Page 17 of Skeletons in the Closet

We were going in circles. “I shower at the gym.” I was there daily, so it was a no-brainer. Maybe someday I’d be able to afford better accommodations, but as it stood, this was all I had.

Tallus scanned me up and down, and maybe he was considering how much time I spent at the gym. It was written all over my body.

“Shall we?” Tallus asked when he finished his assessment.

I grunted and followed him out the door. And I did not stare at his ass all the way down the hall to the stairs, and I did not remember a time six months ago when he’d seduced me by wearing a white bathrobe and those same come-fuck-me glasses.

6

Tallus

We took Diem’s Jeep. He didn’t fit comfortably in the Jetta. Challuah Designs Inc. was located in a lower-scale corporate office building on West Adelaide Street. The fashion company occupied four of the six stories, leaving the remaining two shared among three independent businesses of no great acclaim. I’d done research—much to Diem’s surprise, it seemed—so I would know how best to play my cards.

While Diem found parking, I reviewed the notes I’d made on Critique Magazine, the publication house I was meant to represent, not that I expected to get drilled at the front door, but better to be safe than sorry. To say I was intrigued and excited about this opportunity was an understatement. I was a sucker for investigative work, a drive born back in my high school days when I’d thought I would go to the academy and become a detective.

My colorblindness and poor vision had put a stop to that dream when I discovered protanopia was an automaticdisqualifier. Of course, the job Diem had presented came with risks. If we were caught, it could mean trouble. It could mean my job if the police were called, but I doubted it would come to that. At the most, we might get tossed into the street, but not if I played my cards right.

Acting had always been a fun pastime in school. In college, I’d taken a few interest classes in dramatic arts. It had been years since I’d been on stage or put on a costume, but the urge to shine under the spotlight wasn’t gone. A tiny diva lived inside me and wanted out.

I would not disappoint Diem.

We arrived shortly after three. With his nose in a permanent wrinkle, Diem stared through the windshield, seemingly lost in thought or contemplating his life choices. For all I knew, he was thinking about hamburgers.

The ball cap shadowed the top half of his face, hiding his scars and the knot on the bridge of his nose from a long-ago break. But it didn’t conceal the storm permanently brewing behind his eyes. It didn’t cloak the obvious agitation coiling his muscles.

“Have faith, Guns. This will be a piece of cake.”

He eyed me from under the cap. I hated that all I could see was shadow. Reaching out, I tipped the brim enough to cast sunlight across Diem’s face. He stilled. Diem wasn’t a fan of unsolicited contact—contact of any kind, really. I’d noted it when we’d done this song and dance back in December, when we’d taken it one step further and he had given me the most frigid fuck of my life. The man had a deep well of unresolved issues, so I’d decided there was no way we were going there again. Diem was an onion, and I was sick of complicated men. Why couldn’t life be simple for a change?

“What do you need me to do?” His tone was quiet and rumbly. It killed him to refer to me as though I was in charge.

“Just follow my lead and don’t speak. If I ask you questions or make demands, stick with what you do best.”

His brows met in the middle. “Which is?”

“Grunting and grumbling.” I smirked.

His frown deepened.

I jiggled the brim of his hat. “Stop worrying. We’ve got this in the bag. I’ve cast you in the perfect role.” He didn’t seem so sure. I removed the hat and scratched my fingers over his scalp, absorbing the feel of his shorn hair. Diem didn’t move or breathe. Was I overstepping? Maybe, but I’d been dying to recall the feathery softness of the short cut. It conflicted with the prickly man’s attitude.

Hell, it conflicted with my decision not to invite more.

Since I’d made him sufficiently uncomfortable, I replaced the hat, winked, and reached into the back seat where I’d tossed a bulky shoulder bag—filled with nonsense items to solidify my position as a journalist—and the camera. I handed them both to Diem. “Carry these.”

“I’m not your pack mule.”

“Actually, today you are. Consider yourself Xavier Downing’s handy assistant.” I didn’t wait for a response and got out of the Jeep, straightening my clothes and ensuring not a hair was out of place.

Diem joined me, struggling to get the bag and camera strap over his bulky shoulder.

“Do you have the name badge?”

“Yes.”

“The map?”

“Yes.”

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