Page 8 of Sinners Reunion

“Don’t be ludicrous. You’ve become part of the inner circle, and we want you there.”

He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, then puts the car in park. “If it’s all the same, I think I’ll just stay in the car.”

“Suit yourself,” I say before sliding out of the back seat. I lean back inside. “You could always peruse your RV. The assignments are taped to the doors. I’m not sure who Jim placed you with, but I’m sure you’ll get on well.”

“I think he put me with Ice Pick and Blayne.” He scrunches his nose. “Better than Chef Maurice, I guess.”

I scowl and close the door. I specifically told Jim I did not want Ice Pick’s new friend tagging along. Something about that lad rubs me the wrong way, but everyone is so blasted enamored with his good looks and bloody accent. They can’t smell the sour stench just underneath, but I do. I damn well do.

I’ll just keep a close eye on him.

After grabbing my bag from the trunk, I start up the walkway. Frankie and Maverick give me a wave as I pass. They’re busy canoodling in their formal wear on the garden swing. Frankie sports a black-on-black suit that almost matches Maverick’s.

Her mother was a fool for treating her as she did. She’s the most accomplished agent in our department.

Aside from me.

Cat rushes off the porch, poking earrings into her ears as she flies down the steps. A hot-pink sequined gown clings to her curvy frame.

“How far is the walk to the RVs?” she shouts toward me. “I packed up my damn heels!”

“Gary can drive you down.” I throw my thumb toward the car still parked nearby.

“Perfect,” she whispers with a grin.

I draw closer to the porch, and voices reach me from all sides—a distant scream; Jim whinging about something, and quite loudly, at that; Kenny screeching from somewhere to my right—and I can’t help but wonder if this is a vacation or a slow form of torture.

Why are the moments just before a trip so damn chaotic? And why on earth did Jim think it was a good idea to have an inaugural dinner when we’re all in a state of uproar?

No matter. The only way out is through.

I set my jaw and enter the cabin. I trudge through a gaggle of frantic people, then head upstairs to my room.

Everyone has their own quarters in this lakeside mansion, and mine are situated on the top floor, on the opposite side of the house from Jim’s. I follow the landing to my hallway, then find my door near the end.

I carry my bag inside and drop it by the foot of the bed—a California king for King, of course, with four hand-carved posts. I don’t have time to see much else before Kindra bursts through the door.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” she says.

Ezra and Eve follow hot on her heels. They all look positively knackered. Ezra isn’t even in his formal attire yet.

“Jim has locked himself in his room and refuses to come out,” Kindra says. “He keeps wailing something about that sloth. We don’t know what to do.”

“You’re the best man for the job,” Ezra says. “You have a way with him.”

They have no idea.

About so many things . . .

With a sigh, I abandon my room and head to the other end of the hall. The trio trails me. I don’t hear the cries of anguish until I’m nearly upon the threshold, and it’s as bad as I feared. I look back at them.

“You lot carry on with dinner preparations. I’ll handle Madigan.”

They nod and hurry off to deal with their tasks.

I try the knob, but it’s locked. Figures. Jim was always one for melodrama. If I didn’t have to beat down the door to talk him off a ledge, it wouldn’t feel right.

I roll my eyes and pound my fist against the thick slab of wood. “Open up, Jim. Your old mate is here to help.”