Chapter 3

 

 

AS THE plane touched down in Brickell Bay, I stared grimly out the airline window. The small airport tarmac glittered with lights and almost looked festive in the approaching darkness. Four hours of listening to a ghost tell me about the heart attack that had taken his life midflight was four hours too many. Unfortunately I’d left my pills in my checked bag.

Actually that was a bit of a lie. I didn’t forget them. I’d purposefully packed them, determined that I could make it through a simple four-hour flight without self-medicating. What I concluded from that experiment? I was wrong, I was a certified nutjob, and I needed my drugs. I gripped both armrests as the plane landed with a shudder, and Airplane Ghost ramped up in volume.

“If that idiot stewardess hadn’t taken so long calling for help, maybe I’d still be alive,” he said with a scowl as the plane moved slowly down the tarmac. I said a silent prayer of thanks as our gate came into view.

“Ted,” I began.

“Tom.” He shifted his glare to me. “Have you even been listening?”

“Of course. I just wanted to ask… are you stuck on this plane?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like to leave. No.”

Other than the plane landing safely, that was the best news I’d heard in days. It was certainly enough to propel me out of my seat as soon as the seat belt sign flashed. Thoroughly put out by my disinterest, Ted folded his arms and treated me to an icy stare as I waited, half in and half out of my seat, ready to disembark.

Needless to say, I’d had better flights.

It’d been a while since I’d flown commercial, but baggage claim was just the way I remembered it—a fucking nightmare. I stuck earbuds in my ears and cued up some Sia as I wandered around and tried to recognize people from a flight I’d spent mostly distracted. By the time I’d gone from one end of the concourse to the other, I too wanted to swing from a chandelier.

Every empty space around the conveyor belt was taken. Impatient, overtired travelers had suddenly morphed into lions and lionesses on the Serengeti and watched the hole where the bags would come out with unblinking intensity.

I finally stood next to a grandmotherly type who I may or may not have seen two rows up, and I wondered what the hell I was doing back in Brickell Bay.

Oh yeah, that’s right. My boss thought I was crazy and firmly believed in the “out of sight, out of mind” philosophy. And I was looking for a girl who was probably living with her boyfriend in some overpriced one bedroom on Collins and working as a waitress in a place that considered ambiance a thatched roof, sticky menus, and bikini-clad women.

Oh and bonus, I got to see my family. It was nonoptional. I might be a workaholic/recluse, but even I knew that I couldn’t skip that particular nicety. I had to see my parents and twin within forty-eight hours of debarking or things were going to get… loud. Mostly from my twin sister, Skylar.

Yeah, you heard. Rain and Sky. Because that’s what happened when you were born of… well, let’s just cut to the chase—crazy people. Crazy, “go where the wind blows you,” good-hearted hippie people who smelled of earth and sun and patchouli 99 percent of the time. Oh, and weed, that is. Weed they thought I didn’t know about. But people in glass houses should probably mind their own pill-popping business, so I kept my mouth shut.

It’s not that they’re bad people. They’re actually quite wonderful in their own, “march to the beat that only you can hear” way. Last I’d checked, my mother was becoming a Wiccan.

Becoming a Wiccan was something she understood, something she was proud of. My commencement ceremony? Not so much. I snorted. My parents had seemed more confused than anything else when I’d invited them. I remembered the conversation vividly.

My mother sounded a little befuddled. “Didn’t you already graduate, dear?”

“Yes, but for a lower degree. That was my master’s. This is for my doctorate, Mom.”

“Well, what’s the difference?”

“There’s a lot of difference. There’s about four more years of difference.” I’d felt my voice getting tense, so I tempered it. My hippie mother had no idea about or respect for organized institutions, whether they were for higher learning or not.

“You know, Sky is teaching classes at the local college about the Importance of Holistic Learning. You should sit in sometime.”

I then briefly debated if it would be rude to ask what the hell that had to do with what I’d said. I decided upon yes—yes that would be extremely rude. “Well, if you and dad can make it, just let me know. I’ll book your flights.”

“I don’t want you to spend your money,” she said absently. There was a distinct ripping then, and I knew she was opening the mail.

“It’s not a problem,” I’d said through gritted teeth.

“Oh.” Her voice brightened. “Well, we’ll get to see you, and that’s all that matters.”

They wanted to understand. And that had been enough. To them it was odd and frankly, a little redundant that I would sacrifice more than the cost of a car to acquire a piece of paper from a university. They already knew that I was the brainy one in the family. If I waited for them to understand me or my life choices, I’d probably wither up and die. Then my intrepid, recycling mother would turn me into environmentally responsible potpourri.

