Chapter 6 #2
“Yeah.” She nodded immediately with an air of nonchalance that sounded forced.
She turned and strode into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary for the cheap hollow door.
He dropped to the bed and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely.
She was shaken, and he knew why. She’d seen things like this before.
Things that haunted her.
* * * * *
Opal had never been a great sleeper. She spent too many years waking to her parents arguing and hiding beneath her covers, waiting for some object to smash, so she’d never developed the knack for sleeping through noise.
Later, when her mom worked nights, she was left alone in the motel and never got more than a few fitful minutes at a time.
Until the day when she glanced outside her bedroom window to see a man sitting on the patio.
The moonlight washed over his familiar sinewy form, and she’d felt herself relax for the first time she could remember.
After that, Smith sat outside her window, never speaking, never knocking.
Just watching over her like some hard-ass guardian angel.
Sleeping next to Caius Sinclair offered a different sort of distraction from dreamland. Two pillows lay between them like they’d negotiated a ceasefire. But the barrier didn’t provide privacy.
Every time the man shifted or his breathing changed, her awareness sharpened, yanking her back to the surface before she could drift too deep.
She never expected to get a restful night’s sleep while sharing a bed with a man who was pretending to be her husband, but she was jealous as hell of his ability to pass out.
She pushed onto one elbow to peek over the pillow wall to see him on his back, his rugged features smoothed in a sort of peace she wished she could achieve. Stealing looks at a sleeping man felt wrong, but it was a good time to study him when he wasn’t aware of what she was doing.
He was good-looking in the bad-boy way she hadn’t guessed was her type until being thrown into this op. A shadow of stubble darkened his cheeks and carved jaw. Her fingers twitched towards him without conscious direction, but she pulled them back.
Lowering herself to the mattress again, she closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop her body from aching to know if his beard was rough or soft.
When the alarm went off, she was already awake.
She moved quietly through the routine of getting ready for her fake job.
The outfit Sophie lent her fit better than she expected, and when she glanced in the mirror, she was pleased with how it appeared to be tailored for her.
She also appreciated the efficiency of that little steamer Kennedy sent.
Without it, she’d still be trying to torture the wrinkles out of those trousers.
Two strangers had helped her look the part she needed to play. She was grateful, but kindness without strings was foreign territory. Maybe the strings would show up later.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Sinner was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in cargo pants and a gray T-shirt that molded to every muscled inch of his arms and chest.
He tracked her movements around their small room as she debated whether she had time to brew a pot of coffee.
“You look ready to conquer the day.”
She grabbed the sensible handbag Kennedy lent her and paused in front of Sinclair. Sinner. Caius. Mike.
She finally landed on the name she was supposed to call him, but he didn’t look like a Mike at all.
“I’m ready for anything.” His cocky answer was exactly what she’d expect from a man in ghost ops.
“I bet that’s your motto.”
He chuckled, a deep, low rumble that sent a vibration straight to her chest. But she wasn’t focused on his voice.
Every cell of her body was locked in at the way he was looking at her.
Brown eyes roaming over her hair that she’d spent more time on like it was her first day of school. Then raking over her face and lingering a beat too long on her lips, before making a slow sweep of her body.
He leaned closer. “And I do mean anything.”
She issued a snort that sounded too much like a gasp. “All men think they’re God’s gift to women. It’s all talk.”
He cocked a brow. “I’m not all men. I’ve got a plaque on the wall in Quantico.”
Her fist balled at her side. To punch him? Or grab him by the shirt and make him show her if he really was ready for anything?
She didn’t respond to his long perusal, only arched a brow in silent question.
“You look the part.”
She glanced down at herself. “So do you. Oh wait. What are you missing? Ah, got it.” She snagged the bottle of fake pills from the dresser and tossed them to him. She needed the action to cut the tension coiling low in her belly at their talk about being ready for anything.
Sinner caught the pill bottle midair and stuffed them in his pocket. His pants fit him like a glove, tight in all the right places. The visible outline of the bottle left no doubt as to what he carried.
“I can’t be late.” She swung toward the door.
Before she took a single step, long, rough fingers wrapped around her wrist. She went dead still, body locked down tight as her instinct to fight her way out of the hold rushed through her veins.
But she didn’t fight. She tilted her head up to meet his stare.
“Be careful.”
Why did her stomach dip like that? And why did his fingers feel so warm against her skin?
She pulled in a deep breath and regretted it as his fresh-from-the-barber scent hit her senses. She managed to nod…but failed at keeping her stomach from doing a wild flip.
“I will.” Why did her voice sound like that, all breathy and soft?
The entire drive to the office, thoughts of that encounter tumbled through her mind. By the time she arrived, she had to force thoughts of her fake husband out of her head.
She didn’t immediately get out of her car, taking a moment to gather herself and drink in her surroundings. She’d never score drugs in this revitalized section of the city with its clean sidewalks, but according to Dante’s map, a short walk would provide what she was looking for.
When Opal walked inside, her nerves locked down tight, silencing any emotions she might have felt. She had to be at her best, and she refused to fail.
Her workstation was tucked into a quiet corner, exactly where an underling belonged. She was assigned basic accounting work—budget tracking for minor programs and expense reports no one else wanted to handle.
She had to hand it to Dante and Elin. It was the perfect cover. She had no authority but plenty of access.
Opal worked steadily through the morning because no one talked to new hires, so she was left out of the watercooler chitchat.
At lunch, she took her brown paper bag outside and found a bench where she could watch the street without looking like she was watching.
