it almost makes a dent in his enraged armor—he almost smirks in disbelief.
“It’s bad for you,” I add, surprised by how suddenly soft my tone sounds.
“I don’t give a fuck about cancer.”
“It makes your breath stink. And your clothes. And if I’m going to be kissing you, Gallagher, then I expect you to smell and taste good. Got it?”
Now his smirk does appear, twisting onto his lips and making my stomach flip. “When you put it that way, here. Take ’em. You owe me one just for me handing them over.”
I roll my eyes. “Will you ever stop bargaining for kisses, Gallagher?”
“I want a lot more than that. But a kiss or two’s good for now.”
He’s ribbing me, pushing my buttons, doing exactly what he’s pissed at Boone for doing—trying to get a rise out of me.
I know this, yet as I roll my eyes and shake my head, I’m halfway amused. If there’s one thing that’s begrudgingly true about Oswald Gallagher, it’s that he keeps things interesting. He manages to almost make me laugh and forget who I am for a second.
Special Agent Zoelle Strauss on a life or death undercover mission. The most important case of my entire career.
I take the pack of cigarettes and turn my back on him, deciding I’ll toss out the Ember’s later when he’s not around.
But I’ve successfully taken Gallagher’s mind off his tiff with Boone. I’m now the focus of his attention.
“You called me Ozzie earlier. Did you catch that?”
“Slip of the tongue, Gallagher. Don’t get used to it.”
“You should call me that. And I should call you by your first name. It’ll help us feel less forced, less formal with each other.”
He has a point. As it stands, I’m freezing up anytime he’s putting his hands on me. Earlier he’d called me babe from across the lounge and it didn’t register who he was speaking to. If we’re going to convince Asa Boone and the others, we’re going to have to be more natural.
“Alright,” I sigh. I slip out of my high heels and drop down onto the edge of the bed. “Then tell me what you had in mind for us getting to know each other better, Ozzie baby .”
He hangs his head and groans. “Only you could make that sound professional. Are we coworkers at a bank? You gonna shake my hand next?”
I reach for a pillow and hurl it at him, slugging him right in the face. “What the hell’s wrong with how I sound? Am I supposed to talk in a stupid baby voice like some women do with their man? HA!”
“How do you usually sound with the guys you date? You do date… right?”
“I promise you I can have a man whenever I want, Gallagher!” I snap, fired up at once.
He holds up both hands. “I didn’t say you couldn’t. You could probably find five guys in the lobby downstairs. But getting a guy is easy for a chick like you. All you’ve gotta do is smile and show some titty or ass and he’s taking the bait. The real question is, when was your last relationship?”
I should have a better poker face by now for these conversations.
As Ozzie poses his question, brows raised and a knowing glint in his blue eyes, more heat flushes over me. I part my lips to speak, then roll them together, blinking and fuming. I take a second too long to react and prove his point—I’ve never been the relationship type.
I turn thirty-one soon and I’ve had two official boyfriends.
The first in college, which ended horribly with him cheating on me with my best friend Gia and me kneeing him in the balls. The second was during my first year out in the field, and even that wasn’t a proper relationship. I started dating my division manager at the time, making for an awkward dynamic at work. In the end, he dumped me when he got a promotion and had to move to New York City on a special assignment.
All the other men I’ve been with—the Tinder dates, the college hook ups, the occasional fuck buddy from the gym—have been casual. No-strings-attached sex and nothing more. Some of them didn’t even know my real name. I damn sure didn’t know much about them either.
But that’s always how I’ve preferred it.
I’ve either been too busy focusing on my career in the FBI or dealing with my family troubles. I’ve been brutally aware of my own issues and how it inhibits me from ever having a normal, healthy romantic relationship…
My pause ends as I release a sigh and decide there’s no point trying to prove Gallagher wrong.
“It’s been years,” I answer tepidly. “I’m not big on relationships. I prefer to keep things casual.”
His reaction is… interesting.
A range of mild confusion, then surprise, then a nod of acceptance as he runs his hands over his mohawk and gives it some thought.
“You know what, I can see it.”
My brow arches. “See what exactly?”
“You preferring casual. You don’t seem like you’re…” He pauses as if deciding on a word. “You don’t come across like a very sentimental chick.”
“For one, I’m not a chick. I’m a woman . For two, being sentimental gets you killed in my line of work. It’s your turn, Galla—Ozzie. You’re a pussyhound, so I’m guessing there’s no special ‘chick’ in your life? Though bikers do have a rep for fucking around.”
He laughs and drops down on the opposite side of the bed. His body language is so much more relaxed than mine without even trying. It’s his nature to be so loose and casual at all times. Meanwhile, my posture’s straight even when relaxing.
“Pussyhound,” he repeats. “You know, that should’ve been my moniker at the club. Mace, Cash, Ghost, Silver… and Pussyhound. It describes me to a T. But, yeah, you’re right—there’s no special girl.”
“Not a relationship guy?”
“Nah, I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. Can’t even name ’em all.”
“That’s charming.”
