Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (7 page)

I SLOW TO a walk as I reach the red bridge overlooking the river. Just a little over five miles from my place, it marks the perfect place to stop and rest before turning back. I move to the center of the bridge and lean my arms against the rails, stretching the backs of my calves as my breathing slows.

I notice a ripple in the water below me, and lean forward, canvassing the riverbank. There, just under the shadow of the bridge, stands someone who looks all too familiar, and not at all like the girl I’d seen at the club a few nights ago. Something jumps to life inside me as I conjure up the image of her in that red outfit with all the feathers, and I grin as I make my way down to the riverbank.

Jess stands by the edge of the water in her signature sweats, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, skipping stones. She hasn’t noticed me yet, and my heart beats hard in my chest as I move forward to surprise her. But just as I’m about to tap her shoulder, she whips around, surprising me instead. I jump back in the nick of time to avoid the stone she chucked at my family jewels and stumble on the loose rocks, falling on my ass.

“Oh my gosh!” She runs toward me, scrabbling over the uneven rocks. “I didn’t . . . I was just caught off guard. Are you okay?” she asks, stumbling between each of her questions as she comes to a stop before me.

Of course I’m okay. Apart from my bruised ego. And the fact the guys back home are gonna have a field day with this one.

“Here, let me . . .” She extends her hand. I look at it for a second, and I don’t know why I’m so surprised by her gesture. I slide my hand into hers and let her pull me to my feet.

“Good thing I was the state dodgeball champion,” I say and grin, wide and toothy.

She drops my hand and raises her eyebrow as she scoffs, a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“And how did you practice for that, exactly? Flying shoes and slammed doors?”

My grin turns into a lopsided smile. “Something like that. So, fancy meeting you here.”

She shrugs and flops down on a nearby piece of driftwood. “I needed time to think. What about you?”

“Needed a run.” I take a seat next to her.

She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around her legs. She glances over at me,  a sort of mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Admit it, you were trying to sneak in a few more practices so you can beat my stone-skipping record.”

I laugh,  resting my weight on my hands, my legs stretched out in front of me. “Damn, woman. Can’t I keep any secrets from you?”

She looks away at that, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. It’s almost like she’s trying to bite back a remark, or maybe a question. I wonder what’s stopping her.

I look away too, watching the water flow past, slow and calm. The soothing sound of the river fills the silence around us for some time. I mull over whether or not  I should ask her about her job at Blue Tango. On the one hand, I’m pretty sure she recognized me, and it would be weird if I don’t acknowledge that. But on the other, she had the perfect opportunity to tell me she worked there, and didn’t. Why?

“Do you like Batman?”

I look at her, surprised, but her gaze is far away from here and I’m suddenly not sure if she’s asking me about the other night, or just making random—and weirdly coincidental—small talk. “I’m sorry?”

She turns toward me. She looks down, then slowly moves her gaze up to meet mine. “I know it’s none of my business, but I swear I saw you at Blue Tango a few nights back . . . with Stamos and his men.”

I blink slowly, trying to decide what to say. Is she upset? Disappointed? Why is she so freaking difficult to read?

“Yeah, I was there,” I finally admit.

“Batman, right?”

“How do you figure?”

She smiles, bashful. “Your eyes. They were even more pronounced against that black mask and . . .” She points to my cheek. “And that bruise . . .” She flushes a pretty shade of pink. “I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure.”

I grin, relieved somehow. I’m not sure what I was expecting her to say, but I guess I’d been bracing for the worst.  “You know, I knew it was you the moment you bent over with the drinks.”

Her eyes widen and the pink on her cheeks brightens. “I don’t dress up like that usually.”

I’m confused, what does that have to do with recognizing her? “I didn’t think you did. I mean, your usual MO seems to be sweats. Why would you think . . . ?” Just like that, all the pieces fit together and I realize why she looks like a ripe tomato. I laugh.

She swats at me. “It’s not funny, Harry.”

I run my hand under my nose. “It is though. But only because I’m surprised you’d think I recognized you from your outfit. I’m good, but I’m not
that
good. I’m Batman, remember, not Superman.” I wink at her.

She’s throwing me a death glare.

“What did you expect me to think? You were staring at my boobs the way you stared at my ass the other day.”

Guilty. She does have a great ass, and an equally striking rack. But I’m not ready to let her win this. “How could I not, when they were practically spilling out of that feather outfit? No guy in their right mind could ignore that.”

She doesn’t respond, but looks away again, pressing her lips together, angry. And I feel bad for making her feel like an object. That’s not what I intended.

