Page 82 of Double Bucked

Knowing I’ll get the real answer now, I ask again, “Who are you?”

James—no, the man-formally-known-as-James—straightens up. He leans his tall body against the kitchen counter, turning to face me. He rakes his fingers through his hair and when those blue eyes meet mine again, I don’t know who, or what, I’m looking at.

“My name isn’t James,” he says. “It’s?—”

27

EVERETT

Then.

“Everett Hollow.”

There is a small fleck of lint on my trousers. I pinch it off and let it fall to his very nice rug.

My job as a Wolfpack Special Forces Operative is to be invisible.

But like Hansel, I itch to leave little breadcrumbs of myself everywhere I go, as though I’m daring someone to find me.

I pry my gaze away to turn my attention to the man behind the desk.

Mr. Preacher is an impeccable man tucked in a tailored gray suit. The curve of his white mustache is impressive.

His polite smile twists. I sense he’s irritated with me.

“Yes?” I ask.

He mimes plucking something invisible out of his ear—a gesture encouraging me to remove my earbuds. “Do you think you can remove those so we can talk?”

Currently, my earbuds are filtering in a soft, rhythmic low-fi. If I disconnect it, I’ll be forced to withstand the irritating click of the ancient grandfather clock in Mr. Preacher’s office.

I inform him, “No.”

His expression goes slack. I gather he’s unaccustomed to the word.

What would Mr. Schilling say? You get more bees with honey than vinegar.

“Mr. Hollow—” he protests again.

Mr. Preacher has a syrupy, old-world, Deep South accent. An accent reserved for Civil War reenactments.

I’ve trained myself into a neutral accent, but when my vocal cords relax, there is a Kentucky grit that I can’t get out. Like sand.

But I have an ear for accents. I pay attention to the way he accentuates the consonants in my name.

Huh-AL-oh.

I try to smooth the ground with, “Call me Everett.”

Mr. Preacher fixes his expression and presses on a waxen smile. “Everett, then. Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because this is important. This is my daughter, after all. We haven’t spoken in…some time…but she is my only child, and if anything were to happen to her, well…”

He runs his hand over his mouth.

He is composed. A powerful figure. But his hands are trembling.

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