Hate F*@k: Part 1-2 Part 13

"First, call Tag. Tell him to pick up Fletcher and bring him here," Jason says. "He can stay with me while you two figure out what someone might want Fletcher to lose his seat in the House." He rubs his thumb between his eyebrows. "And yeah, I'll go make a call."

He disappears to his office. This is the deal. He's the only one who talks to his PRISM contact.

Project Responsible for International Security Measures.

It sounds so...reasonable. And compared to the forces of evil in this world, it is. But the powers-that-be who formed the alliance are ruthless. They wouldn't care about an individual murder. Not of Anabeth Fletcher. Not of a hooker who made the mistake of saying no to Morgan Reid six months ago.

My stomach turns at all the blind-eyes that have been turned in the name of international geo-political stability.

But if the take down of Representative Fletcher is a lead domino, intended to start a chain reaction that culminates in World War III...that, they care about. That, we can demand support on.

And if this turns out to be nothing? Then they'll turn a blind eye to the justice we administer.

- - We wait four excruciating days before making our move.

Word came back from PRISM that they were concerned, but had no immediately relevant information to share. Whatever the f.u.c.k that means. So we did our thing.

Wilson read every single email he could find. We talked to people. Found out that Fletcher's bill was shot down after lobbyist intervention. What lobbyist? No one would say.

Tag gave Kendra what we had. She said it wasn't enough, and she was right.

So now I'm waiting in an alley a few blocks from his house in the early evening. There aren't any cameras nearby. Tag dropped me in a visual dead zone, and he'll pick me up again in the same spot in a different vehicle.

Wesley Perry, Fletcher's snake of a chief of staff, is walking toward me. Face down in his smart phone, because he's an a.s.shole and unaware of his surroundings.

It gives me a decent amount of pleasure to yank him into the dark alley and send his phone flying toward the brick wall. "Oops."

"Hey!" His fists come up too late. I've got my forearm pressed against his neck, up into his chin. He scrabbles his hands against me, his eyes wide with fear.

Good.

"Two options here, motherf.u.c.ker. Talk or die, got it?" My breath puffs in his face.

He kicks at me and I step back, letting him trip himself. Down he goes and up I drag him, slamming him against the bricks again, my fists holding him so tightly his coat tears at the seams. The rip makes me grin.

"Next thing to break is your face."

With a whimper, he presses his legs together and my nose tells me why he's crying. He's p.i.s.sed himself.

Of course he has.

"I haven't even hit you yet."

"Don't hit me," he says, his eyes pleading for mercy.

"No, I'm definitely going to hit you. I'm going to leave you battered and bruised, so you never forget that I'm more terrifying than the a.s.shole you've been working with. Who is he? Because I'm not scared of him."

He shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Wrong answer, Wesley." I drive my fist into his guts. "Try again."

"You've got the wrong guy," he gasps.

"So you didn't exchange emails with ? Because I know that you did. And I don't like being lied to."

He groans as I thump him against the wall again, but he still doesn't talk.

"Is there any way to get Fletcher out of the way?" I recite the email from memory. "And you responded. He needs to be disgraced. Ruined forever. Maybe he could off his wife."

"I didn't mean it," he whispers, which is pathetic if it's true. I don't f.u.c.king care.

"But she's dead, isn't she? An innocent woman. You did that. Who were you talking to?" I release him, and he staggers towards me, putting his hands up. I jab twice, quickly, before delivering a roundhouse to his jaw. It's barely fair.

Good thing I don't believe in fair.

"I don't know his name."

"Wrong answer." Another jab to the gut. I'm done hurting him now, because I'm not a murderer, but I don't have a problem bruising them up when I come across them in an alley.

"I think he goes by the name Andre. I heard him answer his phone that way once."

"Where did you usually meet him?"

"The Mall. A coffee shop near the Hill sometimes. I haven't seen or heard from him since Anabeth-"

Blood sprays the wall as I thud my fist into his jaw. "Don't f.u.c.king say her name."

He sags against the brick, and I step back, my chest heaving.

Ten seconds pa.s.s. Thirty. The chill of the cold February night is getting to him. He's been pummelled in an alley. Any second now...

His shoulders slump, and I lean in, gripping his jaw in a painful hold. "Physical description. Anything you remember. I want it all. Give me everything, and you leave here alive."

He spits out more than I expected. Enough that when he's done, and I've whispered a promise to make the injuries permanent if he doesn't quit and find another job in another city doing anything but power-play politics, I saunter out of the alley, leaving him standing.

More than he deserves.

I'm getting soft.

I shove that thought away. I know why. I don't want any thoughts of Hailey in my head while I do what I've gotta do.

Tag pulls up ten seconds late and I get in. My hands are freezing and my knuckles hurt, but I've got what I need. As soon as we pull away, he gives me even better, unexpected news, as he hands over a tablet.

I hit play as he explains. "Brian Fletcher's neighbour to the east has video surveillance, after all. Kendra doesn't have this yet, I a.s.sume, because she's still sniffing around us covering this up for the good representative."

"Why are we just getting it now?"

"Their system went offline before Wilson started looking that morning. It just blipped back on and he snuck in through their digital backdoor tonight. Two masked men scaled the wall into their backyard twenty minutes before Fletcher called Jason. No great shot of their faces, but we've got build, height. And one of them has a slight limp."

"You gonna suggest she get a warrant for this?"

"Already done."

I nod and pull out my phone. I replay the voice recording for Tag. We listen to it twice on the way to the office, and by the time we get there, we already have a plan.

