Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I give him a hard look, then survey the bar. “Try not to throw your back out pouring all that salt on me.”
He smiles and wipes moisture off his glass. He’s lost in thought and sips his beer with a contemplative stare.
I rest my back against the bar to face my brother. Concern grips my shoulders. “What is it?” He has something on his mind.
Banks licks beer off his lips. “I’m supposed to go on this trip and help protect Maximoff, and you’re supposed to stay behind and protect Xander.” His lip rises. “Switch places with me.”
I think I hear him wrong. I know my twin brother is like a strong wind. He can adapt to any fragged mission and fly through hellfire. But he can’t be suggesting that. “Say again?”
“You get to spend more time with Jane and keep an eye on Tony, and I get to have some quality time with Xander.” He speaks hushed. “Just for the trip, you pretend to be me, and I’ll be you.”
He’s lost his damned mind. “No,” I say strictly. “Hell no.”
Banks lets out a short laugh. “You’re such a fucking gabbadost’.” He can call me a hardhead all he wants.
I’m just more rational about the optics of his idea. “You’re acting like you’re suggesting we play patty-cake on Tuesday,” I say under my breath, arms woven tensely over my chest. “This is a big deal.”
“It’s just one week, Thatcher.” He stands off the stool so we can talk more quietly. “We tell the truth to who we trust. We’d just lie to whoever would snitch to the Alpha and Epsilon leads.”
Tony.
Any Epsilon bodyguards.
I can barely entertain this plan, for so many reasons. “I’d have to lie to Price and Sinclair again. After I just got buried by a lie.” All the honor that I had like a vessel to my heart was crushed under my actions.
I lied to my superiors. I became romantically involved with a client. I chose Jane.
“They won’t find out,” Banks says with so much assurance. “When has Tony ever been able to tell us apart?”
I take a long pause and then shake my head at myself, pissed that I’m even considering this for half a second. “Consequences aside, the fucking ethics of switching places, Banks, should be enough to say no.”
He leans forward. “You just radioed in as me, Thatcher.”
“You know that’s not the same as impersonating each other for days.” My voice is severe, and the darker look my brother wears and the short nod says, I know.
I add, “You can act like we’re in some candy-coated twin movie and suddenly swap, but this is real.”
He puts a hand on my stiff shoulder. “But it’s not like you’re falling in love with someone pretending to be me, and I’m not kissing Jane pretending to be you. Should we really feel that guilty fooling Tony? That prick treats us like dogs, man, and I’m tired of Epsilon acting like he’s God’s greatest creation.”
What Banks says, I feel, but if we’re caught deceiving two leads, I’d be putting my brother in a broiler, and he’s my responsibility. I’m about to shake my head, but my phone rings.
Banks watches me slip it out, and I breathe in when I see her name on the screen.
Cell to my ear, I say, “Jane?”
“Thatcher. I just pulled up to the sports bar.” Her voice is higher pitched. Strained. “Can you meet me in the car?”
I’m already walking out the door.
5
THATCHER MORETTI
Her baby blue Beetle is nowhere in sight. I push forcefully out of the sports bar. Rain pelts the cracked sidewalk and the umbrella that Tony is holding. He guards the door of a black stretch limo, parked against the curb.
Her dad’s limo. For the past week, Jane has been borrowing the limo, just so she can block out Tony with the screen divider.
She’s in there now, and I don’t waste a fucking second. I jog forward, surrounding paparazzi yelling my name.
“THATCHER!”
“THATCHER! THATCHER!”
“WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT YOU AND JANE?” Cameras click and flash.
I stay deadlocked on my objective: the limo.
Jane.
Jane.
Jane.
I reach Tony, and his thick eyebrow rises with the most fucking annoying self-importance. His slicked back, dark-brown hair accentuates his jawline and short stubble. He postures himself in his expensive suit like he’s somehow better than me, and I hate how he tilts the umbrella away from my head just so I stand soaking in front of him.
I hate how he smiles smugly.
And I fucking hate how he’s keeping me from her.
“Move,” I order.
“Move? No, hey, paesan’?” He puts a hand to his chest in mock hurt.
I wouldn’t call him my paesan’ if someone paid me five grand. I use that Italian term for men in my family that I love, and he’s not one of them.
“Move,” I repeat, rainwater dripping off my eyelashes.