I get to my feet and offer my hand to her. She looks at it, then at me. To my surprise, she slides her hand into mine and I pull her up, a little too hard. She stumbles forward, nearly taking us both right back down. But I find my footing and manage to keep us upright. Her hands land on my shoulders, mine wrap around her waist, and suddenly our bodies are flush against each other. Chest against chest. Thighs against thighs. Even her toes are on top of mine, pressing mine into the uneven ground. It hurts, but I don’t care at the moment, because I’m too busy staring into her big round, surprised eyes.

Her chest heaves—forward and back. Up and down—the same rhythm as mine. But apart from that slight movement, there’s . . . nothing.

She doesn’t move. Neither do I.

We are frozen, at a standstill.

Unable to look or push away.

I notice how dark her pupils have turned, the tiniest hint of blue in the green surrounding them. Her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, thick and long. They make her look a bit exotic. I don’t think I’ve ever admired
eyeballs
before.

But damn, I am now.

“I’m sorry. About my comments before. But for what it’s worth, you have a beautiful body and even more gorgeous eyes.”

She looks down shyly. “You are ridiculous—”

“—ly amazing. I know.” I cut her off, turning her potential insult into a compliment. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she’s still holding on to me, and I’m perfectly content to let her.

“Not the word I was going for,” she says, meeting my gaze with a coy smirk.

I feel one corner of my lips quirk up. “I agree. That’s a little bland. I bet you can think of something better.”

“Full of yourself.”

“Confident,” I offer.

“Master of self-proclamation.”

“Optimist.”

“Arrogant,” she fires back, smiling in full now.

“Modest.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “In what world?”

Her hands now rest over my chest, like it’s the most natural thing to do. And I realize I’m smiling, not just physically, but on the inside too. If I’m not careful, I might get addicted to this. “Okay. You’re right. Modest isn’t the right word. Hmmm . . . I think I prefer certain, rather than arrogant.”

Her eyes sparkle as a wide smile spreads over her lips. My god, she’s beautiful. Not just in that hot and sexy, I want to rip her clothes off kind of way. But something much, much more profound. And suddenly, I’m starting to see just how much trouble I’m in.

I release my grip at the realization and take a respectable step back, shoving my hands into my pockets. Her forehead creases, like she’s confused at the sudden turn of events, and she looks away, her cheeks flushed.

I clear my throat and try to think back on how we ended up in this position in the first place. Ah yes. We were talking about how I recognized her at Blue Tango. “It’s your tat.”

“What?” Her word is harsh.

I point to her wrist. “The other night, I recognized you because of the tattoo on your wrist. ‘
Born to drum
.’”

“Oh,” she says and blushes harder, like someone pinched her cheeks.

Good god, pinched cheeks? Did I really just think that? Heath is right. I really need to stop reading women’s fashion magazines, before I turn into the King of the Fashionistas.

“Though I do have to admit”—not really; I need to shut up, but for some reason I seem to have zero self-control around this girl—“I was checking you out . . .”

She raises her eyebrows. And an array of emotions wash over her face—anger to pleased to embarrassed to something else.

“I mean, what would you do if you saw me running around like that? You’d totally check me out too.”

“I would not!” she blurts, her face flaming red.

I don’t respond, because I know she knows that she totally would. It’s human nature.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snaps.

I raise one shoulder in a half-shrug and tilt my head, giving her a lopsided grin.

“Stop it,
Harry
.”

I crinkle my nose. “Will you ever stop calling me that?”

“Not a chance.” She waves her hand, holding back a chuckle.

“So what now?” I ask.

“Now,” she says, taking a step back, picking up another stone, and tossing it toward me, “we practice.”

THE BANGING ON the door is harsh and loud. And consistent. The person doesn’t let up, and I finally drag myself out of bed. I grab my phone on my way to the door, checking the time. 1:43 a.m.

Awesome.

“Hold your fucking horses,” I yell as I stumble across the living room. I set my phone down on an end table as I pass and swing the door open.

Fisher stands on the other side, pissed as hell. It’s been almost a week since the night at Blue Tango and yeah, he’s called. About fifteen times. I didn’t answer any of them. But only because I wanted him to feel as fucking annoyed as Anna and I felt.

“Are you fucking out of your mind?” Fisher yells, stepping into my apartment. “Your phone better be broken.”

I shut the door behind him with a sigh. “Please, come on in. Make yourself at home.”