The sandwich inside was plain—turkey, bread, nothing else. But she ate it slowly, remembering a time when a meal like this would have been a feast.
As she ate, she took in her surroundings. People coming and going, mothers holding the hands of small children.
Then she noticed the same guy two times…three times. Lingering near the corner. Once in a while, a passerby would stop. Their interaction was casual, their pauses too brief. Hands met very briefly in what looked like greetings before they walked away as if nothing happened.
The man on the corner didn’t stand out—average build, forgettable face. But even from this distance, she saw how he scanned the street.
Get in there. Don’t think.
Smith’s voice echoed in the recesses of her mind. Instantly, she was moving. She stuffed the sandwich back into the bag and stood.
She slipped into the flow of pedestrians headed back to work after their break. As she approached the guy, she flicked her gaze to his face and didn’t look away as she slowed her steps.
He cocked a brow at her.
She paused. “I don’t suppose you have oxy,” she said quietly. “My husband hurt his back at work.”
The man studied her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Not on me.”
She tightened her lips in a line of disappointment. “Might you later?”
The guy glanced up and down the street. Without looking at her, he asked for her number.
Her stomach gripped, but she recited the new number of the burner phone she’d memorized from the file.
He leaned casually on a signpost as if waiting for the bus. “I’ll be in touch.”
She squared up next to him like she was waiting for public transportation too. “When?”
“When you get out of work.”
Without a word, she turned and tossed the lunch bag in the nearby trashcan before walking back to the office building without a backward glance.
Inside, she took a detour into the restroom and locked herself in a stall to text her partner.
Got something.
Sinner’s response was instant. When?
After work.
Three dots appeared on the screen for a long time, as if he couldn’t choose his words.
She mentally urged him to reply but she didn’t have time to wait. She pocketed the phone and flushed the toilet in pretense before washing her hands and returning to her cubicle. The afternoon passed in a blur of numbers.
When her phone finally buzzed, the message was short. A time and place with no explanation.
Game on. A familiar calm settled over her.
She entered the address into her GPS. The deal wouldn’t take long. A few minutes, maybe less. Her role was to make herself visible without getting busted buying street drugs. The entire point was to be noticed and start the trickle of rumors that a woman who worked for the government was desperate.
She left work at the appropriate time and drove to the address. The neighborhood deteriorated with every block. After parking, she took a moment to silence her phone. Interruptions during drug deals were always bad.
She stepped out of the car and hooked her purse over her shoulder.
She always operated alone, but every step that drew her closer to the location of the meeting, she realized it might be nice to be like Blackout, and always have someone to trust. To have on her six.
The alley was narrow and darkened with shadows, the air heavy with damp and rot. The man waited for her halfway down, leaning against the brick wall like he paid rent on the place.
She approached quickly, heels tapping on the cracked pavement, and stopped a few feet away. “I need a week’s supply.”
He stared at her.
“How much?”
“Depends.” He smiled, slow and unpleasant.
Great. She seen her share of drug deals growing up, so she knew this guy’s type in one glance. Sleezy.
“Depends on what?” She kept her tone even.
“On what you’re willing to trade.” His gaze slid over her with lazy entitlement—not at all the way Sinner had looked at her that morning. “Money’s not the only currency, after all.”
Unease curled through her like smoke, but she focused on keeping her pulse steady. “I’m married. This is for my husband. He’s hurt, like I said.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He stepped closer. “Judging from the amount you’re buying, I bet you’re not getting much at home.” His grin broadened. “I’m sure you know all about dope dick.”
Why did men always have to make transactions about sex? Anger flashed in her, hot and jagged. But she stuffed it down—her cover was most important—and told him to name a price.
Instead of answering, he shot out a hand and locked it around her wrist. He yanked her forward. She stumbled, the expensive heel catching in a crack.
He shoved her into the wall, hard, the rough brick scraping her face as he tore at her blouse.
Her insides went cold.
Her mind cleared. And Smith’s training took over.
She twisted her wrist, driving her elbow into his ribs before he could react. When he grunted and his fingers slackened, she brought her knee up hard, and her aim was true.
With a strangled gurgle, he crumpled.
Smith’s voice flowed through her mind. Never walk away until it’s finished.
For good measure, she slammed the guy’s head into the brick, hard enough to disorient him.
She crouched quickly, reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag of pills. She tossed the cash at him. “Keep the change.” Her voice was flat.
She walked away without running, shoes rubbing raw against her heels with every step. Inside the car, she locked the doors and forced her breathing to slow before pulling calmly into traffic.
As the city blurred past her windshield, Opal’s blood raced with familiar adrenaline. She forced herself to focus, going through the motions of coming down from a fight using habits drilled into her long ago by Smith.
Regulate your breathing. Clear your mind. Catalog injuries later.
The bag of pills lay buried in her purse. Dammit. Her handler at Quantico would tell her all the mistakes she’d made in that deal. She might have scored drugs, but when word spread on the streets, no one would sell to her again.
She touched the scrape where the brick had caught her. It stung, but was nothing like her first black eye.
Sinner would notice. SEALs were trained to notice everything. And he watched her closer than any person ever had in her life. The only person she could claim knew her well was Smith. She trusted Smith with her training and to have her back.
What would happen right now if Sinner stepped into that alley? He’d finish off that man to avenge her. The realization hit with a force that pounded through her veins along with adrenaline.
When she got back to the hotel, he would have questions she wasn’t ready to answer…like who taught her how to fight with zero hesitation and pure muscle memory.
The kind they both knew Quantico didn’t build.
It was the type of skill a person learned when their life depended on it.
Opal had no intention of telling him how she learned.