Thank god. Agent Van Zandt is trudging through the sand a few feet behind Halifax. I turn back to Chase. “Sorry. I have to go.”
Standing up, I brush the sand off of my swim trunks.
“Nice to meet you,” Chase says, holding out a hand. I shake it and he caresses my wrist with his thumb. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”
Those grey eyes hold a promise of mischief and a damn good time. “Maybe,” I reply.
Chase winks and returns to his friends. Being out has definitely made it easier to get laid, that’s for sure.
Irritated at the interruption, I turn to the Agents. “Did something happen?”
“Let’s go back to the house,” Van Zandt suggests. “It’s hot as hell out here.” When he tugs at his tie all of my blood rushes to my feet, leaving me lightheaded. Memories of Mitch assault me, nearly knocking me to my knees.
“Sure,” I whisper. My voice is sucked right from my lungs along with my breath. We trek back up to the house, the two agents dump sand out of their uptight business shoes before heading inside.
Sasquatch closes the door behind us and waits outside, arms crossed and face in a perma-scowl.
I grab a Red Bull out of the fridge and crack it open. Right now, I’m feeling a little petulant, so I don’t bother offering the agents anything to drink. They didn’t call ahead before barging in on my afternoon. That means courtesy on my part is optional.
I choose to opt out.
Especially when Agent Creepy is giving me the once over again. His eyes graze over me lasciviously, stopping at my piercings. I feel naked and embarrassed, which pisses me off.
I stomp over to the couch and grab my shirt, yanking it over my head.
“Can I help you?” I sneer, staring pointedly at Halifax as he smirks.
“We wanted to go over some things. We’re trying to overlay the timeline and locations of the victims’ deaths with your past travel schedules,” Van Zandt says. He opens a binder and searches, extracting a few sheets of paper.
Do they not have computers for this shit?
“Do you have my old travel schedules?” I query.
“No. We were hoping you had it so we could compare it to our killer,” Agent Halifax says, his eyes
drifting from my chest to my mouth as I take a sip of my drink.
I’m seriously on the verge of punching this guy. Is that a federal crime? I notice a wedding ring on his left hand and nearly choke on Red Bull.
“I don’t have those things here,” I snap. “The tour company that hosted the tour, the record label, or hell even Ross would have those things. I’m just the talent. I show up, sing and dance, and go the fuck home. I don’t know shit about schedules.”
“Excuse me,” Van Zandt says, heading for my bathroom.
Fucking make yourself at home, asshole.
Shit. Now I’m alone with the closeted Agent Dickhead.
This is such crap. Why are they really here? I’m about to call Halifax out on his shit when he suddenly stands up.
“It’s really important that we figure out if any of the notes arrived in cities at the same time victims were killed,” he maintains, slowly walking over to where I’m standing.
My fingers tighten around my beer. “If it’s that important, you should have called. I could have told you I don’t have that kind of information here at the house,” I growl.
Halifax stands next to me, staring over my shoulder to look out the kitchen windows. I begin to move away. Uncomfortable is not even in the same universe as how I feel with this asshole so close to me. Before I can take a single step, his hand brushes against mine.
I scowl and he pretends to be shocked. “What the fuck are you playing at, Halifax?” Livid, I give him a dark look.
The fucker holds up his hands in mock defeat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”