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“What?” That is as much as my overworked brain can handle.
He knows I heard him, so he doesn’t clarify what he said. “She never mentioned wanting you to become a stay-at-home daddy?”
Hating that I must admit our relationship wasn’t as rock solid as I make out, I pour a new batch of pancake batter onto the skillet before mumbling, “No. She never said anything.”
He brushes off my moody comment as if it is a joke. “Communication will never be an Ashburn strong point.”
I’m saved from replying by the doorbell ringing.
When my eyes shoot to Thane, he holds his hands in the air. “It ain’t for me.”
Huffing, I dump the skillet into the sink with the half-cooked pancakes, then head for the door.
I’m taken aback when I swing it open and find a former colleague on the other side.
“Agent Machini, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
She spins to face me, her smile picking up when she runs her eyes down my frame. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Macy?” After hitting me with a wink, she asks, “Can I come in?”
She enters before I answer. Flirting and dominating are Macy’s known traits. Steamrolling a perp into an admission of guilt is a close third.
“Is this visit personal or business?” I ask, mindful that twenty-four hours haven’t passed since I assaulted two civilians in a location that would have been wired to the hilt with surveillance.
“A little of column A and a little of column B.” Her mouth gapes when she enters the kitchen. “Wow. This is quite the spread.” She dips her head in greeting to Thane before she pinches a strip of the bacon Thane almost demolished while I was answering the door. “I won’t keep you long…” She stops, moans, then starts again. “This is so good.”
“Wait until you try the pancakes. Heaven in an imperfect circle.”
When her mouth salivates, Thane preps her a plate while we talk shop.
“What is this about?”
Macy accepts the plate from Thane before answering. “There was an incident last night at Aeros.” I keep my expression calm and neutral. “A couple of thugs got taught a lesson.” She talks around a mouthful of food. “Sup was ready to let it go until the fatalities started stacking up like…”
“Tin cans at a hurricane center,” Thane fills in when she can’t think of a saying.
“I might borrow that.”
“You’re more than welcome to it.”
Thane sinks back to his half of the kitchen when I glare at him. Macy said fatalities, not accusers. That means the men I punched are dead.
“There was a paint graze at the victims’ last known location.” She balances her plate on one hand before pulling a notepad from the breast pocket of her blazer. “It is a unique color.” After flipping a handful of pages, she hands her pad to me. “Ever heard of that color?”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
It is an exact match to the paint on my Harley. She even has the manufacturer’s name jotted down.
Realizing it is better to tell the truth than lie, I say, “It’s the custom paintwork of my Harley.” I arch a brow before returning her stare. “But you already knew that since you worked that undercover op with me.”
Mindful her ruse is busted, she shovels another forkful of eggs into her mouth before announcing the reason for her visit. “I need to check your bike. You won’t hear from me again if it comes up clean and without a scratch.” I barely groan for half a second. “It isn’t me asking, Brodie. You know I wouldn’t be here if it were my choice.”
When she slants past me and waggles her fingers, I crank my neck back to the stairs.
“Back to bed, young lady,” I grumble out when I spot a tiny pair of rosy cheeks at the top of the stairs. I’m not solely holding a grudge about the words she spoke to me earlier. I don’t want her to witness my arrest when Agent Macy opens the internal door of the garage and spots the damage to my bike.
Our region of the bureau arrests first and asks questions later. They had no choice when a dozen of their agents were found to be rogue.
“What is the bureau’s interest in this case?”
As Macy seeks the light switch next to the garage remote, she answers, “The victims were known felons. They hadn’t been up this far in the country for years.” She taps the side of her nose. “A certain someone had them on an extremely short leash.” By ‘certain someone,’ she means Henry Gottle Sr., boss of all bosses.
Giving up on the light switch, she presses the roller door button on the remote, streaming sunlight into the dingy garage. When air whizzes from her nose, I follow the direction of her gaze. She isn’t the only one shocked at the sight of my bike. It gleams as brightly as it did when I rode it off the showroom floor. There isn’t a single scratch to be seen.