It was just as well that they hadn’t come to my graduation. I don’t know what they would’ve made of my life. My colorful folks would’ve definitely hated my sterile apartment. Hell, half the time I hated it. I’d only rented it because it was in a good neighborhood and I had nosy neighbors who watched my place when I traveled.

My family already hated my job. And the fact that I constantly traveled and sometimes missed holidays. And working for, as my father put it, “The Man.” I really didn’t need to see their disapproval of my sterile apartment or modest, nondescript sedan. I knew they thought I was too boring. Responsible. Straitlaced.

That may be. But wasn’t it just dazzlingly ironic that I was the one who saw ghosts. Life. I shook my head. Never boring, always surprising, and more often than not, inexplicable. The more time you spent trying to make sense of it, the less sense it all made.

Someone jostled my suitcase, and I blinked and wondered how long I’d been staring off into space. The rude jostler sent me a glare, apparently for having the temerity to bring a suitcase to the airport, tossed a wealth of dark, silken locks, and stomped off in furred UGG boots. The elderly woman I’d thought was on my plane was gone. I sighed and began to move again.

My music faded away as a call cut in. That certainly didn’t help my mood any. Would it really kill Siri to let people know I was unavailable for the next century? “Christiansen.”

“You get there yet?” Chevy didn’t bother with hellos.

“Well, hello to you too,” I said as I skirted a mother trying to corral a screaming toddler. “And yes, I just got here about fifteen minutes ago. I’m still in the airport.”

“Stuck in baggage?” Nothing in her tone was amiss, but I could tell she was amused.

“Yes,” I admitted with a huff. “Stop laughing at me.”

“Sorry, dear,” she said, not contrite in the least. “You know I think you’re a genius. You just happen to be a genius who has no idea how to navigate an airport. Like Einstein lost in a Home Depot.”

Most people would consider fellow behavioral analyst Chevrolet Sullivan an asset—a good agent and a brilliant woman. They don’t know her like I do. They don’t know she’s an annoying twerp who constantly hums Taylor Swift songs and steals lunches from the fridge. She never sleeps, never leaves the office, and clocks in at slightly a pinch over five feet tall. The last part isn’t really a problem. It just allows me to use up a lifetime cache of short jokes. It also gives her an excuse to style her hair really high. Like Dolly Parton high. She swears her Jerseylicious styling choices add the false illusion of height. I don’t know about that, but it allows me to throw in some big-hair cracks. It’s win-win really.

“Did you just call to harass me?”

“No. I’m actually being helpful. I called your sister and asked if you could stay with her while you’re in town,” she said briskly.

“You did what?”

“Well, the Holiday Inn two exits away from BBPD is booked. I tried to get you closer, but the only things in a ten-mile radius are a couple housing developments, a fruit stand, and a gator farm.”

“Check the gator farm,” I demanded.

She ignored me. “She said she’d love to have you. She also said a few more things regarding your long absence and negligible visits home, but I’ll let her deliver those in person.”

“Awfully nice of you.” The baggage carousel I’d stopped in front of began to beep and spit out suitcases like a malfunctioning robot.

“I had a feeling you didn’t bother to make arrangements.”

“I had other things to take care of.”

“Like a rental car? You did get one of those, didn’t you?”

I would’ve loved to say that I had. “Is there something else I can help you with, dear, darling Chevy?”

“That’ll do for now. I am your agency contact. I’m supposed to be checking in on you.”

Smug little Napoleon.

“I’m actually surprised you accepted this gig. I mean, last time we talked about you going home, you seemed pretty against it.”

“That’s not true,” I denied almost automatically. It felt wrong to acknowledge such a thing. Disloyal. Besides, I couldn’t possibly have said anything that personal to Miss Teen Pop USA.

“You said you felt like an alien fresh off the spaceship every time you visit. Your parents drive you nuts—”

“Okay.”

“Your sister is intrusive and nosy—”

“I didn’t—”

“And of course you’re still in love with Danny. Or shall I say lust.”

“I never said any of that, you evil little Dolly Parton clone.” My face was so hot, I felt like I was going up in flames.

I may not have said it, but I wouldn’t deny it either. The lust thing, of course, not the love. So sue me. If you could see Danny, you’d understand. And it wasn’t just about looks. He was a thoughtful sexual partner. Very in tune. Patient. Almost too fucking patient when I’d been desperately eager for him to move. Let’s just say I had uttered the term “fuck me already” more than once in our bedroom.

We never had any discussion about who would bottom and who would top. It was a no-brainer. For once in my well-ordered life, I’d had a way to give up control. Just for a little while. I swallowed. I’d probably be better off if I couldn’t remember what it felt like to have those thick, clever fingers working inside of me as he sucked me off. Or what it felt like when he finally gave me what I wanted, my face pressed in the pillow, sheets twisted between my tense fingers as he moved with me. Steadily. Firmly. Assured.

