Page 12 of The Pleasure of Panic

“We’re good then?” he asks, getting to his feet. But what he means is, You’re good?

“Sure,” I say. Because why not?

“I’ll text you the address. Meet me over there. And Finn,” he says, holding onto my arm as I start to move away. I stare down at his fingers on my coat sleeve, then raise my eyes to meet his. He lets go of my arm. “Don’t fuck this up. It’s important.”

“Sure thing,” I say, rolling my shoulders a little to get rid of the building tension. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Good man,” Declan says, shooting me a smile as he pats me on the shoulder.

I watch him walk off. Keep watching as he smiles at Darla and heads out the door.

She doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t notice.

There are a lot of things Declan Ivers doesn’t notice these days. Which is ironic, since he’s FBI, just like me.

But then again, he’s nothing like me.

Whatever.

I follow, passing Darla, smiling as I go, and say, “See ya later, Darla,” because I think that’s what she needs tonight. A nice goodbye from me.

“You too, Finn. Have a nice Valentine’s Day.”

I stop, look over my shoulder at her as I reach for the door handle. “What?”

She’s smiling back at me. Cute girl, especially in her pink Cookie’s Diner waitress uniform. Kinda short and tiny. Red hair—little bit wavy—and blue eyes. “You didn’t even know, did you?”

I shake my head.

“So glad I gave up on you ages ago. You’d just break my heart, Finn.”

“Yeah.” I shoot her another smile, a better smile. “Breaking shit is my specialty.”

Outside it’s cold and the fading light is gone. There’s a little bit of wind, which I relish as I make my way down the street to my government-issued car, because the diner was kinda stuffy. When I get in and slam the door closed, the cold lingers. It lingers even after I start up the car, blast the heat, and start picking my way through the heavy traffic of downtown Denver.

I check my phone, find Declan’s text, and press it to make the map app pull up. Then I reluctantly turn the ringer back on because… yeah. Gotta deal with reality, I guess. Which is a joke, of course.

Go F*ck Yourself is located near the Capitol building. The sign is lit up white and the letters are bold and black. And for a moment I wonder what kind of woman names a business something like that.

Apparently Issy Grey.

The streets are still open when I park my car—Declan and crew still a few minutes away according to a new text—and I get lucky with a spot right out front. I wait there, car engine off, darkness all around me, and look across the street at a busy little place called the Tea Room.

Inside there’s tables filled with couples, no doubt celebrating the most fake holiday on record like it actually means something. All smiles, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes like dumbasses as they wait for some equally stupid romantic dinner to appear in front of them.

I bet some of those guys have diamond rings hidden in the food. I bet some of those guys will be asking that all-important question every woman seems to wait her whole life for. I bet some of those guys will end this day more miserable than when it started.

A knock on my window draws my attention away from the Tea Room and back to the job. Declan is standing on the passenger side of my car making one of those roll-your-window-down gestures that actually has no meaning in modern times, since windows don’t roll down anymore. They slide down, as mine does when a button is pushed.

“DEA and dogs are on their way.”

“Sure,” I say, getting out of the car and joining him on the sidewalk.

“We’re meeting them out back to keep this shit quiet a little longer,” he says, nodding his head across the street at the Tea Room. I narrow my eyes, trying to get his meaning. He says, “Grey is over there having dinner. Gonna keep this low-key as long as we can. ”

“Ah,” I say, tugging my coat closed to keep the chill out. Well, called that one, right? Whatever poor asshole is having dinner with her tonight will most definitely be going home miserable.

We slip into a narrow space between her building and the one next door and come out into a small parking lot off an alley. There’s a whole team of FBI guys at the door already, wearing black vests with large yellow letters on the front and back. The guy in front is holding a battering ram, poised in position, while the two behind him have guns drawn.