Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Beau pulled Mav’s arm more tightly around him. “You know who else didn’t ‘do’ relationships?” he asked, using air quotes.
“Uncle Teddy,” Mav finished for him with a grin.
“Be real right now,” I muttered. My uncle Teddy was stupid for his husband. Always had been since before I could remember.
“And Uncle Derek was ‘straight,’” Mav added.
This, I already knew. I had the gayest collection of uncles on Earth, and they’d all had different paths to love. But it seemed like maybe the Marian family had already used up our allotment of happy ever afters before it would ever be my turn.
I smoothed Pepper’s fur, watching the small movements of her whiskers. “How did Jamie and Jude convince them to… to give a relationship a try?”
Beau’s grin widened. “They didn’t. They were just lovable sons-a-bitches, and their men came to them. Maybe give that a try. It worked for me, too.”
Mav moved his arm up to put Beau in a gentle headlock. “Do not listen to this father. Listen to me. The better father. The father with a level head.” He winked. “You should go talk to him, sweetheart. Maybe after San Francisco.”
“After… San Francisco?” I asked.
“Tilly’s bachelor party,” Beau snickered. “Remember?”
“No,” I said, feeling dread curdle in my gut as I remembered the family commitment. “No way.”
“Command performance, I’m afraid,” Mav said before kissing Beau on the head and shoving him off so he could stand up. “Come on. Let’s eat. I hear your siblings squabbling in the driveway.”
“Dad, for real, I can’t go. Aunt Tilly’s whole point in throwing that ridiculous party is to set us all up with people!”
Beau stood and reached out a hand to pull me up. “Aw. Nice use of the word ‘Dad,’ but it’s still not getting you out of this. Tilly played the ‘next year I might be dead’ card, so we’re going.”
I scoffed and followed him to the kitchen, past rows and rows of multicolored salt and pepper shakers of all sizes and shapes. “She’s never gonna die. She drinks from the holy grail.”
Gabe set three huge pizza boxes on the counter. “Tilly texted me and told me that if we don’t show up, she might sign us up for a subscription to blue-cheese-of-the-month again.”
We both shuddered at the memories.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not talking to any men. And I’m sure as hell not kissing any of them.”
Which was, it turned out, just another one of Jett Marian’s lies.
33
LOCKE
It took me five days to track my prey down.
“Jett Talmadge Marian,” Vox said. “Born and raised in Rabbit Island, South Carolina. Son of Maverick and Beau Marian. Graduated from local public high school and attended the University of Virginia, where he double-majored in global affairs and linguistics. Enjoys long walks on the beach and getting caught in the rain.”
I ignored him the same way I ignored the sunlight glinting off the Manhattan skyline outside my office window and scrolled through the information coming onto my screen.
There was a picture of Jett from his student ID card at UVA, a candid shot of him standing on a dock by a marsh, grinning in the sun, a much younger image of him at a podium in what looked like a high school debate tournament.
And then there was an office ID badge photo of him that looked eerily similar to the way he’d looked after Amsterdam. Skinny and tired.
The company name on the badge was ESP.
“What is Ecumene Stability Project?” I asked, squinting at the address in the financial district.
“An Interpol-related agency,” he said before slurping something through a straw. “Buncha do-gooder special agents.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled for the first time in a week. He didn’t work for the Alvarados. Or any other criminal group. He worked for the good guys.
Kind of.
The Paxis Council did what it did because governments were notoriously bad at it. Self-dealing and rarely prioritizing the welfare of the people they purported to protect.
Agencies like Interpol were rife with corruption and bias, and they were often hamstrung by regulations and “official channels.”
Additionally, intelligence agents were often used up and discarded like pawns in a never-ending game. I hated to imagine Jett becoming jaded over time or, worse, finding himself in inescapable danger. I’d already seen the result of his job conditions once before.
“What would ESP have been doing in Amsterdam three years ago?” I asked, almost to myself.
“No way to know, dude. Undercover shit, most likely.”
Undercover.
Fuck.
He’d cried in my arms. Fresh off whatever assignment where he’d pretended to be… what? Homeless? An addict? Or had it been worse? Had he been caught and held somewhere? Interrogated?
I remembered him waking up from a nightmare. The stark terror in his eyes and the thundering of his heart.
My fingers itched to hold him again, comfort him, support him financially so he could quit that fucking job, even if he wanted nothing to do with me ever again.