22. Easton
Easton
“Feels so cold, sterile, and impersonal,” she murmurs, shutting the laptop. Her shoulders dip in a way that guts me. She shouldn’t have to rebuild anything.
This is also the shift I was afraid of. Clothes were the distraction she needed. But this room drags her right back into Jezebel’s hands.
“It’ll take a little time to get used to, that’s all.
” I fold my arms, resting my lower back against a nearby table of techy shit.
“You have everything saved on your hard drive, right? You can reload it? Sync it? Whatever it’s called.
” I lift my chin toward the laptop resting beneath her palm.
“And I’ll get you some new stickers, don’t worry. ”
“Yes and yes.” She slowly faces me. “And yes to the stickers.” A partial smile slips across her full mouth, but it’s forced, which unnerves me. “I assume Carter gave you a new mobile and digits, too?”
I push away from the table. “He did.”
“Well, care to share your new number? Or do I need to find it out for myself?”
My stomach does this stupid little drop when she asks that, and it beats the hell out of me as to why.
“Easton?” She raises her brows.
Right. I grab my phone, type in the passcode, and give it to her. “I guess you can have it. But no texting me at odd hours about random things like you used to.”
“I only text you on the even ones.” She winks.
Of course she made that joke. Though, knowing her, it’s probably true.
Her last late-night text came the first week in December while I was still staying at my dad’s. It was about why coffee really is better than tea, but to never let her British family know she said that. My response? I think your secret’s already out.
Not gonna lie, I actually missed those texts while I was undercover, and I’d never admit I was grateful they hadn’t stopped when I moved out, even if I always had mixed reactions to her messages.
Whenever a notification from her flashed across my screen, I’d smile.
After that, I’d feel guilty about both the crash and moving out of the hotel.
“I would say I’ll behave,” she begins, breaking the quiet, “but as already established, we both know I won’t.” She lets her smile sit long enough to imprint in my memory, then programs in her name before sending herself a text from my phone.
“I need a profile photo of you. Your GM initials in this little circle while we text”—I point to what I’m talking about as if she’s clueless—“makes me think of General Motors.”
She laughs, and it’s light and sweet. Fucking perfect.
“Interesting parallel, considering I currently look like I was in a car wreck. Sorry, but you’ll have to wait for that photo.”
“You couldn’t look bad if you tried.” That’s one of those things I don’t regret saying, unlike the L word downstairs.
I have no problem telling her she’s beautiful. Friends tell each other that stuff all the time. But the way she smiles after what I said? That’s a potential problem.
“You ever think about changing your last name from Montgomery to your dad’s?” I deflect as she hands me back my phone and goes for her own.
“Pierson isn’t even really Dad’s last name, remember? He changed it when coming to the US. And besides, why bother now?” She lifts one shoulder, still not meeting my eyes. “I plan to take my husband’s last name, so then I’d have to change it again. That’s just too much work.”
A stabbing pain hits me beneath my ribs. It’s stupid and irrational. And also, absolutely not my business who she’ll marry one day. I know Wyatt will make sure the guy is solid and safe, so no need to worry.
“Got a husband picked out, do you?” I switch to joking, because it’s easier than navigating my feelings.
“You know what I mean,” she teases as a notification pops up on my screen.
Not sure I do.
“Texting me when we’re three feet away from each other?”
I read the original message she sent to herself from me.
It’s me. Your bestie.
Like I’d ever use that word. But reading that is a good reminder that we’re just friends.
Gwen: Do you think hedgehogs hug?
Gwen:
Gwen: Those bristles and tiiiiiny little hands. Gotta be hard.
I crack a smile. “You’re so fuckin’ random, I swear.”
But you know what, maybe this is how we survive what happened? Just roll with the humor so we don’t sink back into the deep abyss of hell we narrowly escaped. I consider how to reply, torn between a joke or something serious, and wind up skating somewhere on that fine line in between like always.
I think if you really love someone, hedgehog or not, you’re willing to risk getting poked.
I can’t look up at her, because she might read my eyes the way she’s about to read into what I said without actually saying it. Thankfully, she keeps the jokes going, giving us both a reprieve from anything heavy.
Gwen: Poked, huh? Poked isn’t always a bad thing.
Still risky for any species. Lots of consequences can be a result of getting poked . . .
Gwen: You millennials and your use of the dots.
They’re called ellipses.
