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“What an asshole.” I caught her nasally snark as she turned back to her companion.
“What did I tell you?” he muttered. “They aren’t like us, Madelaide.”
Madelaide? Thatwas her damn name? And she made fun ofme?
“Hey, Harley!”The bark filled the space.
Heads turned and I was just one of the crowd. I watched the dark-haired Harley stride toward a small group of guys who stood to the side. There were smirks, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. Finley watched the display with a careful gaze before searching the others for the blond.
Tate.
Tatesomebody.Thick rings on his fingers, one trapped his thumb. Piercing blue eyes met Finley’s gaze and didn’t flinch. There was definitely no love lost there. It was like watching two trucks hurtling toward each other on the freeway in the same damn lane. Neither was going to look away…neither was going to swerve.
“Really? Fuck yeah, I want in. I’ll put money on that…”
The words invaded in an instant, drawing me away from the staredown. A roll of money exchanged hands. A few thousand at least. Laughter slipped from Harley’s lips before his fist clamped down around the wad and pocketed it.
An unseen touch crept up my spine at the exchange.
I glanced back at Tate as he turned away. Seemed like someone did flinch after all. He scrutinized every face, moving from one to the other, lingering on every female like they were preyjust like Finley had seconds ago.
Money.
Sniggers.
And the three of them being called over by Mr. Former FBI.
Something was happening there. I swallowed hard as Tate-whoever zeroed in on me. Heat crept into my cheeks as I felt his gaze lingering. I looked down…looked anywhere else but athim.Something I didn’t want to be part of.
“Ready, guys?”
They all turned at the voice and shuffled back toward him, muttering choice words as they dispersed…taking my cover with them. I stepped to the side, head down, taking careful steps as I avoided his gaze.
“Hey, do I know you?” Tate called out as I strode past.
“No, don’t think so.”
With every step, that sinking feeling grew. By the time I hit the classroom door, I was desperate to hide. I didn’t look up as they strode in behind me and took their seats, hating every fucking second they made me feel weak.
“Okay, we’re back to it.” Mr. FBI clapped his hands. “Deception, pride, torture. What do those things have in common?”
The class was silent, waiting.
They were not the kids to raise their hands, nor were they the ones to ask for permission.
“Sounds like a regular fucking Saturday night to me,” someone called out.
Others laughed, even Mr. FBI chuckled, nodding like it was all a joke, but in reality, we all knew it probably wasn’t. He carefully deflected, moving into the various interrogation techniques used by law enforcement, terrorists, and organized crime, as if most times there was a fucking difference.
I settled back against my seat and forced myself to listen to Mr. Former FBI give us an in-depth rundown on suggestibility, but I couldn’t stop my attention from drifting to the other side of the room. I lifted my hand, hiding the movement behind a brush of my hair, and looked.
Tate-what’s-his-name stared at the nasally blonde, his focus so intense she shifted in her seat and cast sideways glances at the hawk features sitting next to her. He watched her, and Finley watched him, until finally Mr. Former FBI said, “Well, that’s the rundown. I hope it helped, and more importantly, I hope you remember those practices so you can be better prepared.”
“Better yet.” A guy sporting a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe watch called out. “Call dad and watch the bastards run.”
But Jesse just smiled, standing in front of the class. “Dad might not always be there when you call, Killian. One dayyou’regoing to be the one giving the orders. That’s when those techniques come in handy.”
“Got it,” Killian muttered, his smile hardening to something cold and savage. “Thanks for the heads up.”
