Home > Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC #3)(6)

Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC #3)(6)
Author: Colleen Masters

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.”

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