And we need to stop. “Time to pick out a laptop.” I pocket my phone before shit gets even more awkward. It’s one thing to text-joke when we’re not in the same room, but she’s close enough I can haul her into my arms and tickle her instead. And that’s too damn tempting of an idea.
She sighs. “Fine. I may have been distracting myself from reality. You know, that I need to replace Jerry.”
“Tom is your main PC, right?” I scrub the smile from my mouth with the back of my hand. This woman, I swear. No one would ever guess how dangerous those hands and that mind of hers can be with nothing more than a computer and a Wi-Fi connection.
She nods. “That he is.”
“Well, you can’t have Tom without a Jerry, I suppose.” I jerk a thumb toward the variety of laptops she set out side by side. “Maybe get a different Jerry from the one you had before?”
“A fresh start?”
“New starts are the only ones worth taking. Old ones . . . usually end badly.”
She glances at me, the side of her mouth lifting. A strand of blonde hair comes loose from her ponytail, and on instinct, I sweep it behind her ear, my fingers brushing her warm skin before I think to stop myself.
She quietly holds my eyes and—
“Gwen. Easton?” Wyatt. Perfect.
My heart nosedives so fast I swear I might crash again. My arm follows suit, landing right back at my side.
I back up from Gwen, and we turn and face him. It’s ridiculous my palms are going damp at the appearance of Wyatt, yet they didn’t when I refused to spare over a dozen men on that island.
“We couldn’t sleep.” She points to my bag of clothes by the door. “Went shopping for him. Now, it’s my turn.”
Please don’t tell him about my underwear. For all that is holy, please.
“And how’d you two—”
“Bumped into each other at the coffee shop,” she answers, already knowing what he planned to ask.
He drags a palm down his face. The man appears even more tired than I am, and he apparently got more sleep than I did. “Well, you find yourself a new Tom?”
“Jerry,” I correct before I can stop myself.
“I think so.” She twists back to the table and picks up the last laptop she touched—the one we forgot about somewhere between last names, hedgehogs, and whatever the hell that moment almost became.
“And, uh, how are you doing this morning?” I’m not sure who his question is for, so I keep my mouth shut this time.
“His back is probably bad, but he’ll never complain.” Of course she doesn’t talk about herself. “Any new leads?” she asks while hugging the new laptop to her chest.
“Carter texted me an update a few minutes ago, which is what woke me up.” He glances between us. “Aussies brought in a guy for questioning. Carter thinks it’s a lead meant to be found, if you get what I’m saying.”
“So they’re chasing their tails,” I mutter, which seems on point for this entire op. Looking more and more like we’ve all been set up from the beginning. And I’d rather go back to shopping for underwear than talking about Jezebel or this case, but what choice do we have?
“More than likely, but we’ll see what happens.” Wyatt nods. “As for Zoey’s source, or those, uh, men who . . .” He tips his head back, scratching at his throat. Rage is right there under his skin, waiting for someone stupid enough to unleash it. “Nothing yet on any of them.”
“Does Jesse know yet why Zoey and Easton really went to the island in the first place?” she asks, her voice soft.
Wyatt nods. “We filled him in last night.”
“And how’d he take it?” She stares at her dad, nervous about that answer, and hell, now I am, too.
I wasn’t part of Falcon Falls when they officially took out The Chechen, but Jesse was at the center of that op, and this might stir some shit up for him.
“I’m sure Jesse’s hoping the lead tying that island to The Chechen was bullshit,” Wyatt says grimly. “Not that he said that, but I know him well enough to know how he thinks. He wants that case dead, buried, and behind him.”
“And maybe it is. It’s entirely plausible The Chechen really did kill Preston, and Zoey’s just chasing ghosts—because revenge keeps her closer to Preston and gives her life purpose.” Shit, where’d that Freudian insight come from? Certainly not my mouth.
Wyatt faces me, arching a brow, as confused as I am by my own words.
“Anyway,” I say around a cough. “I’ll talk to him later. Make sure he’s okay.”
Gwen balances the laptop on her palm and points to it. “Well, I guess I should start rebuilding so I can help us catch a lead.”
“You sure you’re ready to jump back into things?” Wyatt’s wasting his breath. Like me, he knows how stubborn she is. There’s not a chance in hell she’ll sit back and do nothing.
“The only way I can start over is by putting the past behind me, right?” Her blue-grays shift to me, narrowing. “Pretty sure that’s something we all need to do.”