It was only when he was inside me that I realized how well we fit together. Puzzle pieces interlocking securely, falling into perfect place. I let out a puff of air. It was just too bad I was such an abnormal freak. Seeing ghosts all the time really put a crimp in my love life.

I tried not to dwell on it. I usually succeeded. So that made it stranger still to see Danny walk through the bustling airport crowd. I blinked. So it’s that easy, God? Just think it and it will appear? I closed my eyes and wished for a million dollars. Or my dearly departed Nana. Or Billie, my also dearly departed shih tzu from childhood.

But no. When I opened my eyes again, I saw no Nana and no Billie. God was still winging the Danny vision in my direction, and apparently He, in His infinite wisdom, thought it’d be funnier to make that vision sexier than ever.

“I gotta go,” I told Chevy faintly.

“Okay,” she singsonged. “Take care. Don’t be a threat to national security.”

That included giving your all-too-fuckable ex a hand job in a filthy airport bathroom, right? I should probably look into that. “I’ll try,” I murmured.

 

 

AS AN agent I was trained to expect the unexpected—to be prepared for almost anything. But seeing Danny standing there, complete with a lazy smile and my duffle on his shoulder? It was like dropping an Acme anvil on my unprepared cranium.

Danny’s eyebrows rose. “Never thought I’d see the day you turned mute. I should play lotto today.”

I’d imagined all sorts of professional ways to greet my ex. I would use a clipped voice and be all brisk and businesslike. Or I could be casual and breezy and use flippant language, just to hammer home the point that I’d moved on. None of those power greetings involved a weak “hey” with a waggle of the fingers. But I’m just witty like that.

“Hey back.” He readjusted the strap on the duffle and lifted it a little higher on his shoulder. “I could’ve watched you flounder some more, but this seemed kinder. You never could navigate an airport.”

“Some things never change, I guess.”

“And some things do.”

I looked carefully, but I couldn’t decipher his unspoken language anymore. He was right, though. Some things certainly do. The last time he’d picked me up from the airport, my big, PDA-hating boyfriend had kissed me senseless. We stopped short of holding hands on the way to the car, but he grinned at me the whole way. This stilted, awkward greeting didn’t exist.

Please tell me you don’t still have feelings for this guy.

My subconscious was appalled. No. No. Of course not. It was just the surprise of seeing him after all this time. And maybe the in-your-face reminder that he still looked, well, good. And so fucking familiar.

He looked comfortable in well-worn jeans and a tee. Scuffed boots. Clearly he hadn’t dressed up for our meeting. I tried not to admire how his heavily muscled, well-tattooed arms stretched his shirt, how the soft blue chambray held on for dear life. I’d always been a sucker for those tattoos.

His dark hair was still low on the sides and longer on top. He hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble covered a strong, square jaw. He still had the silver barbell in his eyebrow. Those dark blue eyes had changed the most. They weren’t welcoming and open. They were watchful. Waiting.

“You look surprised,” he said.

Stunned would probably be more apt. “A little,” I managed. “What are you doing here?”

“My lieutenant told me to pick up our visiting agent and welcome him to Miami. So….” He lifted an eyebrow. “Welcome.”

“I knew I’d have an escort. Just not… you,” I finished weakly. I thought that Brickell Bay PD would send someone I hadn’t slept with. Considering how celibate I was, that shouldn’t have been a challenge.

“Is there any reason it shouldn’t be me?”

I gritted my teeth. “Not really.”

I could think of quite a few reasons actually. Maybe because I broke up with you three years ago? Maybe because, as far as you know, I left Brickell Bay for a job opportunity? I had more, but that really ought to do it.

“Lieutenant Tate has been requesting bureau assistance for six months now. I heard your unit was backed up. I’m just glad you agreed to come.”

“Of course.”

“I’m in parking lot D.”

He started walking, and I had no other choice but to follow. Quickly. Danny always forgot that, at six two, his stride was longer than most. Certainly longer than what I could achieve with the sticks attached to my own five-nine frame. I looped my hand through my rolling suitcase and hustled.

“How’d you get my luggage?” I huffed.

“You were at the wrong carousel.” Danny’s voice was amused. “As usual.”

I didn’t ask how he knew which luggage was mine. Not only was it a matching set to the one I was carrying, but I had little silver luggage tags with my information printed on them. Oh yeah, and he’d bought the set for me four Christmases before.

As we played high-stakes Frogger with the traffic to get to the parking garage, my mind was almost besieged with memories—memories about how the whole mess got started.

