Page 9 of The Spy
Sure, Amelia was technically a friendly and was playing on the right side of the law, but she would forever be on Rook's shit list. When Rook's fiancée, Nissa, went to Interpol about her father, Amelia almost got her killed with the behind-the-back tactics she’d pulled. Rook would never let that one go.
Gabe nodded. “Tabatha, Saff, head to wardrobe tonight. Pick out what you'll wear to the gala tomorrow. Lads, get the tuxes steamed.”
Saff sighed dramatically, tossing her arms up. “And here I thought we were escaping this place for a proper honeymoon.”
Gennifer gave her a weak smile. “Very sorry, Saff. We'll have you and Lock in and out before you know it. I hope you're going somewhere fun?”
Saff shrugged. “Classified. We're keeping it a secret. All you need to know is we’ll be unavailable. Phones off with no big brothers of any type tracking us.”
I knew where they were going, but like hell I would offer that up, especially to Gee-Gennifer.
And like summoning the blonde devil with that snide thought, Gennifer turned to me with a sly smile. "You'll be Gabe's partner, Tabs?”
I met the clear blue of her gaze. “It's Tabatha. And yes, I get paired with the boss. I make him the least grumpy. If that’s saying anything.”
“Do try to keep him out of trouble for me now, would you?"
I smirked to cover what I really wanted to say. "You know Gabe. Always running into trouble headfirst.”
I needed to go find an outfit. Tomorrow, I would dance with Gabe once again. Though, unlike tonight, I wouldn't lose sight of who I was, or what I was doing. Tomorrow, I would lock down my feelings.
All I had to do was avoid touching his dick again. Easy.
4
Tabatha
Hell of a way to spend my birthday. All dressed up, drinking champagne, and stiff-as-a-board dancing to a boring-as-bloody-hell band. I needed to dance to an Afro Beats DJ to really feel alive and celebratory.
Unfortunately, we had been called in to extract billionaire Seth Disick because of the players involved. Hopefully this would be a simple mission. Grab him, question him, and have him turn informant on his coconspirators. Hell, I might still have time to actually celebrate.
Normally, Seth would just get the regular treatment. Police and all that. But what Gennifer wanted, Gennifer got. She’d provided a neat little file of evidence to Interpol, including copies of checks, pictures of banned artifacts being imported, and most importantly, the women missing. Hell, she should have worked for Scotland Yard.
As I sashayed around the edge of the ballroom, I kept eyes on Disick, my feet and arches aching in my Manolo's. Okay fine, they weren't mine in the strict sense. The fashion room at Rogues was fully stocked, and more often than not, for these types of missions, borrowing from Rogues was like an extravagant mini shopping trip.
You are on a mission. This isn't a fun trip.
I hated it when logic prevailed and ruined my imaginary fun. No, it wasn't a fun trip or a birthday dance party. Interpol had come to Rogues to do the extraction and questioning of a high run-risk criminal. Amelia Jansen came along to represent Interpol on the op as well. She was by the bar, pretending to sip on a gimlet, her braids coiled and piled high on top of her head. Across the room, Saint and Kaya danced, keeping a tight circle around Disick.
“Can these twats get the show on the road? I would like to get out and celebrate before I turn back into a pumpkin,” I snickered to myself.
In my com, Gabe's voice was terse. "What the fuck is so funny, Monarch?"
I tried to ignore the thrill of him using my call sign, but it was there just the same. During our graduation ceremony, those of us going into field ops were given our call signs. Usually, they were nicknames assigned by trainers or your fellow recruits. One guy's name was Onyx, not because he was dark-skinned or had dark hair, but because he had a penchant for singing the lyrics from the rap group whenever he made something go boom. He would hum it incessantly. ‘Let the boys be boys. Slam.’ So everyone called him Onyx, and that became his call sign.
I'd been surprised when I'd seen mine. It hardly said badass, but somehow it seemed to fit. Especially when Gabe looked at me and said, "You're a monarch." I always assumed he meant I was regal. But when he called me butterfly, I recognized he was talking about the South African monarchs. Their wings were the exact color of my hair. It always warmed me a little bit thinking about the time I asked who had named me. He'd simply looked at me and said he had. As if that was perfectly reasonable.
I forced a smile as I sipped my champagne and answered him. "None of your business, Spy."
Gabe was my partner, like on most missions. It was like I had been punished by the fates to always be at his side in these situations. Or more like he wanted to keep an eye on me.
I was pretty sure he thought I was a bad influence on Saffron. But I was a damn good agent. I didn’t need to be babysat. For years, he'd made Saff's life miserable, and by proxy, mine too.
We butted heads constantly, and it didn't help that he was my Ops Command. On missions, I followed orders just fine. But for some odd reason, he also seemed to think that I needed to follow those orders outside of missions. Whatever. I ignored him as much as possible.
Regrettably, his annoying sex-on-a-stick status was harder to ignore. The man was gorgeous and he damned well knew it. Thick, dark hair that if he ever let it grow long enough curled ever so slightly on the ends. He normally kept it in a buzz cut, but when it started to grow in, it was thick and luscious. I was always tempted to run my hands through it.
The longer hair also made him look much younger. Just tipping over thirty, God, the man looked absolutely fit.
