“Bellevue?”
“Having a caramel almond milk steamer.” Reece tossed the hat behind his chair, on top of Liam’s blazer. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he promised Grayson, who just snorted.
“A caramel—are you under arrest?”
“To be honest, I’m never one-hundred-percent sure today.” Reece moved the phone down from his mouth to address Grayson. “Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?”
Reece rolled his eyes. “I’m not currently wearing handcuffs,” he said into the phone. “Even after spilling vegan caramel syrup on the Dead Man’s hat. So...maybe not?”
“You better not be,” said Liam, “because I don’t care how many times you’ve been handcuffed to some empath-curious pervert’s bed—”
“Liking empaths does not make someone a pervert, jackass. And no one would evercuffme to their bed. The hands are where the magic happens.”
Grayson paused midsip and side-eyed Reece.
Liam groaned in his ear. “That’s going straight to my file ofthings Reece said that I can’t unhear.If you’re not in handcuffs, why is the lead story onEyes on Empathsabout your arrest, complete with a picture of you cuffed over the hood of your car?”
Reece’s stomach hit the floor. “What?”
Grayson was already taking the phone out of Reece’s hand. “Explain,” he said, as he put it to his own ear.
Reece couldn’t hear Liam on the other side of the phone, and Grayson’s expression never changed. After several moments, Grayson hung up without another word.
“Did you just hang up on Jamey’s boyfriend?” Reece pointed at Grayson. “OnlyIget to hang up on Liam.Youhave to be nice to him.”
“I let you go before the reporters came.” Grayson blinked, like the idea of something escaping his machinations was inconceivable.
“If there’s a picture of me in handcuffs, that’s all on you,” said Reece.
“But I destroyed Ms. Macy’s phone.”
Reece’s lips thinned. “You think Gretel Macy carries only one camera on her? What kind of amateur fringe blogger do you take her for?”
“Huh” was Grayson’s less-than-reassuring response.
From the coffeehouse, Grayson directed Reece to drive south, all the way to Renton and a shady side street near the interstate.
“Fancy car,” Reece observed, pointing at a black Maybach parked in front of a nondescript bar, a peacock among pigeons next to the mud-coated wagons and small pickups.
“It’s Mr. Stone’s,” said Grayson. “His driver and I are gonna have a quick talk.”
Reece wrinkled his nose. “Cedrick Stone keeps a chatty driver?”
“Nope.”
“Riddle me this,” Reece muttered, pulling in behind the Maybach.
When they entered the bar, Reece was momentarily unable to see as his eyes struggled with the dim interior. Squinting, he could make out a decent-sized crowd taking advantage of happy hour.
Several looks were directed their way as they walked in, most of them at Grayson. Reece was no expert on looks, but he was pretty sure that in this dive, a man as fit and good-looking as Grayson stood out even more than the Maybach.
But a few looks were on Reece—more specifically, on his gloves—and they weren’t friendly. Maybe most people here didn’t interact with empaths often. Or, he realized, as he took in the two TVs above the bar, they could be staring for another reason altogether. He hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets.
Grayson, apparently oblivious to the stares, cut a path straight to a muscled man with a neat chinstrap goatee seated at the end of the bar. “Mr. Huang.”
Huang turned, his expression cool. “Agent Grayson. A pleasure.” He didn’t stand from his barstool and he didn’t flinch. Maybe anyone who could drive around Cedrick Stone needed to be hard to spook.
