Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) (4 page)

“You won’t...allow it?” I say flatly, staring at the
man-child across the table.

“That’s right,” he sniffs.

“Milo...are you under the impression that I give a single
shit about what you will and will not allow?” I ask evenly.

“I’m your boyfriend,” he whines, “I get a say in what you
do.”

“Two corrections there, sweetie,” I reply. “One, you don’t
get a say in
anything
I do. And two, you
were
my boyfriend.”

“What?!” he cries, reaching for my hand as I stand to go.
“You’re breaking up with me because of one stupid fight?”

“Not at all,” I say, amazed by how little his antics move
me, “I’m breaking up with you because you are a pedantic, superior,
mean-spirited little man who has never once supported me. You are constantly
trying to make me feel stupid and unimportant, we share none of the same values
or aspirations, and—” I lean in close and lower my voice, “—the sex is pretty
mediocre.”

I turn on my heel and march out of the diner as Milo’s jaw
hits the tabletop. This breakup isn’t our first, but I know in my gut that it
will be our last. I’ve been too afraid to stray from Milo’s company, because
doing so would mean totally cutting myself off from my past. But I finally feel
brave enough to do just that. Chuck is right. My life here is no life at all.
I’ve got no friends of my own, no family. Absolutely no strings.

Peeling away from the diner in my beloved black Mustang, I
feel lighter than I have in years. More hopeful than I’ve been since Brandon
passed away. I can feel my entire life swiveling to reorient itself around this
wild new path that’s unfurling before me.

“I guess I’m Vegas bound,” I smile to myself, setting off
into the gathering twilight en route to Sin City.

Mitchell is pleased, but unsurprised, when I call to accept
the job.

“I knew you were too bright to pass this up,” he says over
the line. “Take the weekend to tie up loose ends in California, we’ve already
got your housing taken care of. Report to the Las Vegas field office on Monday.
Welcome to the team, Agent Collins, I’m glad to have you.”

Saying goodbye to Los Angeles is more sweet than bitter.
With Milo out of the picture, and no friends to speak of that weren’t his
first, the only person I want to bid farewell to is Chuck. And he’s not exactly
one for sentimental reminiscing. He agrees to have a beer with me the night
before my departure, at least. We meet up at a dusty, old-man bar in San
Bernardino, one of the joints frequented by the guys in our office. It’s
practically deserted on this Sunday night, leaving the two of us to drink our
beers alone at the sticky bar.

“Any words of wisdom, before I ship out?” I ask.

“Don’t get shot,” he suggests, knocking back the last of his
Budweiser.

“Your insight is invaluable,” I smile. “I’ll miss that
charming bark of yours.”

“In all seriousness,” Chuck goes on, leveling his
no-nonsense gaze at me, “there may be some elements of this case that throw
you. It won’t be like anything you’ve done before. There are going to be times
when you’re unsure, or overwhelmed. Just remember to trust your gut. Your head
and heart will lie, but your gut won’t let you down.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, staring pointedly at
Chuck’s impressive beer belly.

“Ha-fucking-ha,” Chuck mumbles, “I’m just saying take care
of yourself.”

“I will Chuck,” I assure him, sarcasm aside. “And thanks for
everything these past two years. You’ve been—”

“Come on, now. Don’t ruin a perfectly fine goodbye with that
mushy shit,” he says, signaling the bartender for another round.

It doesn’t take long to pack up all my belongings. I never
really settled into my little San Bernardino apartment, even after two years.
Milo hates staying here, and I’m so beat after work that I usually just conk
out when I get home. Mitchell has assured me that I’ll have a furnished place
to stay in Las Vegas, an apartment passed down from agent to agent, so I only
grab a few personal items: my favorite pillow, a tin of coffee from the
neighborhood roaster, and some framed photos of Brandon and I ride shotgun in a
cardboard box. My entire life so far fits snugly in the passenger seat of my
Mustang. Don’t quite know what to make of that.

I set out for Vegas at the crack of dawn, eager and nervous
as hell. I have to trust that I wouldn’t have been given this opportunity if I
couldn’t handle it. I ready myself for whatever lies ahead and take off into
the sunrise.

There’s barely any traffic at this hour of the morning. Just
me and the wide-open road. The sky opens up above me as I clear Los Angeles,
stretching its back like a big, lazy cat. In just over three hours, I roll into
Las Vegas—my new home. Well, at least my new place of work. I can’t say there’s
a place in the world that really feels like home to me. At least, not one that
I’ve found yet.

I arrive too early to head straight for the field office, so
I grab a shitty cup of gas station coffee and an obscenely huge donut to nosh
on while I wait. Sitting on the hood of my car, coffee and pastry in hand, I
look out over the dusty land sprawling all around. The Las Vegas strip bursts
up out of the ground like the Emerald City, surrounded by a swell of rolling
hills. I can only wonder what kind of mayhem is erupting all around me, out of
sight, on this seemingly peaceful morning.

As the hot sun begins to warm the earth, I head over to the
Las Vegas field office to report for duty. This place is the real deal, a
fortress-like building far more imposing than my little San Bernardino outpost.
And with its close proximity to Sin City, I can only imagine the kind of
depraved shit these agents have to deal with on a regular basis. But I guess I
won’t have to wonder for much longer. Now I’m part of the team.