-five-.

Hailey.

A week without Cole has meant a week of thinking.

I want to scrub him from my brain, and my heart, but he's in there. Stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I keep coming back to memories I didn't even realize I had, and each time they replay in my mind, I'm reminded that he's wanted me just as long as I've wanted him. It's bittersweet and totally unhelpful.

Five months ago, I was summoned to my parents' estate.

At the time, I convinced myself I was going to be a good daughter.

Now I know I went to see him again.

- - Five months ago.

It's embarra.s.sing, how my face flushes as I walk into the library where they've gathered to talk about who-knows-what. Something to do with Georgetown, I guess, which is why I've been called, since I just graduated. But my face is hot because he's here. Cole of the thousand-yard-glare, who turns me on and repulses me at the same time.

Who are you? I want to ask him. How can you be so soulless and so freaking captivating at the same time? Why the h.e.l.l won't you get out of my fantasies and let me dream about a nice quiet life that doesn't have any drama in it?

I bee-line for the bar, because I could use some liquid courage for whatever this is, and for ignoring the uncomfortable tension seething my way from Cole's corner of the room.

Right away, my mother is in my face, and against my will, my eyes dart around her to find his face.

I don't know why I do. He's obviously p.i.s.sed at me.

I get it. I'm so useless when it comes to this society stuff.

"Did you give a quote to the campus paper detailing that you're not close to your family because you're trying to be an upstanding citizen?" My mother's voice is shrill. Migraine-inducing. Completely un-maternal.

"That sounds like something I'd say inside my head, but no. I know better than to talk to anyone." I barely even have any friends who would know that about me. I just started an interns.h.i.+p at this employment agency and got all excited when this girl Taryn asked me to have lunch with her. I'm an island of silence, because of my family. I shake my head and repeat the denial. "Definitely didn't say that."

My father rises, a smirk on his face. "It doesn't matter, Amy." My mother stiffens. She hates that he calls her that. Amelia Dashford Reid doesn't do nicknames. "It's just some socialist kid trying to make trouble before the unveiling of the Reid Steyner Center next week."

That's something Cole and his group of evil minions managed to do. A month after my father narrowly missed being charged with murder, they've orchestrated a major donation to the business school that will see a think tank named after my father's company.

It makes me sick.

But that doesn't change the fact that I didn't have anything to do with the article my sister must be tapping against her knee. Taylor doesn't willingly read anything-unless it's about herself.

After another short yelling match that one of the other Horus Group guys-Jason-deflects into a more productive conversation about something else I don't care about, I head outside for some fresh air. I need to clear my head.

I want to convince myself to run screaming and never look back, but that leaves Alison all alone with them. And I love my baby sister. I'm willing to do anything to protect her.

It's dusk, a lovely summer evening that I'd enjoy if I didn't have to go back in with the vultures soon.

And if I were alone. Because when I look up again, Cole is a few yards away.

Watching me.

For a second, his gaze is hot and dangerous. Like he sees me as a woman, and the cold anger from earlier is gone.

"Ms. Reid?" And just like that, bam, he's back to being a suit.

My sisters all have first names. Me? To Cole Parker I'll always be Ms. Reid. Held at arm's length like I'm the problem.

I'm a twenty-three year old intern at a disability employment agency. Between me and Cole "No Comment Motherf.u.c.ker" Parker, I'm not the problematic one.

I live in a small two-bedroom apartment and refuse to touch my trust fund. I volunteer at a food bank, and in my spare time, I spend too much time on Ravelry. I'm pretty sure Cole spends his spare time cage match fighting and seducing the wives of Was.h.i.+ngton's most powerful men. We are nothing alike.

If I keep telling myself that, maybe it'll start to feel true.

"What is it, Mr. Parker?"

His eyes glitter for a second. "That went off the rails back there. We wanted to ask you if you'd attend the dedication ceremony with your father."

"I work during the day."

"Yes, I understand congratulations are in order on your interns.h.i.+p. The dedication is at the end of the day. I'm sure your manager-"

My eyes narrow and I cut him off. "I'm sure you also understand I don't want to ask for any special favors or treatment. I work until five every day. If it's after that, I can come, yes. It takes me about thirty minutes to get to campus on the Metro."

"Tag or Wilson could pick you up." He s.h.i.+fts his gaze over my shoulder, looking out at the rolling lawn.

"Not you?" I don't even realize I asked that out loud, because he doesn't respond. He just stares over my shoulder. But then I hear the question, like on a weird delay, bouncing around in the air between us, and I try to take it back. Because mortifying-even before he ignored it. "Never mind. I don't need a ride. I prefer to find my own way."

"I know." He flicks his gaze back to my face, and I regret wis.h.i.+ng for it, because his attention, hot and piercing, burns me from the inside out.

"Someone inside has the details?" I edge toward the door. "Because I need to go." Right now. I can't handle being alone on a patio with this man. What was I thinking, asking if he'd be the one to pick me up?

If Cole Parker ever showed up at my office, I'd kick him in the s.h.i.+ns and run as fast as I could in the other direction.

"Yes." His eyelids drop and his lips part, drawing my attention to them. Perfectly carved from granite. Perfectly surrounded by rough five o'clock shadow that makes me s.h.i.+ver at the mere thought of it sc.r.a.ping along my skin, because the man is built for sin.

And I'm so secretly fascinated by him. By the promise of his hard, muscled body, and wicked mind. By his reputation. Whispers of his prowess have reached even me, hiding as far as I can from Was.h.i.+ngton society.