Page 78 of Burn With Me

Hel’s brows lower over her eyes and her lips twist. “I’m not trying to judge you.”

“Oh no?” I scoff. “That’s all you fucking do. You stay quiet and you judge everyone around you. All the rich bitches who don’t know what it’s like to live in the real world. Well, guess what, Hel, you’re a rich bitch now too. You’re just like the rest of us.”

Hel inhales sharply and straightens her back. “I’ve never fucking judged you for your family’s money,” she says quietly. “Everything I’ve ever done or said to you has been for my friend. You’re my friend. I’m worried about you and I think you don’t realize how easily you’re being manipulated. Isaac Icari is not your boyfriend. He’s a guy who’s fucking you to get back at his dad.”

“Didn’t you hear a word I said? I told you that it’s complicated,” I snap. “There’s more to it than his fucking dad and my mom. His dad is—” I cut myself off. I can’t tell her. It’s not right. Everything Marcus knows. What Isaac said. It’s too dangerous. She’s right about one thing—this whole situation is dangerous, but I don’t have a choice anymore. As much as I wish I could walk away, the time for that has passed.

“If you want me to stop caring, fine.” Hel steps back and throws up her hands. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Rori. For your sake, I hope he doesn’t break your heart.”

It’s not heartbreak that I’m worried about, but I can’t tell her that. The situation with Isaac is more than the two of us. His dad is dangerous. I know that much, but there’s still more that I don’t know too. More that I need to find out.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I rip it free as I hear the door to Hel’s bedroom slam shut. At first, I think it’s him. It seems like whenever I think of Isaac, he appears in some form. I stare down at the screen, but the number that’s become so familiar to me accompanied by Isaac’s name, isn’t the one I see.

It’s Marcus.

36

ISAAC

Twenty or thirty years ago, a bar like the one I’m currently sitting in would have been overwhelmingly filled with a cloud of cigarette smoke. Now it’s filled with the scent of too much cologne and desperation. I lift the last of the whiskey in my glass to my lips and down it, waiting.

With the baseball cap drawn down low over the upper half of my face and my usual brand-name clothes traded in for a cheaper t-shirt and pair of jeans, I know I don’t look like myself. Even the bartender, despite how long I’ve sat here, hasn’t come back. It’s amazing to me how much a change of clothes can alter people’s perceptions.

When I’m dressed like I have money, the amount of attention I receive is so natural. Now, it feels as though I’ve become invisible, and even though that’s exactly what I’m going for, it’s enough to make me pause and think a little deeper on how external the rest of the world is. How many assumptions affect the way we think and act.

A stool two spaces down scrapes out as a familiar man takes his seat. Like me, Agent Brown has altered his look as well—in the opposite direction of my own facade. I don’t know where he got the Armani suit he’s wearing, but he draws the bartender’s eye almost immediately. I’m the only one who looks out of place in a ritzy hotel bar like this—a traveler likely here on someone else’s dime. Whereas Agent Brown appears every inch the well-off businessman.

“Manhattan,” he says before the bartender has a chance to open his mouth. Unsurprisingly, too, the bartender nods and heads off, not even bothering to slide a glance at my now-empty glass.

“You’re late.” My words are low, barely audible, but Agent Brown hears me.

“You’re not the only one being careful,” he replies. A moment later, the bartender returns and sets his Manhattan down before him.

I lift my glass and shake it at the man. “Hey, I think this was too rich for my blood, man,” I say. “You mind if I get a Bud Light?”

The bartender’s shoulders drop and I see the slight twist of his lips as he reaches under the counter and produces a brown and blue bottle. He pops the cap off and sets it in front of me before striding off. I smirk and lift the bottle to my lips. Whether it’s liquor or beer, all alcohol eventually does the same thing.

“I heard your father’s back,” Agent Brown states.

“He’s hosting a party to celebrate his nuptials. I’ll be in attendance,” I reply. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something there that you can use.”

Agent Brown lifts his glass and stares into the amber liquid. His lips twist. “I hate Vermouth,” he mutters absently, almost to himself.

“Next time, go for something easier and not so pompous, then,” I reply.

“Yeah, probably a good idea.” He sets the drink down without taking a sip. “Unfortunately, I’ve got some bad news for you.”

My spine stiffens, and it takes every molecule of effort I possess to force myself to relax back into my original leisurely pose. It’s hard enough to pretend to be someone else. I feel like I’m playing some sort of spy game in which I’ve been given very little information and not a single weapon with which to protect myself. Focusing on my role is the only thing keeping me from cracking.

“Tell me.” Despite the forced laxness in my body, my tone is stern.

“The brass isn’t happy with how long it’s taken to get shit done,” Brown states. “They’ve added on a new agent.”

“A partner?”

He shakes his head. “No. They want him to work a new angle and I’m supposed to keep working mine.”

“Who?”

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