I brush a lingering donut crumb off my lap up and step out
of the Mustang. Giving myself a once-over in the tinted car window, I have to
admit that I approve of what I see. This is a brand new office, after all, so
I’ve decided to up my work attire game. My white silk blouse is cut just low
enough to hint at my rather excellent rack, and my charcoal slacks flatter my
slender legs and athletic ass. I’ve even gone so far as to wear my red hair
down, falling in loose curls over my shoulders. I’ve decided that there’s no
reason to hide my body beneath drab office clothing. And if anyone takes me
less seriously because I choose to dress well, that’s their own damn problem.
I’m through playing meek and mild just so the guys can feel more comfortable.

Flicking a stray curl over my slender shoulder, I stride up
to the front door of the building. I feel like such a badass, marching into
this busy central office. It’s not a very familiar feeling for me, so I try to
memorize this incredible moment. I wrench open the heavy front door, go to take
a step across the threshold—

And cry out in surprise as a big, immoveable shoulder slams
into me, knocking me aside.

I stumble through the door, my balance thrown off by the
unexpected check. The sharp high heels bearing me into the office are not
prepared for hand-to-hand combat, and I go down in a heap. I hit the ground,
landing hard on my shapely ass. My cheeks are flaming red as I look up at my
assailant. A huge man storms past me, his battering ram shoulders hunched high
toward his ears. The back of his thick neck is red, holding up a big shaved
head. He doesn’t even turn around to see if I’m OK, let alone to apologize.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I call after him, disgruntled by his
rudeness.

“I don’t remember asking if you were,” he snarls back, not
even bothering to glance over his shoulder. “Learn to stay out of the way,
Princess.”

“Learn some manners,
ogre
,”
I snap back. But the man disappears into a waiting elevator before I can go on.
“There’s always one,” I mutter, pulling myself to my feet. Luckily, no one else
caught sight of my less-than-graceful entrance. I brush off the embarrassment
and continue upstairs in search of Mitchell’s office.

The main floor of the FBI field office is alive with activity,
even first thing in the morning. I feel my pulse pick up as I survey the place.
The excitement in the San Bernardino resident agency never peaked beyond the
dull enthusiasm that arose when someone brought in bagels for the team. It’ll
be so thrilling to work in such a vibrant place. My heart swells with
satisfaction as I realize what a good decision it was to come here.

“Collins!” I hear Mitchell shout across the crowded room. I
look over to see him waving from an open doorway. “Good to see you, Agent. Come
on in here and I’ll get you up to speed with the case.”

I stride purposefully across the room, watching as curious
eyes dart my way. The people here don’t eye me with suspicion, merely interest.
Maybe this new job has boosted my confidence in a way they can detect just by
looking at me. The thought only brightens my already sunny outlook.

“Happy to be here, Agent Mitchell,” I smile, giving my new
boss a firm handshake.

“Glad to hear it,” Mitchell replies, showing me into the
room. “First things first, let me introduce you to the agent you’ll be working
this case with.”

I look up, eager to meet my new partner. But that eagerness
sours into disdain as I see who is waiting inside to make my acquaintance.

“You?!” I exclaim, staring at the bullish asshole who
barreled over me in the lobby.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mitchell,” the big man groans
through gritted teeth. He’s got to be close to six feet tall, and built like a
wrecking ball. His shaved head makes it hard to say for sure, but I’d guess he’s
about forty years old. He certainly has the jaded, miserable grimace of someone
who’s been working the same job for a while.

“Do you two...know each other?” Mitchell asks, closing the
door behind him.

“We just met in the lobby. Well, collided, more like...” I
say, crossing my arms.

“You’re sticking the new girl on
my
case?” the gruff man demands. “What kind of
bullshit is this?”

“How you two have already managed to get off on the wrong
foot is a mystery to me,” Mitchell says coolly, clearly not giving a damn about
our mutual discomfort, “but let’s start fresh, shall we? Quinn Collins, this is
Agent Jeff Bruno. Bruno, Agent Quinn Collins.”

I boldly hold out my hand to Bruno, leveling my blue eyes at
his red face. He scoffs, gripping my hand tightly for half a second, before
roughly dropping it. I don’t know what I’ve done to get on this guy’s bad side
already, other than attempt to enter the building in an orderly fashion, but
his opinion of my presence here is pretty apparent.

“Fantastic,” Mitchell says, pressing ahead despite our
furrowed brows, “let’s get Agent Collins caught up on the particulars of the
case.”

Mitchell and Bruno look up at the wide wall, and I let my
gaze follow. Plastered there is an array of information, carefully collected
and arranged. Photos, news articles, names and locations make up the tangled
web I see before me. The question is, what does it all mean?

“Welcome to Operation Inferno,” Mitchell says, sweeping his
arm over the intelligence spread out before us.

“Operation Inferno,” I repeat, tasting the words for myself,
“catchy.”

“We’re gathering intelligence on two of the most powerful
and influential MC’s in the Las Vegas area,” Mitchell goes on.

“MC’s are motorcycle clubs. Outlaws,” Bruno says, sneering
condescendingly.

“Thanks. I took Organized Crime 101 at the FBI Academy just
like you did,” I snap back.

“The clubs in question are The Devil’s Wraiths Nevada
Chapter and Dante’s Nine, a smaller local operation that’s recently become a
support club for the Wraiths,” Mitchell says. “We’ve been receiving more tips
than ever lately, regarding these clubs’ illegal activities. We’ve never been
able to pin anything major on either, but that might change soon.