Chapter Two
Grade A Prick
Rachel Williams
Bishop is an idiot; a brilliant, infuriating, impossible idiot. Most days it’s a task not breaching the line between professional assertion and insubordination.
I slam my laptop shut the second I get the call confirming what I already suspected: he’s actually doing it. He’s actually going into the Appalachian mountains alone to look for a missing agent.
A missing agent in my mountains. The ones I grew up in. The ones that chew up outsiders and spit out bones. And those are the ones who were actually prepared.
I can’t picture him in the woods with his three piece suits and custom leather loafers. In fact the idea of it makes me want to laugh if the situation wasn’t so serious.
I’ve worked for Bishop for three years out of the Dallas office. Three years of watching him bulldoze through bureaucracy, terrify junior agents, and pretend he doesn’t have a soul. Three years of him being a prick; a competent prick, but a prick, nonetheless.
And now he’s apparently a stupid one. Im honestly disappointed.
Want to know the most attractive muscle on a man? The frontal lobe. Fully developed.
He is more than capable in every other capacity, but this isn’t the same at all.
I pace my apartment, muttering under my breath. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Of all the reckless and stupid decisions. Men and all their stupid ideas…”
He knows nothing about those woods. Nothing about the terrain, the weather, the animals, the locals, the superstitions. He’ll get himself killed before he even finds the trailhead.
And the worst part? I care.
I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.
But I do.
I have… feelings. Conflicting ones.
I never gave authorization for it. I swear to god, it snuck up on me.
A love-hate relationship with a man who walks around like he has a stick rammed so far up his ass it’s practically a spinal deformity. A man who is infuriatingly competent, and equal parts stoic, and attractive in that brooding, morally-gray, “I carry the weight of the Bureau on my shoulders” way.
I shake my head hard.
Work trip. Agent missing.
Focus.
I grab my go-bag from the closet, one I keep packed for field deployments, and start stuffing in extra gear. Thermal layers. Flashlight. Knife. Compass. First-aid kit. I know these mountains. I know what they demand. I know what they take.
And I know Bishop shouldn’t be going alone.
“Where are you going?” A voice behind me startles me out of my reverie.
Shit. Forgot about him. Fuck, what now stupid?
“Listen I had a great time.” I absolutely didn’t. “But I have to go. Work emergency.” I explained, hoping he takes the hint and leaves so I can go.
Naked, and standing at the bedside looking confused, he just stares at me. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Third date, and he didn’t even wait for me to finish. What does he want? Didn’t even offer to finish me, just rolled over. He expects cuddling?
“So if you could just….” I trail off.
Huffing and muttering to himself, he gathers his clothes and storms out.
Taking a deep breath, I shake off my irritation.
It’s not like I was going to call him back. Inviting him home was a mistake. There was no chemistry, and clearly he isn’t up to the task. I wish men would put more effort into sex. All they care about is getting off and think we are supposed to be grateful they ‘tried.’
Im so distracted that I’m halfway to the airport before I realize I never actually asked permission to go.
This most likely will not go down well.
Whatever. He told me to find him someone. I found someone: me.
Besides, no other agents would be available on such short notice. Not that I checked….
When I spot him at the gate, he’s pacing like a caged animal, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
Tall enough to tower over the people moving around him, his dark hair sprinkled with grey and white obvious even at this distance.
His usual suit is replaced with a casual combination of jeans and a sweater, and I thank god for what the denim is doing for his ass before I mentally slap myself.
Jesus Christ Rachel he’s old enough to be your father.
Not to mention my friend’s actual father. And my boss. He is so far off limits it’s not even funny.
But I would bet money he knows how to make me come.
His normally severe expression is marred by a frown.
And it’s doing it for me. Not sure what that says about me.
He looks up and the fury hits his face instantly, his intense blue eyes narrowing on me like I am the source of all of his problems. His usual clean shaven face is rougher with facial hair.
God why is that hot?
“Rachel….. What in the hell are you doing here?” he demands quietly.
I drop my bag at my feet. “Going with you.”
“No.” His voice is sharp enough to cut steel. “Absolutely not.”
I cross my arms. “You said to find you someone.”
“I meant an agent.” He argues dismissively.
That fucking stings more than I want to admit.
“I am an agent. “I argue in a lethally quiet voice.
“You’re a forensic specialist.” He tosses back, like its nothing, all my hard work and achievements are nothing.
Oh look, a direct hit. Motherfucker…
“And a certified field agent. And trained in wilderness survival. And I lived in those mountains for eighteen years.” I snarl, stepping closer, heat rising in my chest. “I am just as good as anyone else you could drag out of bed on short notice.”
He scowls. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, really?” I snap dangerously close to punching him in his fucking face. “Too dangerous for me, but not for you?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” I accuse. Im just gearing up for this fight because how fucking dare he?! The sexual frustration also doesn’t help at all. I sometimes imagine kissing him and then slapping him, just to see what would happen.
His jaw flexes. “Rachel-”
“No.” My voice cracks, just slightly. “How dare you imply I can’t handle it because I’m a woman.”
His eyes widen, not with anger, but with something else. Something almost… hurt. Making his usual rugged handsomeness something a little softer than I am used to.
And something in me twists.
A small part of me, the part I keep locked up tight, is stung that he doesn’t want me. That he didn’t even consider me. That he’d rather go alone than risk having me at his side.
He doesn’t want me. How pathetic am I?
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s fighting himself. “Rachel… I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it.”
“You implied it.”
“I didn’t want you in danger.” He shouts, drawing the stares of several people in the vicinity.
I freeze.
That’s not professionalism. That’s personal. Did I finally find a chink in the armor? Did I hit a nerve?
He looks away, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You didn’t say anything,” I whisper.
He meets my eyes, and for the first time in three years, I think I see something.
The tension. The restraint.
It hits me like a punch.
Oh this is so not good.
It was easy to admire him from afar when I knew he was out of my reach. This complicates things in a way I was not anticipating.
How in the fuck is this happening? This is probably just about my safety, not that he…. wait am I looking to deep into that statement?
Im probably just imagining things. He can’t be interested in me.
I can’t possibly bow out now. Not after my whole speech. And I absolutely cannot let him know he got to me.
I will not show weakness. Not with Bishop.
Remembering that he’s watching me, I carefully keep my thoughts off of my face. Sometimes I think he can read minds.
He certainly seems to know more than he should at the worst possible moments. I don’t know if that’s a skill he picked up or one he’s always had but Im always careful not to show more than I want him to see.
We stand there, locked in a silent, loaded standoff, both of us too stubborn to back down, too professional to act on my feeling, too aware of the line we can’t cross.
Finally, he breaks.
“Fine,” he says quietly. “You can come.”
I swallow hard. “I wasn’t asking permission.”
I know Im walking a fine line, he is still my superior. But he’s allowing it, which is also confusing.
He nods once, stiffly, like he’s agreeing to a death sentence.
We pick up our bags and walk toward the gate together, not touching, not speaking, but every inch of air between us feels charged.
He’s furious. I’m furious. And underneath all of it, something else is simmering.
And I already need to change my panties because holy shit that was hot. Arguing with him is like foreplay, intense and satisfying.
But we’re going into the mountains together. Just the two of us.
And whatever’s waiting out there… It’s not the only dangerous thing we’re about to face.
Fuck what did I sign up for?