Page 37 of Fallen Rook

They were just looking for proof. And here I was, idiot of the fucking century, about to provide it to them in the form of an illicit affair with a fed.

Why him? Why him? Why him?

The big irony didn’t escape me.

The only thing that made me feel alive these days was the very thing that could get me killed.

Tom Rothwell.

I wasn’t waiting for Friday to see Tom.

Fuck that.

It was like asking a junkie to patiently wait until next week for his hit while they were convulsing with withdrawals.

He’d laid down some rules, but at the time, I wasn’t in a position to bargain over them.

Sure, he had a highly demanding job catching bad guys. Well, I was a bad guy, and I wanted to be caught. Win-win, if you asked me.

I’d tried to honor our arrangement. For the most part, anyway. But then the shit with Katya happened, and I needed something, anything, to take my mind off the impending calamity that was my love life.

This morning, some dirty fed on the Camorra’s payroll, Tony, happened to tell me a black-tie event was taking place at headquarters, and that everyone in Tom’s department would be attending.

Arriving at a high-profile FBI event was sheer lunacy, considering my day job. And yet my need to explore our sexual chemistry further dulled all my other senses. I didn’t even consider hooking up with other men on apps or through Instagram.

First of all, after the Cash debacle, I really valued Tom’s hawkish approach to confidentiality.

Second, I wasn’t an idiot. I knew the attraction for Tom wasn’t just because he was a man. It was because he was my grumpy tomcat.

For our one-sided date, I decided to bring out the big guns and wear a black cutoff muscle tee and fitted jeans. I plopped one tendril of hair over my forehead and glanced at the mirror.

Perfect.

I lathered Clobetasol propionate on my psoriasis-affected skin and popped a steroid.

Satisfied, I shrugged on a biker jacket and strolled to the building where the event would take place. I smoked a cigarette on my way there, which I tossed aside halfway through, remembering I wanted to choke on his tongue and cock. I’d bet both my nuts he was the kind of prudish snob who got turned off by the scent of cigarettes.

Once I got to Federal Plaza, I leaned against the building across the street and watched the revolving door leading up to the entrance. Ancient-looking people in ill-fitted smart clothes milled around, so I figured the event was almost over.

Please let it be over. I need my grumpy tomcat.

I waited ten minutes, then twenty.

This wasn’t stalking.

It wasn’t.

You couldn’t stalk someone you were kind of, sort of hooking up with.

Fine. It was stalking. But it was a form of repayment for all the other times he’d stalked me.

Equality for all, amiright?

Actually, I kind of missed his stalking, now that he was no longer doing it.

I still didn’t know what to make of his claim that the FBI was off our backs. It seemed too convenient, too abrupt, but I also knew asking him about it was pointless. He was cagey when I asked him how his days were going, so this was firmly out of the question.

Luckily, the Camorra was all buttoned up, so it didn’t really matter. Besides, I was just as tight-lipped with the federal agent as he was with me.