Page 30 of Undercover Agent

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“Can I bring you anything else?” asked the scantily clad barmaid, who I hadn’t noticed standing near the table.

“More of the same,” I said, pointing to the two empty glasses.

“Are you a friend of Irish’s?”

“No,” I answered, hoping to ward off further small talk.

When I saw the lights in Emerson’s apartment go off a few minutes later, I wished I hadn’t ordered another round.



After the door closed behind him, I sat stunned. Had Lynx let me finish, I would’ve told him that I didn’t know why he thought Tommy and I were dating. He’d kissed me once. I’d freaked out on him. End of story.

I suppose I should be thankful he left before I could humiliate myself more than I already had today. Lynx had made it clear our one night would be a once-in-a-lifetime night. I could handle that, but why, on our drive back from Stephen and Nora’s, did he ask if I knew how much he wanted to fuck me?

I got up and poured myself another glass of wine and walked over to the window. I looked down on the people walking on Boylston. There must’ve been an event at Fenway tonight based on the number of people walking past my building to the T.

Through the windows of the market across the street, I could see that both Rashid and his father were working tonight. Next door, the diner that catered to late-night crowds had a line of people waiting to get in, and at the bar next door to it, a man who looked a lot like Paxon was seated at one of the outdoor tables. I knew it was him when Lynx joined him.

Any other night, I’d go downstairs, walk across the street, and ask why they hadn’t invited me to join them for a beer. Not tonight, though. Everything had changed in my little world. No one was who they said they were, not even me.

I sat down and thought about the last time I saw Tommy. We’d had dinner at a Brazilian place off of Park Drive. It had become one of my favorites after he’d taken me there the first time.

Closing my eyes, I rested my head against the sofa and let my mind replay one of the last conversations he and I had. His sapphire-blue eyes were piercing as he took in every word I said and processed it.

I could never get enough air into my lungs when I was with the man—I’d never spent time with someone as classically handsome. If Lynx reminded me of a young Pierce Brosnan, Tommy was more Chris Hemsworth with a Robert Downey Jr. smirk. He was the kind of man who made heads turn when he walked into a room, not just by his movie-star good looks, but also his aura.

As usual, he’d been dressed in a suit. I’d rarely seen him wear anything else, odd as it seemed in the heat of summer, on him it worked. When he took off his jacket, his shirt was perfectly pressed in the same way no strand was out of place of his slicked-back sandy-blond hair.

It was his voice, though, that made me raise my head the first time we met in the hallway of our building. It was soft with an aristocratic lilt.

“I’m Niven St. Thomas,” he’d said that morning. “And you are?”

I’d told him my name was Emerson Charles, and from that day, he’d called me Charlie.

The one and only time Tommy had kissed me, I was shocked, but not so much so that I didn’t notice what an expert kisser he was. While Lynx’s were impassioned, Tommy’s was technically perfect, measured, elegant, the kind the hero gave the heroine in the old movies I loved so much.

“Tell me about your work,” he’d said the first night he invited me to dinner.

I found myself telling him about my brother’s addiction and how it had led me to fight against drug smuggling—fentanyl primarily.

“It’s war,” he’d murmured. “Whether it’s the kind we fight with armies to defend our land, or against gangs, or even countries that seek to do us harm by means not considered an act of war, that’s what it remains.” The solemnity of his words in contrast to his usually affable demeanor, stunned me.

“Tell me about your work, Tommy,” I’d said.

“I fight whatever war needs to be fought,” he’d responded, shifting his gaze away from me.

His words made so much more sense to me now, knowing that he was with MI6. He fought whatever battles his country asked him to, just like Lynx and Paxon.

There was something about being around Tommy that made me feel safe, and as unsettled as I was, I wished so much that I could talk to him, see him standing outside my door, feel his arms around me as he told me everything was going to be okay.

“Please, God,” I whispered, looking up at the ceiling. “Let Tommy be safe.”

I got up and took one more look out the window. Paxon was gone, but Lynx wasn’t. Knowing I wouldn’t get any sleep tonight unless I gave him a piece of my mind, I turned off the lights in the apartment and stomped my way downstairs and across Boylston.

When I passed the corner store, both Rashid and his father waved. I should’ve stopped to say hello, but I was too angry.