Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (9 page)

“And that’s why you always follow procedure. To the letter. No exceptions.” My team partner, Ashley or Ashleigh or Ashlynn, finishes her presentation to a meager drizzle of applause, then takes her seat. Most everyone in the class is checking their phones or scrolling through social media on their laptops, while I’m just waiting for my phone to charge back up. I know Sergei’s at practice, though I can’t help but hope I might have a tantalizing text message waiting from him.

However, I also dread having a message from Frederica Monteverdi waiting for me.

At long last, class is over, and I hurry out of the room as fast as I can. My eyelids feel cemented shut, and my thighs ache like I’ve been riding a bucking bronco for days. Probably because I more or less have. I stop at the coffee shop in the government management building’s main atrium and grab a cappuccino—nice and boring, unlike my FBI co-workers’—and settle into one of the atrium couches to review my homework schedule for the upcoming weekend. It’s almost a relief that after tonight’s and tomorrow’s games, the Eagles will be hitting the road again. I’ll miss Sergei, of course, but I won’t miss the constant stress of trying to ply him for information about his brother, or having the FBI listening to my every word. And deed.

I glance toward the double sets of doors that lead out on to the busy streets of Foggy Bottom, the ritzy part of DC where our school’s main campus resides. The usual collection of student cars are lined up in front of the building in a NO PARKING zone—Maseratis and Corvettes and Bentleys, the pink tongues of parking tickets sticking out of their windshield wipers. Yeah, we’ve got a lot of people like that at our school. People like Todd Beckwith, who were born on third base and act like it’s some great accomplishment on their part to score a run. Even Monique was born to money, though she’s a lot humbler about it than most. But then there are the students like me, in the sales rack dresses, busting our asses to stay on top of work and schoolwork and desperately trying to add a social life to all of that.

I’ve got to hand it to Sergei—he’s never once made me feel like I was worth anything less than the girls who drop a year of my income in the salon every week. The look in his eyes when he looks at me . . . money can’t buy that. I guess he had to fight his way to get where he is now, too. There’s a mutual respect that comes from that.

Still doesn’t help the sense of irritation when I look at all those cars.

And it certainly doesn’t help the unease I feel when I notice a black Escalade parked on the opposite side of the street, its windows too dark for me to see inside.

“Hey, Jael, how’s it goin’?” Todd Beckwith—speak of the devil’s boring personal assistant—rounds the couch I’m sitting in and plops into the nearby armchair. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“That happens when you dump someone,” I say.

A crease appears between Todd’s eyebrows. “Listen, I’m just trying to be your friend. I care about you, you know? Just because we no longer share a romantic interest doesn’t mean I care any less about seeing you achieve your dreams.”

I smile sweetly and try to act like I don’t want to throw up in my mouth. “And what if my dreams change?”

The crease deepens. I recognize this expression: the BeckwithBot Emulation of Dutiful Concern. “You’re not having trouble at the Bureau, are you?”

I snort and tighten my grip on my scheduler. “Ha. No. The Bureau’s having trouble with me.” I rush to explain before he can open his mouth. “Not, like—they think I’m doing a bad job. Just—they’re not quite sure how to use my talents.” Like the part where they don’t get that I’m not a certified copier technician. “And I think some of their methods are . . . outdated.” Like the part where they want me to pressure Sergei way beyond what’s natural.

“Well, that is the trouble with working in government.” Todd rubs his chin. “I did warn you that you might find government service a bit too confining for your creative mind. That ultimately, there’s more growth opportunity for you in consulting. You’re a problem solver, Jael. You need to work somewhere that’ll allow you to do just that.”

When I’m not busy rolling my eyes at “growth opportunity,” I can see he has something like a point. But this is what I’m training for. What all my coursework has been geared toward. Working for the FBI, busting up criminal operations, hunting down perps. And already, the FBI is ruining my life. Wonderful.

“Well, thank you for the inspiring talk as ever,” I tell Todd, “but I need to get running, so . . .”

“Just think about it.” Todd pats his knees, then stands up with a smile. I’m quite suddenly aware of how . . . tiny he looks. Fragile, even. I used to think he was my sporty prince charming, gliding in on his yacht to sweep me off my feet. But he just looks like a little yappy dog now, ready to nip at the ankles of whoever he think will toss the next paycheck his way.

He looks sad. It shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does. It makes me feel relieved that, in the relationship department, at least, I’ve finally gotten a better handle on what I want from life. Now if only I could figure it out with my career. And everything else.

“I’m thinking of starting my own firm,” Todd continues. “After graduation. Be my own boss, instead of chasing down things for someone else. I could use someone like you.”

I blink a few times, shocked. Is Todd trying to recruit me? Seriously? “I don’t remember that being a part of your five-year plan.”

“It wasn’t.” He grins, crooked. “But plans can change. Not that I need to tell you that.” His cheeks flush. “Anyway, if you decide the FBI isn’t for you . . . you know how to get ahold of me.”

“Thanks, Todd. Seriously—I mean it.” I think I actually do, which really scares me. “Catch you later?”

“Later,” he says.

I hurry past him for the doors.

What a weird day. First I wake up in bed with the highest-paid hockey player on the Washington Eagles, then Todd Beckwith pitches me for his new business. And then there’s that black Escalade.

The one that’s shifting into traffic right as I’m approaching the next intersection.