It wasn’t exactly the stuff of romances. We met over a body so mangled it required dental recognition. The vic hadn’t wound up being one of the Martindale Strangler’s, but something had sparked between us. Yes, right there over a dead body. That’s something for the scrapbook. One dead body, a drink, two dinners, and five dates later, we were a thing.

That thing had lasted four years. Barring family, it was my longest stable relationship. My longest relationship, period. We’d both been very good at several things—grilling a mean steak, calling if we were going to be late, and fairly divvying up household responsibilities.

“Rain.”

Oh yeah, and sex. We’d been very, very good at sex. I wormed a finger in my collar and tried to pull it away from my neck a touch. I wasn’t getting hot remembering. It was just the change in temperature. Jesus. Stop judging me.

“Rain.”

I blinked to find Danny standing next to a black Charger with the trunk popped. I’d been so deep in my own thoughts that I just meandered right past. My face flushed as I trekked back and tossed the suitcase in the trunk.

Danny shook his head as he went around to the driver’s seat. “You don’t remember what kind of car I drive?” He raised an eyebrow. “It has been a long time.”

Not long enough. “Can you drop me off at Sky’s?”

“’Course. But you know you can stay with me if you need to. I have the extra space.”

I stared at him over the span of gleaming roof. He was obsessive about keeping his ride waxed. Extra space? He had extra space? What was I? Just another visiting agent? Someone to extend courtesies to?

My brow furrowed. “I’m surprised you would be okay with that.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because.” My face started to grow pink. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about us.”

“Yeah? And what kind of idea would that be?”

Man that voice was cool. Downright icy. “That this would be anything other than working together.”

The words came out before I could censor them, but they needed to be said. I could almost see that Irish temper flare. A rush of color surged up Danny’s neck and into his cheeks. Like dropping a match on a counter soaked with gasoline.

It gratified me. Excited me. And suddenly I realized why I had been pushing. Something in me wasn’t going to be satisfied until I had Danny nice and riled up. Calm, collected, good-to-see-ya Danny wasn’t really working for me.

How about pissed off? Does pissed off work for you?

“God forbid.” Danny smiled humorlessly. “I was going to fuck you on the hood of my car, but now you can just have the spare bedroom. Your virtue should be safe.”

I bit down on my lip. Hard. I deserved it. And fuck it all, now I had a picture in my mind of Danny bending me over the hood of the car, pressing me into the hot metal, and fucking me senseless in the cool night air. I risked a glance at his stony-faced expression. Well, there went that.

“I just thought we should put our cards on the table,” I said. Despite my effort to achieve nonchalance, my skin was too fair not to be flushed. “We should both know where we stand.”

“We broke up three years ago,” Danny snapped.

“I understand that.”

“Us having sex was exactly that. Sex. Great fucking sex, but imagine that I managed to keep living when you called it off. For a fucking job.”

“I hear you.”

And so does everyone else. In terms of a word that will make you stop talking and eavesdrop, “sex” is near the top of the list. Right up there with help. Free on a college campus. Gonorrhea in a clinic. People in the parking garage were walking slower, ears straining to hear. They didn’t have to strain too hard. Danny wasn’t exactly keeping his voice down.

“Why don’t we just chalk up our ‘relationship’ to a nice one-night stand that just happened to last four years,” he continued, his voice still as cool and loud as ever. “That way I can solve my case and you can get the fuck over yourself.”

I tamped down the flare of anger that was trying to catch wind of some oxygen. “Well, I guess that’ll keep me busy. Here I was, wishing I’d brought my Kindle.” Which was a complete lie.

I always brought my Kindle.

“So do you want to stay or not?” Danny demanded. “You can have the spare room, free of charge. Dick, much like gratuity, is not included.”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Thanks for the overwhelming hospitality.”

We got in the car and drove off in complete silence. Even before we left the parking lot, I was already tightening my seatbelt until it nearly choked me. He’d always believed in driving like you stole it, and apparently that hadn’t changed. Even on the highway, as I watched the odometer tick past eighty-five, I didn’t say a word.

That was just fine with me. Might as well end it in a fiery crash on the interstate. There I was, under the delusion that he’d been thinking about me the same way I’d been thinking about him. Guess I’d been wrong. Apparently on his part, we’d just been fuck buddies.

“Could you manage to keep it to ninety?” I finally asked icily.

He gave me a sideways glance. “I hear those yellow cabs are still running.”

But he did bring it back down a pinch. A tiny pinch. I stared stonily at the passing landscape. I wanted to know how he felt about my return. Now I had my answer. And just like all nosy, “dog with a bone,” “I’m going to keep digging until I find out” people since the beginning of time, I was kind of sorry I’d asked.