CHAPTER 9 #3
“It’s been six days,” I finally yell, throwing a rapid one-two combination at his head that he blocks with his gigantic forearms.
“Six days since what? Since you’ve been on the field? Don’t tell me you’re already getting impatient.”
“Impatient? Porfavor… I’m not Bjorn.”
“Then?”
“…Six days, and absolutely no word from Oliver… he hasn’t texted me yet.”
Knox’s eyes widen in genuine surprise, and he drops his guard for a fraction of a second. I use this moment to my advantage.
I step into his space and punch him right in the jaw. Knox stumbles back, shaking his head.
He is so shocked, he even lowers his fists, ignoring the red mark on his cheek.
“Wait. Seriously? You, Damián Soto, are bothered that a guy hasn’t texted you in a couple of days?”
“What?! No!… Well, sort of. Yes…”
“I thought you guys were just faking it.”
“We are. But this is a highly sensitive mission. Like, what the fuck? He should be taking this seriously.”
“It’s not like you to be this affected by a target.”
“I’m not affected by anyone.” I rub my stubble with both hands, trying to remove the stress that’s been building up. “But this is Elijah West we are dealing with… and now Oliver is going completely dark? This could be dangerous.”
“Relax. Oliver has been surviving that snake pit of a family for years. If he isn’t reaching out, there must be a reason for it.” Knox pauses, a teasing grin spreading across his stupid face. “That… or he just got bored with you.”
“You take that back, Knox, or I swear you’ll never eat my mother’s tostones ever again.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
“Fine, you monster. The man you don’t care about but are dying to get a text from because of ‘the mission’ isn’t bored with you. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
Knox shifts his weight, catches my arm, ducks his shoulder into my chest, and flips me straight over his back. I slam into the mat with the most painful landing ever.
The ceiling lights spin above me as I lie there, groaning, entirely defeated in more ways than one.
“And that,” Knox says cheerfully, looking down at me, “is what happens when you fight with your feelings instead of your head.”
He untapes his hands and walks away, leaving me flat on the floor, annoyed, sore, and overthinking everything he said.
BZZT. BZZT.
My phone vibrates in my gym bag nearby. I sit up slowly, wincing at the dull ache in my ribs, and pull the phone out.
My heart stops. It’s a text from Oliver.
OLIVER: Come to the house. Serena says we have bathing suits here.
I read it once, then twice, then five times.
Oh shit…
Why does Serena know about me?
And why am I being invited to the main estate?
Going into Elijah’s main home without an extraction plan, without backup, and without a weapon is literally the worst idea in the history of undercover.
It violates every single protocol I have ever been taught at the CIA and during my years at Harknett.
And like me, I’m pretty sure Oliver knows the only answer to this text is “no.”
I should text back with a polite excuse, something like I’m sorry I can’t go, that I got called to appraise a sculpture, or tell him that a client needs me to find the art for the lobby of their hotel.
I should definitely come up with an excuse of why I can’t go.
I mean, that is the smartest thing to do. I should talk this over with the Harknetts and then get back to Oliver with a more appropriate date when we can meet at his house while ensuring everything goes well.
Yes… I should.
…But fuck it.
I type out my reply, grab my gym bag, and head for the showers.
DAMIáN: See you in fifteen.
After passing through the gates of the West Manhattan mansion, I pull into a huge circular driveway and park Chiquita next to a row full of six-figure cars. I swing my leg over the seat, pull off my helmet, and run a hand through my messy hair.
I pat the gas tank of my bike.
“Behave yourself, Chiquita,” I whisper. “Don’t go flirting with any of these cars; they look flashy, but you have no idea what they could be carrying.”
I walk past a fountain, three gardeners, and a bunch of stone steps until I reach the main doors.
I ring the bell, and the melody is so fancy it sounds like they’ve kidnapped the Vienna Boys Choir and are keeping them in the attic just to sing whenever the doorbell rings.
What the hell…
The door swings open, and I am greeted by Martin, aka Oliver’s Alfred.
“Good afternoon, sir. Master Oliver and the missus are in the back waiting for you.”
Next to Martin stands a young female staff member holding a silver tray with a Margarita. She moves the silver tray toward me, offering the drink.
“I’m driving,” I say, holding a hand up to decline.
“Your motorcycle will be safely delivered to your apartment in Soho, Mr. Soto,” Martin says, extending his hand to take my helmet. “So please, do not worry about the commute.”
Of course it will…
I give Martin my helmet, take the drink, and sip it.
It’s freaking delicious.
