I shouldn’t get pleasure from this, but I do.
“I thought you said we were catching the bus?” Regan murmurs when I flag down a taxi outside of her building.
“I thought you said you were staying in a hotel?” I reply with an arrogant smirk.
With a roll of her eyes, Regan clambers into the taxi idling at the curb. In a true show of defiance, she slams the door shut, then advises the taxi driver to leave without me.
It takes me threatening the driver with a lifetime of parking tickets before he finally relents. Lucky—I wasn’t joking.
“You shouldn’t have given in. He’sonlya PI,” Regan advises the driver when I slide into the seat next to her.
With her words hindered by both alcohol and laughter, it is a struggle for me to understand what she says, but her sneer when she mentioned my fake title was as bad as the time she believed I was an accountant. Both were laced with disgust.
While our taxi makes the ten-mile trip to my apartment, I seek Brandon’s details in the FBI database. I don’t have to be discreet. Regan is too busy glancing out the window, lost in thought, to pay me any attention.
I find Brandon’s information relatively quickly. As suspected, he is so fresh out of the academy, he’s still wearing diapers. He was recruited to Theresa’s division only four days ago.
Preferring old school conversations over evidence-encrypted text messages, I dial Brandon’s number then raise my phone to my ear.
He answers two seconds later. His greeting isn’t one fellow agents generally give. “How did you get my number?”
I smile, pleased by the evidence his tone just unlocked. Brandon is as methodical as me when it comes to his job. Otherwise, how did he know it was me calling?
“I have my ways.”
A groan is the only reply Brandon gives.
“Listen, I need you to gather evidence from Regan’s apartment. Fingerprints, photos of the scene, and anything else you might think is useful. . .”
My words trail off when Brandon asks, “Such as a bright pink vibrator sitting discarded on the bathroom floor?”
I pull my cell away from my ear, clear any congestion inside with a quick wiggle of my finger, then reattach my phone. “What did you say?”
“A bright pink vibr—”
I cough, drowning out the remainder of his sentence. “I heard what you said. You don’t need to repeat it.”
Brandon chuckles, amused by the pain in my tone. I’m glad he finds our conversation entertaining. The only reaction I’m gaining from it is suspicion.
“Why are you already at Regan’s apartment?”
The mention of her name for the second time in under a minute gains Regan’s attention. I smile to assure her everything is fine before twisting my torso away from her.
“I saw you leave, figured you wouldn’t have had time to adequately assess the scene,” Brandon answers.
Although he is right, it doesn’t weaken my suspicion. I don’t like others up in my business, and Brandon is so far up there, I feel like the evidence he just unearthed is being used on me as his intrusive instrument of choice.
“Vibrators don’t get logged into evidence—”
“They do if they pertain to the crime,” Brandon corrects.
“In some cases, that can be true. But in this case, it’snotrequired,” I grind out through clenched teeth.
Brandon’s life hangs precariously in the wind when he laughs. “I know, I was just messing with you.”
His hearty chuckle is pushed aside for a noisy swallow when I snarl, “Do it again and see how it ends for you.” Even knowing he is helping me hasn’t lessened my jealousy in the slightest. This isn’t a standard case for me. This is as personal as it gets.
My focus shifts from Brandon to the taxi driver when he pulls into the entrance of a hotel on Westward Way. “What are you doing?”
