Chapter Eighteen
To: Marist, Vivian
From: Roger Spade
Cedrick is still in the hospital and I can’t get anywhere with Charles. Vivian, we need to talk about this filing. Some of
us on the Board of Directors have questions that still haven’t been answered.
Reece stood under the triple spray of one of Jason Owens’s giant and elaborate showers, glaring at the plastic bottles sitting
on the shower shelf.
He’d held it together for the afternoon, but talking to Traynor had left him even more on edge, like an oily film had settled
on his skin. First chance he’d gotten, he ducked into a cold shower to ice his feelings down.
But the shower made it so much worse.
After their break-in at Stone Solutions Canada, Reece had left Vancouver in Grayson’s truck while Alex and Cora had gone ahead of him by yacht and arrived in Seattle first. Alex had immediately sent thralls to Reece’s studio apartment to grab his personal things and bring them back to Jason Owens’s house.
But the studio had also still been full of Grayson’s things—clothes, toiletries, cologne.
The thralls had grabbed it all. And some of it now inhabited Reece’s shower.
It’s fucking shampoo, Reece snapped at himself, his freshly spiked temper refusing to cool even as he shivered under the cold spray. Are you really so fragile you can’t even handle Evan’s stupid shower arsenal?
No way he was going to be bested by Grayson’s hair. He grabbed the closest bottle and poured some into his hand.
The scent hit like a gut-punch.
Evan, boxing him in on the truck’s tailgate, their bodies distractingly close together as Reece tries to hide his missing
glove—
Evan, passing him in the studio’s kitchen, his T-shirt just sheer enough to show the muscles shifting underneath—
Evan, crouching in front of him in a Stone Solutions office, making himself a fortress between Reece and the box of torture
books as he talks Reece down from a panic attack—
Reece slammed down on the memories, and forced himself through the coldest, fastest and possibly angriest hair wash of his
life.
He still fucking smelled like Grayson as he went back to his room to dress, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm himself enough
to handle a night in a house with an awake Traynor.
Evan wouldn’t have smelled like fancy shampoo in that bunker Traynor sent him to. He’d have smelled like sweat and fear, like
pain and maybe blood—
Reece shoved those thoughts down too, quickly pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, and then went to grab his other hoodie from
the truck in the garage.
As he opened the passenger door and leaned in to grab the hoodie off the seat, his phone went off.
Grayson: I need to see you.
Grayson: Meet me tonight. On your terms, anywhere you like. You name the time and the place.
Grayson: And I will be there.
Reece stared at the words on his screen. “Are you fucking kidding?” he said out loud, as if Grayson could hear him.
Of course he wasn’t going to meet Grayson. That was something old Reece did because he was too helpless and naive to make good decisions. He and Grayson were
enemies now. It was bad enough they kept texting and talking, but enemies certainly didn’t meet.
And sure, Reece could pick a public place where he’d have a distinct advantage: The more people around him, the more potential
weapons he could turn against Grayson. He could turn their whole meeting into a trap for Grayson if he chose.
But Reece was wanted by the cops. He couldn’t be seen in public places right now, and he wasn’t stupid enough to meet the
Dead Man in an isolated location where there would be nothing but the two of them and Grayson’s knockout touch: He might as
well put himself in a cell and hand Grayson the keys.
He needs to see you, the little voice in his head said. Don’t you want to know why?
No. Reece did not.
Maybe he needs you.
Then that was too fucking bad for Agent Grayson.
What if he’s in trouble?
Reece jammed his phone back in his pocket with a curse. Even if he was stupid enough to agree to meet—which obviously he wasn’t—it was out of the question.
I need to see you.
Absolutely not.
As he grabbed his hoodie, the traitorous bear hat tumbled off the passenger seat and to the floor, like he’d needed yet another
reminder of Grayson. Reece grabbed the hat, but as he opened the glove box to cram it back in, his gaze fell on another item
stuffed inside.
A headband with black bunny ears, given to him by Ben Castillo, the McFeely’s bartender, way back on that night Reece had
stopped by the club and ended up in a high-speed brakeless chase on I-5.
All the empaths have them, Ben had said when he’d offered Reece the ears. You should too.
Reece reached into the glove box and pulled out the bunny ears, considering them.
On second thought, maybe he would meet Grayson.
Because there was one place in Seattle where Reece would blend in perfectly, wouldn’t draw the slightest bit of extra attention—and
could still have a crowd of hostages.
Sean Lennox had been head of Charles Stone’s personal security for more than a decade and was accustomed to his habits. Despite
the evening hour, Charles would be at his laptop in his home office. Lennox knocked on the closed door. “Mr. Stone, sir? Do
you have a moment?”
“Come in.”
Lennox walked into the expansive space and stood at attention. “I just wanted to be certain you saw the report from the West
Coast monitoring team.”
“I’m reading it now,” Charles said. “It seems several empaths will be congregating in Bellingham. And coincidentally, this group appears to be our most isolated empaths, the ones with only small support networks or distant relatives. Isn’t that interesting?
” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Lennox.
“How would you feel about a trip to Bellingham yourself?”
“I am always at your service, sir,” Lennox said.
“Excellent.” Charles leaned forward. “Let me tell you what I have in mind.”