When He's Bad (Walker Security - Adrian's Trilogy 2)

“We both know there is no such thing as just a dinner right now. Make this one as short as you can.” He kisses me hard and fast. “I’ll be listening.”

I nod and he helps me into the vehicle, shutting the door behind me. Now I’m alone with Mason, and we’re pulling out of the parking spot, on the way to my dinner with my mother. Adrian’s right. It’s not just a dinner. If it was, I wouldn’t feel as if I’m headed to my execution.

***

It’s a short ride later when Mason pulls us up to the restaurant. Thankfully he has a bottle of water and tissue that allows me to clean up my sticky legs. Even so, with the seat between us, I realize that I don’t actually know what Mason looks like at his point. His hair is dark brown. His jaw has a several-day neatly groomed stubble, and when he glances at me in the mirror, his eyes are intelligent. “I’ll be close,” he states.

Words everyone keeps saying to me. Words that are both comforting and unnerving just by way of their necessity.

“I left my briefcase at work,” I say. “Can you ask Lucifer to bring it to me?”

“Of course,” he says.

“Thanks, Mason, and nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says, in what seems like such a normal exchange. Oh, how I miss a normal life though I’m not sure what that means anymore. I’m not even sure I’ve ever known what that means.

I exit the vehicle to the slightly cooler night, still in the seventies despite the sun dipping behind the horizon and an early fall in the air. I cross the sidewalk to the restaurant entrance, a cute wooden door wrapped in ivy. My purse is on my shoulder, my gun inside, like a loyal friend who won’t let me down. I step inside the cozy little Italian spot and the hostess greets me.

Soon I’ve discovered that my mother hasn’t arrived, but we do have a reserved table. I’m guided through the small basic tables, the décor understated, as the food is the real star power of this destination. And I’m not focused on the tables or décor anyway. I’m people-watching, soaking in faces, looking for my would-be killer, though I’m not sure an assassin always looks like an assassin. Maybe they look like the elderly woman to my left eating alone? Or the incredibly large man in a fedora and glasses to my right, also eating alone, who’s wildly familiar? Do I know anyone who wears a fedora?

Soon I’m in a corner spot that is thankfully one of the only private locations, considering the close proximity of the seating. I settle into the corner where I can watch for my mother. The man in the fedora is still bothering me and my gaze lifts and finds his. And I’m startled with recognition.Chapter Thirty-SevenPRI

The man in the fedora is Adam. My God, it’s Adam. He really is a master of disguise. I fight a smile and relish a sense of relief.

I text Adrian: I see Adam. I know you trust him. It helps to have him here.

I do trust him, he replies. More than I ever did my brother.

It’s a surprising confession by text, especially a text message I know Blake can read, but I have this sense of Adrian accepting the Walker team as a family in more than words. I believe their support—their absolutely committed support—has changed him in ways I might not even fully understand yet. But I want to understand.

And right now, Adam being here somehow places me just a little closer to Adrian. And he did say he’d be close.

The waitress appears, and with my mother nowhere in sight, I order us both a glass of wine, our favorite red blend to share, and then text her. While waiting on her reply I try to call Ed again. He doesn’t answer. I text him: Please call me. A full two minutes pass with no reply, not from him or my mother. I’m not surprised by Ed’s lack of response but my mother is another story. It’s not like her to be late and I text Adrian: It’s not like my mother to be late. Does Walker have eyes on her?

She’s at the front door now, he replies, and she appears frazzled, though I’ve only met her once, so I don’t have a lot to go on. However, Blake says based on the team’s monitoring, she’s definitely frazzled.

It’s at that moment that my mother rushes through the tables, dressed in a black silk pantsuit, her hair down, and somewhat in disarray. She’s never in disarray, which set high standards for me I never quite lived up to as a child. Okay, as an adult either, but that’s my own personal baggage issue.