“But it never works out. They usually find something better and leave.” He shrugs as if used to it, then grabs his lighter off the nightstand. He flips the lighter open and shut for entertainment. “So tell me about the guys you hook up with. What gets Special Agent Zoe Strauss going?”
The same funny flutter returns to my stomach. I sit with my legs folded and heat spreading across my skin as he poses his question with an air of casual curiosity.
I’m not sure why it feels weird to hear him ask; I’m not sure why it feels even weirder to answer.
We’re supposed to know each other intimately. People in relationships disclose parts of their past all the time. They talk about likes, dislikes, hopes, fears, good and bad memories…
…except you’re not the vulnerable type.
You never have been. You never will be.
I busy myself with picking at the skin of my nail bed. “I don’t know what to tell you. I like men. All types.”
“You like White guys?”
It’s such a blunt question that comes out of nowhere, I look up at him and laugh.
Ozzie being Ozzie, he grins. “It’s a valid question. Lots of Black chicks don’t... which is understandable. Some of us are fucking lame.”
I’m so thrown, I’m still smiling as I shake my head and answer, “I just told you all types.”
“I bet you like the gym rats. Big, muscly dudes.”
He’s not entirely wrong. If I did have a type, it would be the kind of man who’s often spending hours in the gym working out.
But that’s mostly because that’s where I’ve usually been during my free time. I don’t have many friends or any hobbies and my family’s so fucked up that I lose myself in working out. I have so much energy, even by the end of my grueling workday, that I have to go to the gym to expend some of it or I’d go insane.
There was a point in time when I’d leave the gym more often than not with a guy I’d met that evening. We’d go back to one of our places—or maybe even a hotel in some rare cases—and then fuck.
Just another way for me to get all the energy out of my system.
“I’m taking your silence as a yes,” Ozzie goes on.
“How would you know what I like?”
“You’re one of those alpha type chicks. You might act all take charge and strong, but I bet you like the kinda guy who’s willing to toss you around. A guy who can handle you.”
My cheeks are warm. If not for my dark complexion, I’d be red all over. I’m grateful for the melanin protection as I clear my throat. “And you? You frequent strip clubs, so let me guess. You’re attracted to filler lips and plastic titties the size of my head.”
He flicks the lighter shut and sits up from where he’s laid back on the bed. Both run-of-the-mill moves that shouldn’t mean anything, yet they feel like a precursor coming from him. He leans closer ’til we’re only a few inches apart. I find myself taking in a breath and holding it.
“I find all kind of women attractive,” he tells me. “And tits don’t need to be fake or the size of anybody’s head—you’ve got a very nice pair, Special Agent.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
His gaze dips to my chest only briefly before returning to my face. “Definitely fucking with you,” he admits. “But also… what’s that saying? There’s truth in jest?”
I’m left speechless as he winks at me and then gets up from the bed. The mattress shifts from his movement, though I remain shocked and wooden.
“Anyway,” he says, tugging off his V-neck shirt. “I’m gonna jump in the shower. It’s getting late and something tells me Boone’s about to be on some shit tomorrow.”
I spend the fifteen minutes he’s in the bathroom inhaling deep breaths and forcing myself to calm down.
It’s been a while since I’ve been around someone who so easily gets under my skin. Ozzie knows exactly what he’s doing flirting and teasing me. He seems to enjoy the reactions he’s able to draw out of me. Even better if he gets to invade my personal space as he does it.
I wait another half hour before I head into the bathroom for my shower and nighttime routine. I’m not sure what I expect walking in after him, but it’s not a damn near perfect bathroom. His trailer had been a mess .
Yet he’s taken care to use only one bath towel and even neatly folded it over the towel rack to dry. There’s no water spilled on the floor or the counter. The shower’s squeaky clean and almost untouched if not for his scent lingering in the air.
Something fresh and clean like soap and pine.
The smell is such a contrast to the man in a mohawk and dozens of tattoos that the wires in my brain become crossed.
I’m confused breathing in his scent and then finding it… pleasant.
I take my time in the bathroom. Stalling. Doing things like shaving my armpits and legs and then oiling my scalp. I unscrew the cap of my meds and wash them down with a paper cup filled with water. Anything to drag out the time before I have to go back out there.
Ozzie’s already in bed when I finally emerge in a tank top and sleep shorts. He’s got nothing but his boxers on, one arm curled under his head, the other relaxed at his side as he grips the remote. His eyes immediately dart from the TV to me, doing a quick once over.
In reality, it lasts less than a second.
But it’s long enough that I feel like he’s taken a snapshot in his head of what I look like. He’s memorized every small detail from how the straps hang on my shoulders to how the shorts fit on my hips. I’m left warm like earlier, acutely aware of his attraction.
Attraction that’s more than teasing on his part.
Attraction that might be a little more mutual than I’ve led on.
I stare straight ahead and ignore looking directly at him as I march toward my side of the bed. That doesn’t make a difference to him—he openly stares anyway, watching as I fluff my pillow and plug my phone into the charger.
He notices my last second hesitation before climbing in bed. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll behave myself. I promise you’ll survive the night.”
