Page 38 of Russian Rescue

“It’s a funny story, actually. I was twenty and living in Vegas hustling people out of their hard-earned money.”

He faked shock. “You? Hustle people? Never.”

Chuckling, I took a sip, smacking my lips when I finished. “Yep. Shocker, I know.”

“Okay, so you’re in Vegas hustling people. Then what?”

Wes settled onto the corner of the couch, ignoring the microwave beeping in the background.

“One night, I was working the casinos, and I locked onto this dude who had this kind of important air about him. I noticed the briefcase he was carrying around all night and how he wouldn’t let it out of his sight. I figured it had to have some valuable shit in it, so I worked him hard.”

“And?”

“And I stole it. I managed to get away, got back to the place I was living in the tunnels under the city with a bunch of other people. Had some crazy hard lock on it I couldn’t pick. And about fifteen minutes after I started trying, the place gets swarmed with these men... including the one I’d stolen it from.”

“Wait.” He lifted a finger. “Are you trying to tell me you stole something from a CIA guy?”

I grinned. “Yep. Turns out that briefcase was part of some big plan they’d had that night. They had a tracking device in it to catch some mafia dude, and my dumbass stole it and fucked everything up. Oh God. He was so pissed off.” I chuckled and took another drink. “But... he was also impressed. Told me they had a need for people with skills like mine, gave me a card with an address on it, and told me to show up. So, with nothing else going on, I decided to try it. I showed up, got sent to The Farm, and the rest is history.”

“Wow.” Wes stood and walked back to the kitchen. “That’s fucking awesome. You pulled one over on the CIA.”

“Yep.” I settled back into the couch, and Wes appeared shortly after with a bowl of the Russian SpaghettiOs.

“And they hired you even though you stole stuff from them? I would think they’d be put off by a criminal.”

“The CIA wants people who can get the job done. It says right in the recruitment literature they don’t expect you to have a perfect history. The saying ‘criminals make the best cops’ is completely accurate, and I wasn’t the only one with a checkered past in there. As long as you pass the psychological screening and prove your value, you’re in. I mean, they aren’t going to hire a mass murderer or anything like that, but they take people like me all the time. And like you should talk. The only reason you got picked up to work for the FBI was because you broke the law.”

“Valid.” He chuckled.

We laughed as we ate, and I recalled my memories from The Farm. Wes listened intently to my stories, and soon we were done eating and just sat there drinking vodka and laughing like a normal couple.

Normal.

I’d never felt normal in my life. Not for a single second. But for some reason, with Wes, he made me feel like it was possible. Then I remembered the other life I’d been leading this past year, and it reminded me that a normal life wasn’t in the cards for me. And this thing with Wes, these feelings for him, had to stop.

Now.

“I’ll take your bowl.” I stood up, needing to get a little space from the shirtless man tantalizing my eyesight every time I looked his way.

“I’ll do dishes.”

“No,” I argued, tugging at his bowl. “You cooked. I’ll do dishes.”

Wes stood and scoffed. “That wasn’t cooking. That was heating strange, processed-yet-kinda-delicious goo up in the microwave.”

Grumbling, I went to the kitchen with Wes following just behind me. I rinsed my bowl in the sink and stood by his side while he did the same. We each scrubbed our dishes in silence, then I set mine back in the drying rack and downed the last of my vodka.

“More?” Wes reached over and lifted the mostly empty bottle of vodka.

I nodded and stuck my glass out. As he poured into it, our eyes locked again, and my lips parted with that pesky desire his gaze always induced. His lips smirked, and my gaze drifted down to them.

“You’re thinking about that almost-kiss again, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

I rolled my eyes. “Even if I was thinking about that almost-kiss, not that I’m saying I am, but if I was, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing can happen between us anyway.”