The Job (Auctioned) by Cara Dee (highly illogical behavior txt) 📕

painted on Tuesday, after which I could finally put out the grill I’d bought. It was waiting in the carport, along with a table and four chairs. Ace had made plans for us to have game nights.

“If you wanna keep it private, fine, no need to bullshit,” he muttered behind me. “I saw you getting pizza together at our place ’bout a year ago—then again a couple months after at a gas station.”

What the hell was he— Oh. He must’ve seen me with Dave. “We went out a few times, that’s all.” I unlocked the door and went inside to crank up the AC. “Why would I wanna keep that private?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe because you’ve never brought anyone home before?” he argued. “There’s also that one time you told me not to show my face near you if I was with a woman, and when that happened, you cut me outta your life.”

That one time? One fucking time?

Embarrassment and anger burned hotly, and in a split second, I regretted everything that’d led up to him being at my goddamn house right now. This wasn’t gonna work.

I threw my keys on the table next to the door and crossed the living room, went into the kitchen, and grabbed my vodka from the freezer.

“Jesus Christ, this place is tiny.” I heard him say.

Feel free to fuck off, asshole.

It wasn’t tiny. It was…compact. Ace and I didn’t need more. The kitchen was a little crowded when she and I prepared dinner together, and only my daughter would call the bathroom spacious, but the rest was okay. She had her own room in the back, I slept in the living room, and I’d turned the closet space across from the bathroom into my restricted zone. It was where I kept all my work shit, equipment, my safe, all the valuables.

“At least I’m not acting like a child and sleeping on Mom’s couch,” I called back.

“Okay, trailer trash.”

Wait—he’d said something before. It just registered. I poked my head out of the kitchen and frowned. “What the fuck is our place, anyway? You said you saw me get pizza with someone at our place.”

He waved it off dismissively and stared at the pullout couch I hadn’t made this morning. “I didn’t mean it like that. Giordano’s—we used to get pizza there after a gig.”

Oh. I laughed at the fucker, even as nausea crawled up my throat because it brought me back. Boone had always been sweet. Protective, nostalgic, sentimental. He loved traditions and holidays and birthdays. He loved showing others how much he cared. And at one point, I had been at the center of his attention.

It was all his fault that I’d gotten confused at an early age. His fault that I’d always struggled to connect with other guys. His motherfucking fault I’d realized, at the age of twenty, that I was in love with my own brother.

I hadn’t told him never to date or be with women; I’d asked him pleadingly, that when we worked together, he didn’t bring any women around me, because it fucking hurt to watch. It’d killed a part of me every goddamn time I’d seen him flirt with women. Only for him to get back to treating me like I was the best thing since sliced bread as soon as the bitches left the room.

I couldn’t go down that road again. My twenties had consisted of daily heartbreak, being pulled in, pushed aside, burning jealousy, anger, fantasies, and dejection. And he’d never know.

I poured myself a glass of vodka and took a big gulp.

“Let’s just do this job together so we can go back to not speaking to each other again,” he said.

“Fine by me.” I took another long swig of vodka, emptying my glass, before I left the kitchen. After punching in the four-digit code, I opened the closet and grabbed the laptop I never hooked up to the internet. It was one of four that I used, and any data was transferred through USB sticks or other safe channels. The encrypted file Willow had sent me had gone straight to the one where I never used my own name.

Ace once asked me why I needed so many laptops, and I’d given her a long-ass harangue about privacy and Big Brother watching. Of course, then I’d gotten a call from Ace’s school because my girl had gotten on her own soapbox to tell her classmates that people in general were government-owned sheep.

Kids said the craziest things.

Boone had turned the pullout into a couch by the time I rejoined him. We sat down together, and I booted up the laptop on the coffee table.

“You got anything to drink?” he asked.

“Help yourself.” I inserted my password. “Grab me a beer while you’re at it.”

He rose without a word, and I watched him trail into the kitchen.

If he were me, he’d only get something for himself. I was the catty one when I was pissed or hurt. He became silent and possibly depressed. That’s what I had to figure out. And if he was depressed, I had to do something.

I’d pulled up all the documents from Willow’s file when Boone returned with beer for both of us.

“All right, so the target is an Alfred Lange and his crime organization,” I said. “At the end of October, there’s a reservation at the Venetian traced back to Lange, and it includes a party venue and a block of suites. Darius wants us to find out as much as possible about their stay, their plans, their reservations, and, more importantly, about Lange’s son who lives here in town. His name is AJ Lange, and he works for the Gaming Commission.”

I angled the laptop closer to Boone so he could see the information I had. Which wasn’t much—not even the complete hotel reservation, just a date and some minor details.

Lange dealt in coke, diamonds, and human trafficking. He was based outta Florida, was presumed to travel with heavy security, and Willow had no