43. Brian
CHAPTER 43
Brian
“Two weeks, Captain.” The voice on the other end of the line is sharp, unyielding, like the steel of a cannon. “That’s your deadline. If you can’t produce the family member you claim took your card, the facts speak for themselves. Your card. Stolen money. We can all do the math.”
Colby’s jaw clenches so tight I can almost hear his teeth grind, frustration pouring off him.
I jump in, trying to keep things from boiling over. “Sir, with all due respect, two weeks is nowhere near enough. We are making progress. If we just?—”
“Frankly, Mr. Bishop, the only reason you’ve even gotten this far is because your daddy called my daddy,” he spits, the word daddy dripping with contempt. What he really means is my congressman pulled strings with his chain of command.
I know better than anyone that pulling a move like this is the equivalent of firing a flare gun at a grizzly bear. To be done when you’re out of options and as a last resort because the backlash will be brutal .
And by the sound of his voice? Oh, yeah, he’s definitely pissed.
“You’ve been dragging this out long enough,” his voice snaps. “In two weeks, if this Angelina Spenser isn’t standing in front of me, you will be appearing before the military tribunal. Is that clear?”
Colby and I respond in unison, voices tight. “Yes, sir.”
The line goes dead with a sharp, emotionless click.
“Shit.” I rub my temple, the pressure building. “Where exactly is your XO located?”
Colby exhales, trying to keep it together. “Iceland. Secure as hell. Three military jets and a chopper just to get there—and that’s if we travel straight through.”
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “This is a goddamned nightmare.”
Colby leans back in his chair, deflated. “I’m screwed.”
“No, you’re not,” I insist, though every tick of the countdown echoes in my head.
Why Uncle Sam won’t just take the damn money and call it a day is beyond me. Instead, they’d rather make an example out of a decorated soldier like Colby.
Is there any universe where this makes sense?
My phone buzzes, vibrating against the desk. Logan’s name flashes on the screen. He’s got strict orders not to bother me unless something’s on fire, blown to pieces, or royally fucked, so I answer.
“What?”
“That tux appointment. The tailor called. Need me to cancel it?”
Right. The tailor. The one who would’ve come to me, no problem, but I didn’t want to make a fuss. I glance over at Colby. “I can cancel.”
“Don’t cancel,” he says, shaking his head. “Everyone’s been working around the clock, and you’ve been burning every spare minute on this. You have a life, too.”
“I’m still working on this.”
“I know you are. Your entire team is. It’ll be okay,” he says, but the half-hearted tone makes my gut sink. It’s killing him, and it’s killing me, too.
The second I’m out of earshot, I will be doubling the team on this. And offering the reward I held off on.
“We’ll find her,” I say, but the words feel thin.
Colby nods, but the weight of it all hangs heavy, like it’s slowly chipping away at whatever hope he’s got left.
By the time we step outside, he forces a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “So, a tux, huh? Hot date?” he teases.
I shrug, keeping it vague. “Something like that.”
I’m at the shop, standing in front of a three-way, full-length mirror as Irving, my go-to tailor for years, pins and tugs at the tux. His fingers work with practiced precision, and he’s muttering something about the fabric and shoulders, his Brooklyn accent lending authority to every word.
Not that it matters. I trust him implicitly, which is good, because my mind is a million miles away.
“My, my, my. Don’t we look good enough to eat,” a voice purrs like sticky sweet saccharine.
I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I see her in the mirror—the last person I wanted to deal with today. Roxie Voss.
The nightmare of a reporter. And the woman who got Jules fired.
My patience? Instantly razor thin.
The tux suddenly feels too tight, and I can almost picture myself lunging for her throat.
And where the hell is Logan? The one guy who can shield me from the masses—and, more importantly, shield them from my wrath? Gone. Out for coffee because, like the idiot I am, I sent him off to “stretch his legs.” Rookie mistake.
Now I’m trapped here, in a room with Roxana Voss, Bloodsucker Extraordinaire, the woman who somehow always manages to make me regret not bolting the door behind me.