“Something tells me you’d prefer not to be kneed in the groin. So you don’t really have a choice.”
He grins crookedly. “How many times do I have to tell you that’s right up my alley? Night, Zoe.”
“Night,” I murmur, reaching for the lamp.
We sleep with the TV on, the volume down low.
Ozzie’s a back sleeper. He remains in the same position, clutching the remote, his other arm hooked over the top of his pillow. I’m a side sleeper, so I’m forced to either face the balcony and the curtains or… face him.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Time becomes relative as I slip off and jolt awake thinking it’s been hours. Checking my phone tells me it’s actually only been forty minutes. I fall asleep again and find myself tossing and turning. My eyes are closed but I’m still lucid.
When I do convince my brain to finally stop going a hundred miles a minute, I sink into tense, vague dreams about Mom and Dad. Zani’s home again and I’m obsessed with scrubbing the floor clean. Someone’s pounding on the door and Zani’s begging Dad not to answer.
“Please… don’t let him in… don’t let him in!”
“He’s no good,” Mom slurs. She shakes her head, then shuffles over to the stereo to put her music on. Al Green as always, the perfect escape. “Always getting us into some foolishness.”
I scrub at the floor, refusing to look up. The sponge leaks soap and water as I squeeze it and then scrub harder and harder at the tiles.
Instead, the blood spreads. It pools across the tiles the more I try to wipe it clean.
Why won’t it go away? Why won’t these stains disappear? Why doesn’t it ever get clean again?
I grit my teeth and put more muscle into it, scrubbing so hard that my wrist aches…
My stomach’s hit with the sensation that I’m falling. My eyes pop open and I cling to my pillow, slowly realizing I’m still in bed. I was dreaming and it started to feel a little too real.
Careful so as not to disturb Ozzie, I swipe my phone off the nightstand and get up to go out onto the balcony. I pause, easing the glass door to the side, and glance over my shoulder one last time. If I didn’t know any better, his breathing pattern has changed. His eyes were open, if only for a quick second.
But when I look back, he’s as still as ever. He’s seemingly sound asleep.
Maybe I’m imagining things.
I step out onto the balcony and survey the glittering view of the Strip from twelve stories up. The warm summer night air brushes my skin and reminds me I’m awake now. I’m no longer trapped in that dream, reliving some warped version of the past.
I’m in Vegas and I’m on the cusp of avenging my sister.
So close to finally taking Boone down that I can almost taste it. No matter what I have to do, no matter the cost, I’m going to make him suffer. Even if I destroy myself in the process.
The next morning, Benz texts me to show up at the casino lobby. Ozzie’s still in bed when I slip out from underneath the covers and grab my toiletry bag to head into the bathroom. I shower, brush my teeth, and wash my face before realizing I didn’t bring in a change of clothes. Wrapping my body up in a bath towel, I crack the door open and peek out.
Ozzie hasn’t budged an inch. His eyes are closed.
I spring forward like a gazelle, my steps quick and bouncy, toes barely touching the floor. I make it all the way to my suitcase assuming I’m undetected.
Then, as I’m clutching my towel to my chest and carefully reaching into a side pouch for underwear, Ozzie speaks.
“I never pegged you as a bikini cut kinda girl.”
“Ah!” I squeak, jumping in surprise. The pair of panties almost slips through my fingers until I clench them shut and catch the clingy fabric at the last possible second. “Can you not do that? Were you pretending to be asleep?”
He props himself up by his elbow, a sleepy grin slashed across his face. “Morning to you too, babe. Where’re you off too?”
“I got a text from Benz. He wants me downstairs in the casino. Probably to set up for the party tonight.”
“Lemme throw some pants on. I’ll come with.”
“I’ve got it,” I say offhandedly, collecting the rest of my outfit. I’ll be keeping it casual ’til Benz demands otherwise. Jeans and a t-shirt are far from the club uniform of a belly-baring cropped top and teeny tiny mini skirt, but they’re infinitely more comfortable.
Ozzie still seems like he wants to come with me as I emerge from the bathroom dressed and ready to go.
There’s something slightly… endearing about how he looks watching me go. The gel has worn off his normally stiff and spiky mohawk, causing his hair to droop almost like puppy dog ears. His body language remains slack and relaxed, though his expression tells a different story—it reads as concern he’s probably used to playing off.
I avoid looking at him as I mutter goodbye and head for the elevator.
Benz is already waiting in the casino lobby. He’s alone, dressed much more nondescript than usual in a simple polo and khaki shorts. I’m so used to his gaudy gold, baroque printed shirts that I almost don’t recognize him. He flags me down once I’m several paces away.
The casino’s surprisingly crowded for being half past nine a.m. The slot machines ring nonstop and the air reeks of the chemical blend of cigarettes and lemon air freshener. I cut a direct path toward him wondering if any of the other girls like Sugar or Venus will be joining us.
“There you are, Jade,” he says, grabbing at my elbow. “Let’s find somewhere private to talk.”
I pull my arm back from his reach. “About what?”
“About the fact that I know what you’re up to. You’re the police informant.”