I glance over my shoulder, but it already has its turn signal on, and heads left, away from the direction I’m heading. I take a deep breath and scan the license plates. Hired car tags for Virginia. I let out my breath.

Okay, Jael, relax. It’s almost certainly a car service for one of my rich classmates. Of course it would be waiting outside the campus buildings, and that explains the tinted windows, too. Car service clients like their privacy.

I duck into the cheap sushi bar on the next block over and wave to Beth and Monique, who are already sitting at the counter. After tossing my bag down under the bar, I hop onto the open stool they left for me and start marking up my sushi order while they fill me in on the latest gossip.

“He gave me his number,” Beth says, “but I put it in the same pocket as the number I wrote down for the Confluence Consulting recruiter, and now I have no idea which is which. I
so
don’t want to text the wrong thing to the wrong person!”

Monique grins. “Why not cover all your bases? Just be like, ‘Hey, I’d really like to take a ride on your dick, but can you tell me a bit more about your stock options first?’”

“Oh, my god. I am
never
taking business advice from you.” Beth swats at Monique’s arm, and they both crack up. I manage a weak smile, but I’m watching the mirror behind the sushi bar that reflects the street behind us. Scanning for black SUVs. Shit, is that what I’m doing? Pull it together, Jael.

“Hey. J. You feeling all right?” Beth asks.

“You’re looking pretty out of it.”

I force myself to look away from the mirror. “I’m fine, really. Just tired. Didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Beth wiggles her eyebrows at me. “A certain Russian dragon keeping you up late?”

I shake my head, but my face is burning up. It must be written all over me just what Sergei and I have been up to. “Shh! You guys can’t go spreading that around. Seriously. The last thing I need is some tabloid assholes stalking me.”

Among other people,
I think. Sergei hasn’t said as much, but it seems like a no-brainer to me that we should keep our relationship quiet, and not just because of the paparazzi.

“Okay, okay, fine.” Monique fiddles with her chopsticks. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve got to give us
some
of the details,” she says.

I redden all over again. “Come on, I’m not one to kiss and tell—”

Beth nudges me. “Liar.”

“
Fine
, fine. Let’s just say . . .” I spread my hand on the sushi bar. “His fingers are pretty magical.”

They howl and elbow me. It feels good to talk to them this way—like Sergei and I are almost a normal couple, doing totally normal couple things. If I can get the FBI what they want and move past the whole “spying on him” thing, and he can find a way to keep us out of the tabloids’ limelight, then maybe, just maybe, we can be.

But until then, I’m scanning the streets for more signs of black SUVs.

The Eagles’ next two games are at home, and we win them both. Sergei’s scoring again, now that he’s getting the hang of how the Eagles first string works, and is learning new tricks to shake the opposing teams’ defenders off his ass. When he lights the lamps on the game-winning goal for Saturday afternoon’s game, he points straight at our private box and blows a kiss. I back away from the front of the box before the crowd in the arena can see me, but I can’t knock the grin from my face.

We’re learning a few new tricks together, too. Like how the private booths at Red Star are a fucking incredible place to go down on a guy. All that plush carpeting and velvet furniture—I sink down to my knees and wrap my mouth around Sergei’s shaft, teasing it with my tongue, delighting in the way he groans and writhes, responding to my every lick and suck. I swallow down every last drop of him, salty and sweet. Don’t want to make a mess, after all.

But then he pulls me into his lap, turning me around so I’m facing him, and we end up making a horrible mess as he fucks me while I straddle him. He sucks my neck so hard my strongest foundation can’t cover it up, and I have to wear more scarves that week than I’ve worn in my entire life. It’s worth it, though, for the look on his face as he plunges into me. For the way those cool blue eyes wrench shut as he comes and whispers my name.

All too soon, though, the Eagles are on the road for three games in a row. And like a black SUV turning out of an alleyway before me, I can’t shake the sense that there’s something dark lurking just around the bend.

Special Agent Frederica Monteverdi is reading back to me the transcript of my most recent night with Sergei. Somehow, her monotone only makes it even more embarrassing.

“PEREIRA: Yes, baby, give it to me harder. [Unintelligible Russian phrase.] Just like that. DRAKONOV: I can give you a lot more.” Frederica sighs. “I’m sure you get the idea.” She sets the pages down on her desk and peers over the rim of her glasses at me. “I don’t think I need to tell you that this is not exactly the riveting information we’ve asked you to gather on the Drakonov brothers, Miss Pereira.”

I look down at my hands, letting my curls fall forward, secretly wishing my hair would swallow me up whole. “It was—um, pretty riveting at the time.”

Frederica rolls her eyes. “A sense of humor is for your personal time. As is the majority of what you’re doing with Drakonov. You need to ask more questions about his brother. A
lot
more.”

“I did!” I cry. “It’s right there! A few pages back. Before the . . . ‘give it to me baby’s.”

Frederica leafs back through the transcript. “PEREIRA: You said you had an older brother, growing up in Moscow? DRAKONOV: Yeah, but he went to the States when I was still in school. Hated the bad economy. Thought he could make something more of himself. PEREIRA: And could he? DRAKONOV: I try not to associate with him. If I can help it. PEREIRA: So you haven’t contacted him since you came to the States? DRAKONOV: Why do you ask? PEREIRA: I just thought it . . . I don’t know. That maybe you thought it was time to mend fences. [Long pause. Sounds of club music.] DRAKONOV: He’s not the sort of guy you can mend. But speaking of a long time since contact . . .”