When He's Dirty (Walker Security - Adrian's Trilogy 1)

I curse under my breath and buckle in for what I suspect is the beginning of what is going to be a helluva ride.

***

An hour later, we’re in the air, and the ride is bumpy, the memories of two years undercover as a Devil, bumpier. But I’ve decided Lucifer’s a godsend, at least behind the controls of a private jet. Savage is a pain my ass trying to find out where my head is, and Adam, well—Adam is Adam. He knows when to shut his mouth and just ride the bumps in silence.

We land at a private airport outside Austin and Blake has a downtown house rented for us, not far from where Priscilla lives. By Friday night, I’m damn glad we got out of New York when we did. The airports are shut, and yet, Team Walker is already at work here in Texas. Lucifer and Savage have headed out to hunt down the Devils’ right-hand man, Jose Deleon, who is undoubtedly behind the murder of two witnesses. Meanwhile, Adam and I are going to watch Priscilla and decide if I’m going to testify.

My first glimpse of Priscilla is that morning, when she takes an early morning jog, her long, fit legs, and easy pace, establishing this as a normal routine. I jog with her but at a distance. She ends at a quirky little coffee shop by her house called Try Hard Coffee Roastery—Austin is full of quirky little places. I sit down at an outdoor table and wired to Adam, who’s presently searching her house, I hit my mic. “She’s wrapping up. How are you looking?”

“I was slow getting in. Buy me time.”

“Copy that,” I say, and since Priscilla doesn’t know what I look like, I have nothing to hold me back.

I stand up and walk into the coffee shop, stepping behind her in the line only two deep, a good move since she’s on the phone. “Yes, sir,” she says. “I know, sir. I’m aware this is an election year. I’m aware that you’re the first elected DA in Texas ever, but with all due respect, I’m not motivated by your re-election. I’m motivated by his heinous crimes.”

Obviously, she’s talking to the DA, Ed Melbourn, who I know from personal experience to be an arrogant asshole. A muffled, raised male voice lifts and reaches my ears. She holds the phone from her ear and when the shouting stops, replaces it and says, “I’ll get him.”

Apparently, Melbourn hangs up.

Priscilla makes a frustrated sound and shoves her phone back into a pocket on the side of her shorts. “Morning, Pri,” the fifty-something redhead behind the counter calls out.

Priscilla or rather “Pri” hurries forward to greet her. “Morning, LouAnne.”

Her shorts are red. Her voice is sweet. Her ass is sweeter. That doesn’t mean she’s sweet. In fact, some of the most dangerous people I’ve ever known had nice asses and cold hearts. I’ve never really found the idea of being fucked dead appealing.

“Your usual?” LouAnne asks her.

“I need a treat,” Pri replies. “White mocha, please, skim milk, but hit me with the whipped cream.”

“You got it, honey. I’ll charge your account.”

Pri heads down the counter to wait on her drink.

I lay cash on the table. “Same as her. It sounded good.”

“How cute,” she says, whatever the fuck that means. “But it’s a good choice. It’s the best drink we have.”

“Keep the change,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

I step away from the register and find Pri staring at the television, watching a cooking show, of all things when she doesn’t strike me as the domestic type. I’m now at the pick-up counter when she speaks to the woman next to her, who is also watching the show. “These shows make me wish I could cook.”

The woman casts her a sideways look. “That bad, huh?”

“I’m horrible,” Pri says. “I gave up years ago.”

The male coffee barista calls out, “White mocha.”

Pri turns and reaches for the cup, I reach for it as well. I did, after all, order a white mocha.Chapter ThreeADRIANMy hand collides with Pri’s hand and a second later, I have my first close-up with the woman holding my future in her reach. And holy fuck, when her pretty blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes meet mine, I feel an unexpected, sharp pang of charge between us that has no place in this encounter.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, jerking her hand back and giving a nervous laugh. “I ordered a white mocha, I thought that was mine.”

She’s beautiful, polite even, and everything male in me roars to life. “Per the barista we very adorably ordered the same drink, but you were in front of me. I didn’t realize you didn’t have your drink yet.” I offer her the drink. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn’t wait my turn?”