Chapter 13
Kellin
Brody’s reflection reveals his presence before he opens his mouth.
The mirror behind the hotel bar fractures him into thin, glittering slices. His jawline’s sharp, and the careful angle of his shoulders displays a man pretending to act casually.
He leans toward a stranger in an off-the-rack charcoal suit, speaking just above a whisper. Neither man drinks. They touch their glasses only to move them, swirling the golden spirits without sipping.
I duck out through the service exit and wedge a maintenance sign in the door.
It’s well past midnight, and I can’t risk Brody’s attention. Even if he can’t place me, he’s likely to scrutinize anyone who spends time with his sister.
The last thing I need is for him to identify me before I complete my current mission. I’d hate to waste Rory’s solid detective work.
Even in the small parking garage, a faint hint of salt and seaweed assaults my senses. The air contains none of the staleness I associate with my city.
Brody’s Escalade sits three rows down, pointed out for a quick exit. Black, with a darker than legal tint on the windows, but not much different from the celebrity cars around town.
I sink to a knee and slide a tracker under the chassis until the magnet kisses steel. After a telltale click, my phone pings with a notification to confirm activation.
Declan’s S-Class Mercedes waits in the covered level, a metallic obsidian that flaunts the Franklins he laid down for the purchase. I follow the driver’s side and stop where the door meets the fender. Another magnet, another press, another small, obedient ping.
Two pins on a map.
Trackers set, I venture over to my rental parked a few aisles away and set out for the suburbs of Santa Monica, peeling away from the pier and the Cypress’s palm trees.
During the short ride, my mind drifts. To soft lips, even softer curves, and the taste of Maeve’s mouth beneath my own.
Her hair’s heady aroma—warm vanilla and spice—and the tiny gasps that slipped out of her when my hands traced her sides.
That was one hell of a kiss.
Leaving things unfinished proved even more difficult than the night before, when I abandoned her in the hall outside my room.
But the payoff will be worth the sacrifice. She wanted more. Practically begged for it, with the way her body responded to my touch.
I just need to remember that this all ends once I get what I came for.
Easier said than done.
Brody’s neighborhood smells of wet lawn and citrus. A far cry from the boutique hotel’s curated scented oil and incense.
The houses sit far back from the street in neat little plots, which adds to the trickiness of this outing, but I manage to approach his single-story Mission Revival home unnoticed.
I fix one camera, disguised as a mud dauber nest, under the eave and another across the street, where the bougainvillea I parked under drops paper-thin petals on the curb.
Declan’s house is a longer drive. Palisades money prefers walls to hedges.
I park my car two blocks over and cut between streets on foot.
Declan’s home is, unsurprisingly, attractive but overly large. Three stories of white stucco, terracotta roof tiles, wide windows, and tasteful archways.
I spring the gardener’s latch with the sliver of steel I keep clipped to my hip and prowl past the rosemary bushes along the damp garden path.
Declan clearly doesn’t expect many visitors. Few cameras. No guards in sight. At least, not tonight. Just motion lights dragging white circles across the grass.
I flow with the darkness and nest one camera under the garage soffit. I hide a second one aimed at the side gate in a sago palm because that door offers an ideal entry point for visitors trying to avoid the neighbors’ prying eyes.
A perfect place for me to keep watch.
Back in my room at the hotel, I set the feeds to their quiet work and check the bug I planted in Maeve’s office beneath her desk. The red-blue-red lights of the pier’s Ferris wheel lull me to sleep sometime after two.
The ping wakes me like a knuckle to the base of the skull.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I blink blearily at the screen.
Brody’s on the move.
Within minutes, I’m dressed and in my rental. The freeway snakes southward in a fog. By the time the Port of Los Angeles rises into view, the marine layer has peeled wide open to reveal cranes, stacks, rail crates, and warehouses. The air reeks of diesel and rotting fish.
I park behind a semi and surveil Brody in my rearview mirror. He does a slow loop past a row of shipping containers, checking over his shoulder every so often.
He walks with his chin high, his alert eyes noting anything that doesn’t belong. Men like him always remain on the lookout for men like me.
Maeve’s younger brother’s not stupid.
When he disappears between stacks, I trail him. Off to the right, engines grunt. I slow my pace only to be scolded by a gull that glares at me from a container rim to my left.
Brody stops by a blue box with half-faded markings on the side and disappears inside the door.
The stenciled number—a cousin to one of ours that I saw three years ago on a dock in Newark—wakes up my brain. Different coast, same symbols.
I text a picture to Rory.
Look for paint, I type. Not newer than five years. Blue, half-faded logo, looks like an anchor but isn’t symmetrical.
He sends back a thumbs-up, then a ship emoji. Because even criminals succumb to emojis eventually.
My watch reads seventeen past eight when Brody reappears on the docks. He quickens his pace and almost jogs back to his SUV. By eight-twenty, he’s gone again, but this time, I don’t trail after him.
Two forklifts pass. After their reverse beeps, I count out thirty seconds. Then head to a concrete block, where I sit and wait. If I follow him out too quickly, he could spot me, and then I might as well kiss my cover goodbye.
