Chapter 7
Nina
I’m parked in the cell phone waiting lot at LAX, and regretting every life choice that led to me being the one who offered to pick them up.
It’s a thousand degrees outside, traffic is a migraine with a siren, and every five minutes the same white SUV keeps circling like it’s going to find a closer portal to hell.
I crack the windows. My phone’s in the cupholder, open to the arrivals board, but I don’t need to check again.
I already know Mason and Callie’s flight landed ten minutes ago.
Which means I’ve got at least twenty more before they clear customs, grab their bags, and text me that they’re ready to be summoned from the apocalypse that is Terminal B.
Plenty of time to spiral.
My stomach flutters again. Not with nerves or hunger, but that same weird swoop that started somewhere around Kingman, Arizona three days ago when the smell of pepperoni jerky made me gag and the slushie I was craving turned into antifreeze in my mouth.
I blamed travel stress. A tight timeline. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. I told myself I’d feel better once I got to LA and stopped living out of a cooler and a box of protein bars.
But I’ve been here a week and the nausea hasn’t gone away.
And my period is late.
Four days, maybe five. I haven’t checked the app because I don’t want to see the confirmation in digital ink. Besides—this wouldn’t be possible.
Not possible possible. I have an IUD. I’ve always used condoms.
Except for one night.
The only night.
The night that still feels like a dream.
I close my eyes. Let my head fall back against the seat. My chest is tight, but I’m still pretending it’s from the heat.
A memory flares—uninvited, sharp around the edges.
Chris’s mouth against my collarbone. Wyatt’s hands at my hips.
My body pressed between them, one breath away from unraveling.
I remember the way Chris had growled my name like it was a curse and a promise all at once, while Wyatt whispered that I was safe—safe—with both of them inside me, grounding and breaking me in the same breath.
The weight of it still presses against my skin. And I know—I know—I should have called one of them by now. Texted. Something. But what would I say?
Sorry I left? Sorry I took something we can’t give back? Sorry it meant too much to all of us?
I grip the steering wheel like it might keep me upright. Like I didn’t dissolve in their arms that night and then run two weeks later before I had to admit how much these feelings terrified me.
The week’s been a blur. New office, which is really one half of a mid-century modern home in Cheviot Hills.
Something I’d never have afforded on my regular DEA consultant salary, but that comes with the new job, courtesy of the Agency’s deep pockets.
It’s like they want to keep me in a bubble they control, but at least it doesn’t come with a rent bill.
I have a new “team.” Two new employees I didn’t choose, but who already feel like extensions of the architecture.
Darius Washington introduced himself with a smile too warm to be fake and a fidget cube that’s been clicking nonstop ever since.
“Receptionist-slash-intake coordinator,” he said, and then handed me a coffee better than anything I’ve had in a year.
We both pretended the “interview” was real, even though I already knew he was an embedded CIA handler.
Probably ex-FBI or military psych, with the way he notices everything and pretends not to.
The way he carries himself like he’s more comfortable in tactical gear than a blazer and slacks.
Lucia Mendez didn’t bother pretending.
She handed me a file with network specs, a hard drive labeled LAN Ghost, and said, “No offense, but your passwords suck.”
Lucia is basically IT on steroids. She showed up in high-top sneakers, black joggers, and a t-shirt that said I void warranties, and somehow still made me feel underdressed.
Her leather messenger bag looks like it could hack the Pentagon on its own.
She’s probably killed someone with a USB stick.
But she had the panic button and camera system online before I finished my first intake mock session, so I’m not complaining.
We haven’t spoken much. Not yet. But there’s a shorthand between them that speaks to long history—quiet jokes, nonverbal cues, professional rhythm. They’re good. Too good to be reassigned lightly. Which means someone high up is taking this op very seriously.
Too bad I’m the part of the op they can’t predict.
My phone buzzes.
CALLIE: Just got through immigration. Grabbed Mason’s bag while he was chatting with airport security about “the value of civil liberty” see you in 20?
NINA: Be there. Welcome home.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and exhale.
The nausea’s low-grade now. Lingering. A constant reminder of something I’ve been trying not to admit.
But I’m still pretending this is stress, adjustment, anything but what I know it could be.
