“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” I whisper. “That’s the problem, Gallagher. Idon’ttrust you.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Call me crazy, but it looks like hurt. Before I can overanalyze it, I tear my eyes from his and turn in my seat to face Sykes. She looks pleased as punch by this turn of events.
“So…” I take a deep breath. “Tell me how this is going to work.”
* * *
The car rideback to Somerville is quiet.
Did I sayquiet?
I meanta deathtrap of awkward silence so thick, it’s a struggle to breathe.
Conor has been seething in silent rage since I agreed to act as bait for the Evanoff brothers. Honestly, I’m not sure why he’s so angry. It’s nothisass on the line, here. He should be thanking me! If things go well, he’ll probably end up with a promotion and a pay raise for bringing down two of Alexei Petrov’s top henchman.
It’s late afternoon now, and I’m so exhausted I can hardly hold my head up. Today’s nonstop interrogation has worn me out far more than yesterday’s kidnapping. I can’t wait to get home, lock my door, set my alarm, and crawl into bed — safe in the knowledge that Conor and an entire SWAT team of trained FBI agents are armed and ready just down the block, should the Evanoffs decide to make an encore appearance.
We’re five minutes from my house when we take an unexpected detour. I glance over at Conor, prepared to tell him we’re going the wrong way, only to see him turning the wheel into the drive-thru of my favorite healthy(ish) fast food place. The words die on my lips as he pulls to a stop by the speaker and I realize someone up there has heard my prayers.
We’re finally getting food!
Praise the lord!
I’m so hungry, I could eat a cow right now — and I’ve been a strict vegetarian since my freshman year of college. My mouth fills with saliva as I listen to Conor ordering himself a large steak burrito with a side of chips and guac. I wait for him to turn and ask me what I’d like, but he doesn’t bother.
He already knows.
“Can I also get the squash blossom quesadilla on a corn tortilla — hold the quick-pickled onions — with a side of the grilled street corn. And a double serving of the blue tortilla chips with the black bean salsa on the side. The mild one, not the spicy.” He pauses, lips twisting. “Oh, I’ll also need one of those iced pink drinks with the round ball shit on the bottom.”
I’m flabbergasted to hear him rattle off my regular to-go order, word for word — down to the spice threshold of my salsa and the hibiscus bubble tea. Either this is some freakish coincidence, or…
Conor looks over at me. His brows lift when he sees my expression. “What?”
“That’s… that’s what I always get!” I blurt.
“I’m aware,” he says like I’m an idiot. “You want something different this time?”
“N-no,” I stutter. “I just…”
I just want to know how the hell you memorized my exact favorite meal without ever asking me.
“Spit it out, Hunt.”
“How did you know?”
He shrugs. “You come here all the time.”
“But— but—”
“Is there a problem? Or can I pull up to the window?” His scowl is back. “We’re holding up the line.”
My mouth closes and I shake my head. “By all means. Carry on.”
He takes his foot off the brake and I stare dead ahead as we roll forward, trying like hell to get my wildly spiraling thoughts under control. But it’s no use. Even after we’re back on the road to my house, a bag of delicious Mexican food warming my lap, I can’t stop myself from stealing small glances at the man in the driver’s seat… and wondering what other infinitesimal details of my life he’s committed to memory, these past few months.
Chapter Seven
CONTROL FREAK