Page 4 of Knot Going Down
That’s Curtis: insult as motivation. Been doing it since my rookie year. Kyle was better at doling out actual praise.
I run a hand down my face, jaw tight. “Fine. You got a last known location?”
“Some bar. La Cave à Vins. Twenty minutes ago. One of ours spotted him. Said he looked twitchy, but comfortable. Too comfortable.”
“That's probably his default setting. Cocky fucker.” A wine bar. Close to the athlete village. I’ve passed by it a few times. Didn’t have Glenn pegged as a wine guy.
“You're not wrong,” Curtis affirms. “But cocky people get sloppy. You’re the one who always said he'd make a mistake eventually.”
“He just did. He came to my city.” I hate that I’m calling Parismy citybut I’m here, and that makes it my turf. And more importantly, Emily’s here.
But Curtis doesn’t need to know about that sweet little detail yet.
“That’s the attitude I like.” Curtis lets out a dry chuckle. “Find him. Quietly. I don’t want some viral news clip of you slamming my suspect into a crêpe cart.”
“I’ll keep it clean.”
“Don’t keep it clean. Keep it quiet.”
He hangs up.
Typical.
3
AVA
It’s just coffee. Not a proposal. Not even a peace offering. Just coffee. Made how I like it. And somehow, that hits worse. Emily made my coffee exactly how I like it. One spoonful of honey and a scoop of collagen peptides.
“Did I do it right?” she asks, a note of anxiety in her voice. “Oh shoot, I messed it up, didn’t I? Is it too much of the protein powder? Maybe more honey? Or is it the type of honey? Some honeys have weird undertones to me and this was the only one I could find in?—”
I touch her arm. A tactical move. Quick. “It’s perfect.”
Her bright smile makes me feel like I’m the high diver, not her, jumping to some kind of murky water below. Turning from Emily before I do or say something I shouldn’t, I sit down at the kitchen counter. The rooms at the Olympic village don’t have much in them. No dining table or anything like that. Just stools at the counter and a barely functional sink and microwave. Nothing like the kitchen I have at home. I miss cooking. It’s how I normally calm myself down when I get worked up, but it’s not an option here. The cabinets even have plastic wrap on them tokeep the paint underneath fresh. Most of the Olympic Village housing will become apartments after the games are over.
“So your last swim is today, are you excited?” Emily pulls herself up on the counter, her feet swinging in place. She’s already finished her last dive. A silver medal tucked somewhere in her suitcase.
I force a smile. “Thrilled.” The word comes out flat.
She tilts her head as if I’m something she can’t quite bring into focus. “Are you nervous?”
Realizing I’m probably making too much eye contact, I glance down at my mug. The soft blue of the ceramic cup matches my red manicured nails nicely. Wearing red fits being on Team USA, but I really just like the ballsy hue.
“No.” I’m a great swimmer. I’ve trained for this. I’vebledfor this. “Were you nervous? Your first dive looked a little sloppy yesterday.”
Emily’s mouth falls open. Shit, that wasn’t the right thing to say. My mom always tells me I’m too blunt. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.
‘Just because something is true, doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud,’ my dad always said. Apparently, it’s not a lesson I learned.
“Comments like that are why Meggie and I nicknamed you The Wicked Witch of the Pool.” As soon as she says it, Emily’s eyes turn into saucers, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“You called me that?” It doesn’t even sting. Not really. People rarely like me on sight. I’ve never come across asnice—even when I try. I’ve always had a bad case of resting bitch face that I have to work extra hard to convert into a pleasant expression. Somehow it never quite lands and people tend to see right through it.
I’m sure being platinum blonde and having an affinity for high heels doesn’t help with getting stereotyped, but I like how I look, and love the sound of my shoes. I don’t know why other people don’t like me.
That’s a lie. I do, and it’s totally because I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“I really am sorry.” Emily sets her own coffee down. “That was before I got to know you a little.” She touches my hand where it rests on the counter. It’s unexpected.