“Thank you, sir. Please follow Malena and enjoy your afternoon.”
I follow Malena through the grand foyer and the main living areas. My eyes automatically sweep the room, memorizing the layout, the security cameras, and points of entry that could be of any use in the future.
The Manhattan home isn’t quite as humongous as their Hamptons mansion, but it is undeniably big, especially considering it’s one of like four fully detached houses in Manhattan. And although the taste in the decor is questionable, the bones of the house are incredible.
We step out onto the back terrace, and the afternoon sun hits my face.
“Damián!” a woman’s voice calls out.
I look toward the pool and see Serena, with her blonde hair tied in a high ponytail and a golden micro-bikini.
Is every piece of clothing she owns golden?
I wave hello, and then I see him.
Oliver is sitting at the pool’s edge, wearing a pair of dark swim trunks that sit dangerously low on his hips, and he looks absolutely breathtaking.
The sunlight makes his messy hair seem lighter, the water makes his skin softer, and I can tell they’ve been here for a while since Oliver’s shoulders and cheeks are starting to get reddish.
But as I get closer, I can tell something is wrong. Oliver appears tense. His eyes are irritated, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his shoulders are stiff, and more importantly, he refuses to look me in the eye.
He bounces in the water, staring at his drink, at the guards, everywhere but at me.
He looks… guilty.
What the hell did you do?
I wonder, as the same uneasy feeling that’s been my constant companion for these past six days creeps back in.
“Oh my God, hi!” Serena gasps, stepping forward to intercept me. “I am so excited to finally meet you! We have so much to catch up on. How did you two meet? Who made the first move? Are you staying for dinner?”
Oliver groans, absolutely mortified. “Serena, please. Let the man go get changed before you strap him to an interrogation chair.”
“Fine, fine,” Serena pouts playfully.
A staff member seemingly materializes out of thin air, holding a stack of white towels and three bathing suits in my size.
“Right this way, sir. I will show you to the cabana to change.”
I nod to Oliver and Serena and follow the staff toward a large, elegant pool house. As I step out of their direct line of sight, I can hear them talking.
“Oh my God, Oliver, he is insanely hot,” Serena squeaks. “Have you guys slept together yet? Tell me everything.”
“Please shut up,” Oliver groans with embarrassment. “Even if you’re not my bio mom, this is still incredibly uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? We are almost the same age, Ollie. Think of me as your older sister. Now spill!”
I step inside the cabana, letting the door shut behind me, and their voices go quiet. The space is big, decorated with white linen couches and potted palms. I set my drink down on a glass table and start stripping off my clothes, but my mind is spinning.
Okay, so he looks guilty and very tired, but Serena is happy to see me… So if he did meet with someone, he didn’t bring them here…
I also noticed his eyes were red and puffy.
What if something bad happened? Did he fight with Zara?
Is he still angry about what fucking Kai did?
I grip the edge of the granite sink, staring at myself in the mirror.
“Since when the fuck do you care?” I ask my reflection.
Actually, whenever I sleep with someone, I actively welcome it if they see other people because that would mean no strings, no attachments, no messy emotions. The more people they sleep with, the less they’ll expect from me.
It keeps things simple and perfect.
But the thought of someone else’s hands on Oliver’s skin makes me want to break this fucking sink in half.
He shouldn’t be touching anyone else, I think to myself, pulling one of the swim trunks on. And not because I care.
Of course not… But because it is a security risk that could compromise the mission.
How can we sell Elijah and Rafael this shitty “relationship” story if we’re seeing other people?
We can’t.
So it makes sense we make a rule where we don’t see anyone else.
Just us…
For the mission… Of course.
Feeling better after my incredible pep talk, I grab a towel, take a deep breath, and walk back out into the beautiful sun.
As I approach the pool, Oliver’s gaze moves toward me, and he freezes. His hazel eyes move from my bare chest, my abs, down to the V-line disappearing into my trunks. He literally can’t look away.
Good. Stare all you want.
I drop my towel on a lounger and slide into the cool water, swimming toward the shallow end where they are standing. As I break the surface and stand up in front of them, Oliver’s cheeks are burning red. He tenses slightly as I step into his space, and that makes me feel good.
I slide my hand around his bare waist and pull his body against mine.
“Hey, nene.”
I lean in and capture his lips in a soft kiss. I pull back just enough to let him move, but I don’t let him go. Keeping my arm locked around his waist, I turn my attention to Serena and stretch out my free hand.
“Nice to officially meet you, I’m Damián. Oliver’s boyfriend.”