Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

"I think – " I began.

"No, let me guess," he said, eyes lifting to mine, that half-smile still playing on his lips. "You like me, but you think this isn't such a good idea. Not just here and now, which is a really bad idea, but in general. Maybe it could work, but it probably wouldn't, and you think we should just stay friends."

"Um, no. I was going to say 'I think we should go upstairs before Jack gets even more pissed off.' "

A sharp laugh. "Damn. I wasn't even close." He wiped condensation from his glass, hands still around it. "Still, maybe that isn't what you were going to say but…"

I took a deep breath. He tensed at the sound, bracing himself.

"The truth is that I have no idea what I want right now," I said. "Sadly, that's a damned good statement on my life in general these days. I know I'm making too big a deal out of this. We're single. We're adults. Go for it, have some fun, see what happens. But… It's been a while since I've had a relationship. Hell, since I've dated, if you want the full embarrassing confession. And, you know what? I'm okay with that. I've gotten used to it. I'm past – "

" – the point of looking for someone."

I nodded. "Which isn't to say – "

" – that you don't want to be with anyone, just that you're not so eager you'll jump at the first decent offer."

I laughed. "Keep that up and I'll think you can read minds."

"No, I'm just good at diagnosing a condition I've been living with myself." He pushed the glass away. "Have you ever been married?"

I shook my head. The one time I'd approached engagement, it had ended with Wayne Franco. My boyfriend had stuck by me during the fallout, but the moment I suggested maybe it would be better for him if we took a break, he fled like a lifer seeing a hole in the prison yard fence.

"Well, I was. College sweetheart, didn't work out, nothing ugly. It just… faded away. Old story. Anyway, it wasn't so bad that it soured me on women, just left me determined to find the right one. That was…" His eyes rolled up as he calculated. "Eight years ago. After two years of looking and not finding anyone, I slowed down. Then I had to deal with friends and family setting me up on dates. After two years of that, I said enough is enough. Between my friends and my job and my moonlighting, my life is full."

He stopped. Before I could say anything, he went on, "So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm not waiting for you to make up your mind so I can move on to the next woman on my list. I want you. But if you aren't ready, I'm not going anywhere. If someone else comes along, for either of us…" He shrugged. "We'll deal with it. No hard feelings. No expectations."

What could I say to that? It was the perfect solution… and no solution at all.

The trip back to Troy seemed to take triple what the clock said. I sat in the backseat and carried on some semblance of a conversation with Quinn in the passenger's seat.

We talked mainly about Montreal. How was his trip? Did he do any sightseeing? Had he been there before? Nothing related to his purpose for being there, just completely neutral conversation, but when I tried to include Jack by asking whether he'd ever visited, his sharp "no" told me I'd overstepped a boundary, and I withdrew into silence.

Jack was disappointed with me. I'd been unprofessional and, to him, there was no worse crime. If I was following Quinn down that road, then maybe I wasn't someone he should work with.

The situation probably wasn't that dire yet, but on that endless, uncomfortable drive, it felt like it was.

Jack stopped at a car rental agency. Quinn went inside to get a vehicle matching his specifications – full-size, neutral color, no obvious rental stickers. Jack stayed behind with me, making sure I knew how to use the wireless earpieces.

"Don't bother with the bugs. Concentrate on these." He waved the earpieces and the transmitter. "You want to add anything? Ask a question? Change our tactics? Just say so."

I nodded.

"No need to whisper. Just talk normally."

"Okay."

"Sure? Last chance for questions."

"I'm sure."

He opened his door.

"Jack?"

He glanced over his shoulder at me.

"I'm sorry."

He shut the door. "Nothing to be sorry – "

"Yes, there is. You're here, helping me with my investigation, taking risks for me, and I'm goofing off with Quinn – "

"Doesn't matter."

"It does and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for asking you about Montreal in front of Quinn. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just trying to make conversation."

He released the door handle and twisted in his seat, frowning as if trying to remember what I was talking about.

"Oh. That. Those damn left turns. Concentrating on them. Wasn't really listening. Montreal, right? Been there a few times. Had a job once. Middle of a fucking snowstorm."

I smiled. "They get those."

"In October?" He shook his head. "Wasn't prepared. Get right behind the guy. Pull my piece. Fucking gun's frozen."

I choked on a laugh. "A gun can't – "

"You telling the story? It was cold. Fucking cold. Did I mention that?"

"No, just the fucking snowstorm, which I'm sure, combined with the fucking cold, froze your fucking gun."

"Fucking right. Where was I? Right. Gun fails. But the guy hears something. Turns around." He shook his head. "Wasn't pretty." He squinted through the windshield. "Huh. There's Quinn. Better go."

He reached for the door handle. I grabbed his sleeve over the seat, then stopped, unsure, but when he turned, I saw the glitter of amusement in his eyes.

"How'd you pull the hit if your gun was supposedly frozen?" I asked.

"Grabbed an icicle."

"A what?"

"Icicle. You know. Long, sharp piece of ice…"

"Bullshit."

His brows shot up in mock offense, the eyes under them still dancing. "Don't believe me? Right in the neck. Perfect weapon. Melts. No evidence."

"No way."

"You don't sound so sure."

I searched his eyes but, as always, there were no answers there. He gave a dry rasp of a laugh and grabbed the door handle, then looked back over his shoulder.

"Okay?"

I smiled. "Thanks, Jack."

Fifteen minutes later, Quinn pulled a beige Crown Victoria into the Keyeses' driveway. He got out, stretching his legs as if it had been a long ride, then peered over his shades at the house. The sky was overcast, but with some disguises, you can get away with wearing sunglasses, just like you could get away with an earpiece that wasn't completely hidden.

As Quinn surveyed the house, Jack got out and adjusted the holster, making sure it would "accidentally" show if his suit jacket swung open. Again, just part of the disguise, not necessarily an accurate one, but sometimes expectation is more important than realism.

They proceeded to the door. A tiny woman with a dark ponytail answered their knock. From my vantage point down the road, I could only make out her size and hair color. Their voices, though, were clear, courtesy of the two-way earpieces.

"Leslie Keyes?" Quinn asked.

"Yes?"

"John Turnbull and Derek Walker, federal agents with the Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement."

Quinn machine-gunned the words, nearly too fast to distinguish, but bolstered with a weight of authority that dared you – ignorant layperson – to suggest there was no "Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement." He flashed a badge and a card, emblazoned with a logo mishmashed from several legitimate federal agencies.

When I'd expressed skepticism – after I'd stopped laughing – Quinn swore it worked. He'd been using the badge and ID for over a year, and never been questioned. The moment people heard the words "federal agent" from a big, solid-jawed guy in a suit and shades, the rest flew past in a jumble as they mentally scrambled to figure out what they'd done wrong.