I shift the car into gear. Pull out of the lot and head into the LAX labyrinth, telling myself one last time that everything is fine.
The pickup lane is a hellscape of minivans and rideshares and that one guy in a Tesla who thinks blinkers are optional.
I loop twice before finally spotting them near the end of the terminal.
Mason’s got his sunglasses shoved up on his head and his arms full of luggage.
Callie waves me down with one hand while texting with the other, as if she isn’t freshly back from two weeks of beachside sex and zero cell reception.
I pull in and hit the hazard lights. Jump out like I’m normal. Like my stomach isn’t trying to turn itself inside out.
Callie hugs me first.
Her arms are soft and tight around my shoulders and she smells like sunscreen and hotel soap. The sheer comfort of her embrace makes my chest pull tight.
“You made it,” she murmurs. “You look—”
“Don’t say it,” I mutter. “I’m aware.”
She leans back and searches my face, not teasing anymore, and the weight of her attention settles over me.
“Later,” she says, and I nod because we both know she’s not going to let me off the hook.
Mason pulls me into a one-armed hug that’s mostly shoulder and suitcase. “Thanks for playing Uber,” he says. “I owe you a burrito.”
“You owe me traffic trauma therapy,” I grumble, popping the hatch so he can load the bags. “LAX is a war crime.”
Callie slides into the passenger seat while Mason wrangles the rest. He then begins the process of folding his large frame into the back seat of my Mini Cooper.
By the time he’s settled, his head brushes the ceiling and his knees practically reach his ears.
I almost offer to let him drive, but the sight is entertaining enough to make me briefly forget my troubles.
The minute the doors close, it’s quiet again. As quiet as it gets in LA.
“So?” Callie asks, once we’re back on the road. “How’s the new place?”
“Shiny. Secure. Haunted by the ghosts of furniture staging past.”
She laughs, but it’s gentle. “You settling in?”
“Trying.”
It’s not a lie. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to make this feel like a fresh start and not a trapdoor.
“How’s the team?”
“They’re…” I pause. “Actually great.”
Mason makes a skeptical noise from the back. “That sounded like someone who just found a spider in her sock drawer.”
I smile, even though my stomach churns. “They’re just...very competent. It’s unsettling.”
Callie grins. “I can’t wait to meet them.”
Marcella opens their front door before we’ve even pulled all the way into the small gated driveway, standing tall with Zoey perched confidently on one hip, her tiny hand tangled in Marcella’s necklace.
Marcella’s in a linen wrap dress—nothing flashy, just crisp and intentional—and her silver-streaked hair is pinned up in a way that says she still believes in showing up for life.
There’s flour on her cuff, a smudge of something pink on her cheek, and a tired smile that’s rooted in joy.
She looks like a woman who’s spent years surviving, and only just recently remembered what it feels like to live.
Callie lingers at the bottom of the porch steps while Mason hoists both their suitcases in one go—rolling one behind him, the other slung over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. He disappears into the house without fanfare.
Callie’s still watching me with that quiet knowing look that makes it impossible to pretend I’m fine.
“Want to come with me to pick up dinner?” she asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. She pulls keys out of her purse and the garage door at the other end of the driveway begins to open, revealing her Audi. The alarm chirps and the lights flash.
I blink. “Didn’t you just come back from a resort? Isn’t your bloodstream still 70% ceviche?”
She smiles, small and crooked. “Marcella said she defrosted some soup, but it’s not enough for everyone. She’s still having trouble holding a knife with her right hand, so we promised her takeout tonight. Pull your car out and park in front. I’ll drive.”
“You don’t want to shower? Or lie down for a year?”
“I want a gallon of lemonade and twenty minutes alone with you where no one under the age of three is yelling.”
Before I can answer, the front door opens again. Mason steps out, takes a glance in the backseat just to make sure nothing got left behind and then plucks Zoey out of his mother’s arms and blows a raspberry on the little girl’s belly.
I can’t hide my flinch at the baby’s squeal of delight.
“I’ll let them know. Meet me in front,” Callie says, giving my arm a squeeze.
She heads up the steps, and I slide back into my car, hands tightening on the wheel as I put it into reverse.