Page 24 of Dirty Daria
“Good night, Mack.”
“Good night, beautiful.”
I disconnect the call with a sigh. I want so badly to be with him, sometimes I just ache. Like today. Right now. When the warmth of hearing him call me beautiful is still coursing through me and I know, if I said the word, I could have that every day. We could be going over his day together, and I could kiss his boo-boo. We would make love and he would look into my eyes and tell me how much he loves me.
“Suck it the fuck up, Daria,” I say aloud. “Make love? Kiss his boo-boo? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with the badass?”
I’m right.
I have no business thinking such thoughts about Mack. Especially not when everything I stand for, everything I am, would annihilate his world if we were ever found out.
13
Reed
Mack and I agreed, after the failed attempt on David’s life, that we would assign a protective duty to him as well as surveillance. I don’t know why the surveilling team can’t also protect, but hey, I don’t run the FBI, so what the fuck do I know?
David begged for a personal bodyguard, but he didn’t get one. There is extra security here at the wedding though, both the ceremony and the reception. Local law enforcement as well as the FBI. A metal detector had already been arranged even before David’s “brush with death,” as he called it, due to the makeup of the guest list and the number of “important” people included on it. Which made it easy for agents to use one and go so far as to check pockets and bags without raising suspicion.
As for me, I’ve been here in this anteroom at the church most of the morning. The idea being that all us groomsmen will relax and hang out before the ceremony, as though everything is normal. How David can carry on as though I’m not aware of his illicit and reprehensible activities is mind-boggling to me. At the same time, I’m not surprised because how else would he be able to carry on every day like he’s an upstanding citizen who doesn’t kidnap women and help sell them into a lifetime of sexual slavery or worse.
Part of me wishes they’d been successful the other night. Whoever it was that tried to shoot him. If they had, I wouldn’t have to be here now sharing fake as fuck smiles with these guys I haven’t seen since college, pretending to care about the one who used to be my best friend. All the while knowing that as soon as he leads us to the guy in charge, I’m throwing his ass in jail and sending word to all the butt-fuckers that he’s up for grabs.
Frustration fills me anew. It does me no good to think about this today. One, I have no outlet for my anger. Two, I’m supposed to be smiling, not frowning. And three, I can’t do a goddamn thing about anything when I’m unarmed and in a church.
The room we’re in is what you would expect: dark wood paneling on the walls with ornate crown molding giving way to a once white ceiling that has dulled with age. Artfully crafted sconces spaced evenly along the walls to bring in what little light there is. But the furnishings are comfortable, large leather couches and armchairs, almost like what I would expect in a gentleman’s lounge for cigar smoking or something similar. So much so, I’m surprised there isn’t a bar cart off in the corner with crystal decanters of scotch and rye.
David sits across from me, his custom tuxedo pristine, a smug look on his face as though he’s getting away with something he shouldn’t be. And he is. We haven’t arrested him yet. And if he makes a decent enough deal with my bosses, we never will. He still gets his girl, Laurel. And he’s got the okay to leave the country after the wedding to go on his honeymoon.
It’s like the FBI has zero capacity to think things through. By all means, let’s give a guy who’s just married into millions, with access to a private jet, the leeway to leave the country and go wherever the fuck he wants for however long he wants. You know, as long as he promises to be a good boy and come back to lead us to the other bad boys.
Mother fucking mother fucker.
If I was him, I’d look smug too.
What gets me, even more so than that, is his attitude toward me today. How he’s able to pretend that we’re still friends. Best friends. That I’m here standing by his side as his best man voluntarily and out of loyalty to him. Not that I’m here because it’s my job and we have him under constant surveillance and I’m forced to keep up pretenses until we are able to arrest someone.
There are four other guys in the room with us, the rest of David’s groomsmen. They are all guys that David and I went to college with and all from our same fraternity. He stayed close to them after we graduated, I didn’t. The only thing we’d all had in common in college was college, because these guys are all idiots. Since David and I had been friends since we were kids, even though he could be an idiot sometimes too, he was the only one I stayed in touch with. After seeing them again these past few weeks for the wedding, that’s not a decision I regret. At all.
Even now, they are standing off to the side discussing bridesmaid conquests and passing a flask amongst them. As though this were high school prom night and not the biggest, most elegant wedding event of the year.
Though, I must admit, right about now the flask doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. If it weren’t filled with Goldschlager or Fireball or whatever fucking bullshit thing they’ve got in it.
“David,” one of the guys calls from across the room. “You gotta help us figure out which of the single bridesmaids are down to fuck. Come here, man.”
David stands to go join them, pausing by my chair as he passes. He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Means a lot to me that you’re here, buddy. Thank you.” He’s across the room before I have a chance to respond.
I hate that he’s done that, because he knows the real reason I’m here. He is fully aware that I would have nothing to do with him if it weren’t for my job. And that the only reason he’s free to attend his own wedding is because he’s still valuable, no matter how much, to the FBI.
I grunt in response even though no one is around to hear it. Then pull my cell phone from the inside breast pocket of my jacket to check in with Mack and see how things are developing outside the microcosm I’ve sunk myself into here.
ME: All ok?
MACK: SFSG.
Mack-speak forso far so good. He’s on the security detail in the main area of the church, dressed as a guest to blend, but still carrying and wired. Somehow, he was able to secure a position for Daria on the security team as well, even though she’s not law enforcement. And she’s posing as his date.
What? Does he want her to fuck up the entire mission? First, he spills it about the restaurant location. Now, he’s got her on the guest list for the ceremony and the reception. A guest list, mind you, that includes a lot of really fucking wealthy people.
