Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“About what you were doing in there.” He tips his head in the direction of the hotel.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I spit out, feeling my heart skip a beat. What if he thinks I’m a hooker? I hope he thinks I’m a high-class one at least. Stop it, I mentally tell myself, forgetting all the coping skills I would have told my clients to use in a situation like this. I’m feeling triggered by my past, and I’ll figure out why when I get home. “Or that I trust you’re a real FBI agent.”
“Want to call Headquarters? Ask them if Mason Harris is a real agent.” He holds up a finger and then opens his wallet again, getting out his ID.
“This could even be fake,” I press, leaning in just a bit to look at his license. He really is Mason Harris, and he also really is six-foot-two. According to this, at least. “And I’m not a hooker.” I internally wince. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.
“I didn’t think you were. I wasn’t trying to solicit you.”
“Now I feel insulted.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t laugh. “You do know I’m a federal agent, right?”
“I haven’t determined if I believe you yet.”
“I showed you my badge and my driver’s license.”
“Which could both be fake.”
“Who hurt you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m a woman living in today’s society. You’re a man. You just don’t get it.”
“Don’t pull that bullshit on me.” He inhales. “Look, I have a few questions for you about the man you were having a drink with. We can go down to my office and have a chat or we can walk around the block, get a drink at Miller’s Tavern, and just talk.”
“Fine,” I say, my heart speeding up. “I’ll get an Uber and meet you at the tavern.”
“We could just walk,” he says slowly. “It’s not far.”
“I’m in heels,” I retort.
“Okay, princess,” he mumbles.
“You’re kind of an asshole.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been told. Look, this isn’t a social call. I just need to have a chat about your friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” I rush out. “I just met him tonight.”
Mason shifts his gaze to the older couple behind me, who still can’t figure out how to use their phone to get a car. “Let’s talk about this over a drink, eh?”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing that he doesn’t think it’s safe to talk. Suddenly, the whole situation weighs down on me. I spent the last twenty or so minutes fake-flirting with a wanted criminal. I’m not guilty, but I can see how this looks. “I can walk. These heels are surprisingly comfy.”
“You sure? I can get us a car.”
“It’s a nice night out.”
“It is,” he agrees and we start walking. I keep a careful distance, and once we round the corner, he takes a little device out of his ear and puts it in his pocket. Okay, I suppose he is legit.
“I should, um, tell my friends I’m going out,” I say. “They have my location.”
“Smart,” he says back. “And yes, tell them you’re going to Miller’s Tavern but refrain from mentioning you’re being questioned by the FBI.”
“Okay.” I nod and get my phone. Kat is the only one who’ll watch where I am. Elsie is either in bed now or getting ready for bed and Zara is working nights at the hospital and every night is a busy night when you’re a nurse in the ER in Chicago. I hate lying to my friends so I send a non-lie that’s not the truth either.
Me: Met a cute guy…gonna grab a drink with him at Millers near the hotel.
I put my phone back in my purse and quicken my pace, trying to keep up with Mr. FBI until we get to the tavern. We take a booth in the back.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Mason says, flicking his eyes around the tavern. It’s probably a habit he’s picked up and doesn’t even realize he’s doing anymore as an FBI agent. Hyper vigilance can be learned, and also be the result of experiences…most commonly trauma. I know for myself, I’m always aware of everything going on around me because of years of having to defend and explain myself to someone who would argue about the sky not being blue, but a specific shade of cyan.
“What’s your name?”
“Mira,” I tell him. “Mira Martin.”
“Okay, Mira, and what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a therapist.”
“And how did you meet the man you were having drinks with?”
The fact that he’s not saying Enzo’s name is deliberate, I’m sure of it.
“Kind of a funny story,” I start, deciding to just tell the entire truth. The truth usually comes out anyway, and having to dig your way out of a tangled web of lies is less fun than just spitting out the truth from the start. “I was hired to flirt with him to see if he would flirt back.”