“Tracking me down like a bloodhound on a still-warm corpse?” I say, turning to face her, my voice flat with irritation. “Whatever it is, you’re wasting your time.”
She smiles, slow and deliberate, like she’s got the secret of Oak Island safely tucked away. “Well, I hear the Excellence Media Gala is going to be the event of the year.”
Of course. She’s here to weasel her way into that. Always scheming, always calculating. Always day drinking way too much if she thinks she’s getting so much as a press badge from me.
Not today, Satan. Not today.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to crash it,” I say, deadpan, hoping she’ll get the message and leave.
But Roxie? She’s like a cheap wine stain that just won’t come out—persistent, insidious .
“Oh, darling,” she croons, stepping closer. “I don’t crash events. I create them.”
I stare her down, not even sure where this is going. “And?”
“And I’m giving you one last chance.”
“For?”
Her smile sharpens. “You promised me an exclusive.”
I smirk, unbothered. “So, sue me.”
Irving glances at me, awkward and fidgety, his eyes darting between us like he’s silently asking if he should bail. I give him a quick wave, letting him know he’s not going anywhere.
If anyone’s leaving, it’s definitely her.
Roxie crosses her arms, leaning against a counter. “Either you give me the exclusive, or you’ll be making headlines anyway.”
Really? A threat? Why am I even surprised?
I shake my head, “Fire away, Ms. Voss. Because you’re not getting jack shit from me.”
Logan strolls in, two coffees in hand, his eyes immediately narrowing at the viper in the room. “You need to leave,” he says, tone sharp and unflinching.
Even though he’s got a solid foot and at least a hundred pounds on Roxie, the look on his face says he’s one snide comment away from yanking her by that overpriced Birkin and drop-kicking her scrawny ass straight out the door.
Roxie’s smile stretches, slow and wicked, her eyes clinging to me like a leech sucking the life out of its host.
“I was just leaving,” she says, sauntering to the door with the confidence of someone who knows she’s left a bomb ticking in the closet.
She pauses at the threshold, glancing back with that same smug, self-satisfied grin. “See you at the gala,” she sings.
And it’s disturbing—like watching a creepy clown grin from the shadows, hunting you down with a red balloon. It’s not just that she showed up here, uninvited, or even the way she casually tried to blackmail me for an exclusive.
It’s those words.
See you at the gala.
Five simple, harmless words. Except they’re the exact same ones at the end of Sydney Sun’s last email.
Coincidence? Maybe.
Unease twists in my gut, the gnawing thought that Sydney Sun and Roxie Voss are somehow...connected. But why? My brain spins like a mouse on a wheel, running fast but getting nowhere.
“You all right?” Logan asks, breaking through the haze.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” he smirks, handing me my coffee.
I take a sip, but it does nothing to shake the unsettled feeling that something’s off. And for whatever reason, all I want is to talk to my girl.
Scratch that. I need to talk to her. I’m on edge, prickly, and the urge to check on Jules is clawing at me from the inside out.
Plus, a few words from her is all I need to smooth away all the wrinkles in my day. And right now, Roxie Voss is a big fucking wrinkle that I need gone.
I pull out my phone and hit dial.
On the second ring, Taylor picks up. Of course, she does. She’s the one who snagged Jules the gala invite in the first place, and if I know Jules, Taylor probably had to drag her, kicking and screaming, out of her jeans and into a dress.
“Wait until you see her,” she squeals, skipping the hello entirely.
And now, with Taylor gushing over how great my Peach Pop looks, everything seems strangely...normal. I’m not even sure why I called.
Still, my spidey sense doesn’t ease off. “Can I talk to Jules?”
“Nope. She’s in the middle of hair and makeup. We’re lucky she hasn’t bolted yet. If the glam team can’t keep her still, they’ll have no choice: horse tranquilizer.”
I exhale slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fine. So, everything’s...okay?”
“Yup.”
“So . . . I guess I’ll see you there.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, her tone casual, like she’s barely paying attention. Probably too busy admiring her reflection in her freshly manicured nails.
Now me calling is just getting weird. I’m not even sure why I’m still on the line. “Great. See you two there,” I mutter, feeling ridiculous as I hang up.