Chapter 8 - Hunter Cocker

Cocker Brothers - Book 31

A gentle rain falls as I make my way down to the local restaurant I spotted earlier. Their patio is empty, predictably. You never know when drizzle turns torrential here. Same in Rome. New York.

Atlanta, too, actually.

Guess that’s the reason I like climates like these. Reminds me of home. I wonder what my family is up to? How is Lexi navigating married life after so many years of chasing that asshole around? Is Samantha holding up the dance studio they run together or is Lexi doing her fair share and keeping her promise?

How’s Caden doing now that he upped his doctor-game to heart surgeon? A cardiologist. That’s as big as it gets outside of maybe brain surgeon. I’d say they’re a tie. I’ve never told my brother Caden that the image of his steady fingers has inspired my own. Though we use different tools. I break open safes. He, chests.

And Max. We’ve never been very close. He’s the oldest. I’m the youngest. It’s natural there’s a divide between us.

Better this way, I guess. It’s impossible for me to be close to anyone. They can’t know what I do. I do think of them, though. Wonder if they know that.

Why am I going down this rabbit hole? I know why. I’ve got time to spare before I break into Edward’s shop tonight. This kind of time — the type where I have to invent things to do in order to pass it — often makes me think of those I love back home. I don’t like having too much time to think. It never helps me.

I never planned to be cold-hearted. I have to be. My life is too dangerous to let emotions weaken my consciousness.

Color my actions.

Cause hesitation.

A trait I never need.

Through the glass exterior I appreciate warm lighting of Edison bulbs hanging from wires above four-top tables. Simple flower arrangements. A gold and taupe color-palette. Large art on the walls. Black ink. White canvas. Stylish. And look at that. Lucky me. It has a bar.

The low hum of conversation and clinking of cutlery continue uninterrupted as I stroll inside. A server in a white button-up over tan slacks greets me with a nod. The bartender, in a tan blazer, black tie, washes glasses in a sink I can’t see behind a spotless wooden counter.

I mount a barstool, admiring their rough stone wall that lines the back. Note a swinging door, small round window betraying a peek into the kitchen. Men with hairnets busy inside. Sanitary.

“Scotch. Neat.”

The bartender nods. Grabs the appropriate glass. Gives me a four-finger pour. Generous. I like him already.

“Obrigado,” I mutter, taking note of his manicured nails as he sets my drink onto a cork coaster.

As he exits I savor the sweet burn, frown at how a simple mission turned into what it has. Like she somehow can hear me beating myself up, a text come through with her initials displayed on my screen: S.R.

I swipe it open to read what Reynolds has to say:

You getting something to eat?

I smirk and reply:

Hard to miss my mom when I have you.

Her response comes in an instant:

Remember, I could make you disappear if I wanted to.

I chuckle, start to reply and decide not to. Just because it drives her crazy.

At about three minutes she texts:

Heads up.

My smirk vanishes. I start to ask what she means by that, when a flicker of movement in my peripheral catches my attention. I turn my head to get a better view. A woman all by herself has joined me and the locals. Long blonde hair. Large breasts. Nice dress meant to turn heads worth money.

No wedding ring. Spiky heels in a city that prefers flats. Lashes so long I can see them from here. But then again I’ve got great eyesight. And training for details. She scans the place. Sharp. Calculating.

I sneer with irritation.

Heads up?

Did Reynolds sick a spy on her spy?

Did I lose that much trust with my mistake? Can I blame her?

Yes.

I said I’d handle this.

The bartender appears and sparks up like someone lit his stick of dynamite as she takes a seat a few stools down from me.

“Port wine,” she breathes.

I let out a snort.

Hard eyes lock onto mine. “Problem?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“You ordered that because of where you are, but Port is from Porto. Not Lisbon.”

A flash of surprise gets hidden fast. “I like Port wine.”

“Really? Because I had you pegged for a Chardonnay lover. With ice.”

Her turn to snort. “There is nothing wrong with ice in wine.”

“If you want to appreciate the flavor they intended for it, there is. But hey…” I motion to the bartender that I want another. “Water down their hard work if you wanna. Why are you so far away? Enjoy wasting time? It’s precious. Haven’t you heard?”

I can hear her teeth gritting.

She stands and walks up. Takes the stool beside mine. Useless to hide she’s here for me. I made it clear I know it. “You’re not inconspicuous, are you?”

I slide a look down and up her body. Challenge back, “And you are?”

A quick glance to the departing bartender. We both follow his disappearance into the kitchen. His disappointment that he seems to not have a chance with her tonight. “Mind if I join you, agent?”

Agent.

So Reynolds did send her.

Fuck.

I smirk, “I was expecting you.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “I couldn’t resist getting a closer look at you.”

“Couldn’t resist, huh?”

“Someone said you’re a problem. I wanted to see for myself.”

Reynolds called me a problem? Hard to keep my patience as I lean back. “She said that?”

“She? Who is this she?”

I blink, confusion sneaking in. “You know who.”

Enjoying toying with me, the blonde smiles, “There is no she.”

Ice pours into my blood. No she? Shannon Reynolds is definitely a she. Reynolds didn’t send this broad. The game has changed — paradigm doing a full 360˚ swing to hit me right in the nuts. “Interesting. So…who told you I’m a problem.”

“You don’t know him.”

I cock an eyebrow, voice smooth. “Ya sure I don’t know him?”

“Let’s just say… you shouldn’t know him.”

“Maybe he’s the kind of guy who likes to be known.”

“He’s not.”

I snap my jaw, indicating the attack I battled earlier tonight. “Maybe he’s the type who leaves traces you can’t ignore.”

“There are never traces left.”

“I saw to that.”

She smiles, colder than a polar bear’s feet in winter. “You have not seen to anything. You are looking. But you have not seen.”

With my mind on the safe, I take a slow, guarded sip of my scotch and set my drink down. “Here’s a scenario for you: Two gorgeous people are in a staring contest. Just like this one. And yes, that’s a compliment you can keep. Who wins?”

“I win,” she smiles. “Try and look away from me.”

“That’s not the right answer.”

“What answer is right?”

“The one where you say, the gorgeous person with a gun in their left hand, wins.”

She blinks toward the bar where my hand is no longer holding my glass, but my 9mm. Turns out beautiful blondes stammer.

I smirk, “Trying to say something?”

She hisses, “We are… out in public!”

“So? I like to live. That’s the thing about me. Kind of a quirk I have. But I am a dead aim. Pun intended.”

What does she do? A witty retort? A threat? A punch? Nope. She throws back her head. Opens her red lips. And screams the kind of scream that makes ears bleed.

So much for inconspicuous.

Author’s note below…

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Faleena Hopkins

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