“Do you even understand what the fuck you got yourself into? If Stamos ever finds out that you’re not who you say you are—”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” I wave him off, heading to the kitchen. “I need a drink.” I grab the beer on the table I’d planned to drink earlier and never got around to. It’s warm, but I don’t care. A beer’s a beer. And I’m gonna need some kind of liquid bracer for this.

“What were you
thinking
, Harrington?” His voice is softer. “Do you know what this will do to your family? Your
career
?”

I scoff, clicking open the beer can and taking a swig. I sigh, letting the bitter taste of hops wash away the last dregs of sleep. “I dunno, Fisher. I guess I was thinking that my best friend hasn’t called me since he got kicked out of the FBI, no matter how many times I’ve left him a message. I was thinking that his little sister came crying to me to save her brother because she’s worried he’s back here seeking some sort of justice for his dead family and not thinking about the one person who’s relying on him—”

“Don’t go there—” Fisher growls, his gaze narrowing. But I’m not done.

“And I was thinking that when I gave you fucking twenty-four hours to get the fuck back to me, you fucking didn’t. So I had to come hunt your stupid ass down.
That
’
s
what I was thinking. Satisfied?”

He flinches and falls silent. “Anna came to you?”

“Yeah, man. What did you expect? You’re her
only
family, and you disappeared on her.” I plop down on the couch, taking another swig. “And honestly, I don’t deserve this shitty treatment, since I just spent the day getting authorization to save
your
ass from whatever it is
you
’
ve
gotten yourself into.”

“Harrington—” He paces back and forth. “What are you—?”

“I know what I am, but what are you?”

He smacks me upside the head. “Don’t be an ass.”

I turn slightly to the side and point a finger at myself. “Oh, now I’m being an ass? Dude, you’ve got that definition wrong.”

He runs his hand down his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m sorry that I ever got myself involved in this shit. And now . . . you . . . I’m so sorry, man. I wish you didn’t—”

“What, was I just supposed to let you get yourself killed? That’s not what best friends do. That’s not
me
.”

He sighs. “Well that explains why you suddenly showed up on Stamos’s radar, but why didn’t you return my calls? I thought I was going to find you in a body bag, or worse, dig your decomposing corpse from the bottom of the river.” He jumps over the back of the couch and sits next to me.

I shrug. “Because I could.”

“You ignored my calls because you can?” He asks, like he’s shocked that anyone could be that rude. Funny.

I give him a pointed look. “Yup.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Silence falls between us. I take another swig of beer while Fisher looks down at his hands folded in his lap. I can feel the guilt radiating off him, and I know he’s thinking about Anna.

Finally, he says, “I know I was a dick. I shouldn’t have just up and left like that. But I couldn’t tell her. It was too dangerous. I just couldn’t sit by and wait for someone to do something about Stamos, and I . . . I don’t know, I just thought I could fix it.” He gives me a sad smile.

“You still should have told her
something
, man. She’s been worried sick about you.”

His smile disappears, turning into a frown. “I know, and I will. But not yet. I’m following a lead and I can’t risk her getting involved.”

“You’re all she has. She deserves to at least know you’re alive.”

“Like your family deserves to know that you’re not actually becoming a lawyer?”

I look down at the can in my hand and scowl. “That’s different, and you know it.”

“How? How is it different? You’re not exactly getting ready to graduate and take the bar. So why haven’t you told them you’re FBI?” he challenges, clearly deflecting.

I empty the can and place it on the table before me, remembering all the times Blake yelled at me for placing stuff on tables without a coaster. “You know why.”

We fall into awkward silence again, glaring at each other until Fisher finally looks away.

“So you’re undercover now?” he asks. It’s hesitant, and I know he’s hoping I’ll let the previous topic drop. I don’t want to talk about my father and his expectations for my life, so I’m all too happy to oblige.

“Yup.” I pop the
P
at the end. I may be willing to let the conversation shift, but I’m still pissed and I want him to know it.

“Do I even want to know how you managed to pull that off?” He offers me a half-grin, visibly relaxing.

“Not really,” I say. “It may or may not have required that I charm the pants off Assistant Director Benson.” I grin as his eyes widen and his jaw drops.

“No fucking way.”

I laugh. “You know I could do it, but no. Actually, she was against the idea and Wilson was the one who convinced her.”

He gives me an impressed nod and turns so he’s facing me fully. A wide grin spreads across his face. “Okay, then. What happens now, Brain?”

I give him a grin of my own at the reference. “Well, Pinky, now we kick Stamos’s world in the nuts.”

I hum the
Pinky and the Brain
theme song as he laughs.