The cool early morning breeze and mist off the water tickle my cheeks. The ocean brine washes over me with the incoming tide.
I try to keep my mind off Maeve. Really, I do.
But as I sit scrolling on my phone, I can’t suppress the memory of her sweet mouth, her tongue against mine, her wide, lust-darkened eyes…
Well, fuck.
Nothing better to do, I guess.
I open the app tied to the bug in Maeve’s office. Paper rustles, chairs creak, and a voice that isn’t hers fills my ear.
“…and you haven’t had any fun in ages, Maeve. And don’t even try to tell me last month’s budget report counted.”
Maeve offers a soft, distracted response. “It didn’t.” Fabric shifts. “Define fun.”
I can almost hear her smile.
The other woman huffs. “An activity that doesn’t end with your father’s number lighting your phone. Like a six-two investor in a snug tailored suit and forearms you could hang a weekend on.”
I shouldn’t care that Maeve’s friend—employee?—finds me attractive. But I do care if Maeve does.
Despite the late October chill, my neck warms.
The woman laughs a little. “I’m just saying, if the universe drops a package like that in your lap, you accept the delivery.”
Maeve snorts. “He’s a potential investor.” Another pause. “And dangerous.”
“Dangerous in ways that compel you to lock your doors, or dangerous because he wants you to leave them all wide open? You work yourself to the bone. When was the last time you treated yourself? Not your father, or the hotel, or the guests. Yourself.”
“I’m fine.” Her brief hesitation suggests otherwise.
A knock ends the discussion, and their voices fade as they exit the office.
I close the app and tuck my phone into my breast pocket.
Sitting on the cold concrete, I watch a ship nose in, and a sensation I never experience presses down on me, wrestling in my gut.
I feel torn between the job and the woman whose sweet-as-sin mouth I can’t stop fantasizing about.
The gulls scream. Forklifts beep. Tides shift in the water and inside my chest.
When I’m confident enough time has lapsed, I trek back to my car to follow Brody’s dot north.
Back in the hotel parking garage, the video feeds bloom across my laptop. Brody’s porch squints into daylight, and Declan’s gate waits patiently.
Maeve’s bug catches her humming as she works.
I shouldn’t waste my time listening, but I do.
Not because of the job.
Because I enjoy the sound.
I last an hour before I call her.
She answers on the third ring. “Kellin?”
“Bad time?”
“Not at all.” Paper glides under her hand. “Potential investor calls get a slot above the rest.”
“I’m not calling on business.” I don’t actually have a reason for reaching out, so I come up with one on the fly. “This is a selfish idea.”
A quiet hum. “That’s even more concerning.”
A smile quirks my lips. I’ve been doing that a lot more often lately. “Breakfast tomorrow before your day bogs down. I found a spot called the Venice Café. They serve real coffee and eggs that require a fork.”
She pauses as if considering, and I picture her tucking hair behind her ear. “We have a restaurant.”
“That’s everyone else’s breakfast. This one belongs to you.”
With a tightening chest, I wait a few breaths, eager for her to say yes.
“Seven-thirty. I’ll meet you.”
“No pickup?”
A small laugh. “I prefer to arrive on my own.”
“Good boundary.” I mean it. “Afterward, I’d love to tour a few of the local hotels with you, to get a better sense of the competition.”
Another pause. “Kellin?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for asking.”
Her gratitude lands warm and steady, like a delicate touch on my wrist.
When the line clicks, I return to my computer screen. For such an obscure entrance, Declan’s side path gets a lot of foot traffic. And though I know it’s an upscale neighborhood, I’m pretty sure landscapers don’t wear Italian leather loafers.
No activity at Brody’s since our morning outing to the port.
By the afternoon, New York’s tracked the manifest number I sent from the docks. Rory texts a photo of a peeled anchor logo. The one here has the wrong lines.
Not Irish Kings. Pretenders.
Brody’s circling a false flag, and Declan’s entertaining some interesting guests. Not enough info yet to route up the chain, though, so I wait to collect further intel.
Evening arrives before I’m ready. I ride the elevator to ground level, where the doors open to a sea of reds and oranges seeping in through the hotel glass. The lobby performs its daily aria of suitcases, laughter, and stifled conversation. Outside, people tilt cell phones at the sunset in worship.
I bask for a while myself, long enough to feel human, then stroll down to the pier to grab a burger and a beer.
Maeve’s comment to her friend pops into my head.
He’s dangerous.
Her friend asked what sort of danger. Maeve never answered.
But she still agreed to join me for breakfast, so maybe I fall somewhere between good dangerous and bad dangerous.
That works for me.
When I venture back up to my suite near midnight, my phone lights up with a confirmation.
Venice Cafe, 7:30.
Succinct and direct. Not even an emoji. Even as a text, confidence looks good on her.
I set three alarms and shave. I want to walk in smelling like soap instead of docks.
I lay out a starched white shirt with a jacket that hopefully plays up a good dangerous vibe.
The 9mm will stay behind.
With visions of red lips and chocolate brown eyes, I sprawl out on the bed and wait for dawn to drift in.