Becoming Rain

What my dad does.

He means what Rain’s parents are like, and here I’ve been talking about what Clara’s parents are like.

Shit. My heart rate spikes. Warner’s going to grill me for risking my cover when he listens to this later.

Thankfully I’m saved from an answer. “There was this week that Alex stayed with Jesse and me after Viktor bashed her up good. We came home to dinner every night. I thought I had died, I was so happy. She’s a dynamite cook.”

Alex. Sinclair’s words jump out at me. Begrudgingly, I ask, “So, how did she end up all the way out there?”

“Sheer luck.” Luke licks a dab of sauce off his fingers as he stirs the pan, the simple action stirring flutters in my lower belly. Or maybe it’s him in the kitchen, in general. He said he hates cooking and yet he’s going to all this effort for me. Even my ex-boyfriend, David, who told me he loved me after a month of dating, never cooked for me. Not once.

I take another long sip of my wine. My body is already warming with the effects of the alcohol. It’s too easy to forget myself, to relax and enjoy my company. I need to watch myself. While getting drunk isn’t a career ender, it’s definitely frowned upon when it comes time for the court case. Any evidence that I gather outside of what’s recorded on the wire will be riddled with holes by the time a defense lawyer’s done with me.

Knowing this, I still can’t seem to control myself. Perhaps it’s my subconscious, sabotaging my ability to gather hard evidence against Luke.

“She said she owned the ranch?”

“Yup.” He throws some buns on a plate.

“Did she buy it after she divorced her ex?”

“She didn’t divorce him. He died.” He frowns. “Why so many questions about Alex?”

Shit. “Sorry, I’m being nosy. I’m just really curious. She seems like such a strong girl, after everything she’s been through. And she’s so happy. I just hope that I can be like her, too, one day.” I keep rambling until I sense him relax. That’s what a good undercover does—talks herself out of corners.

“Because of what your ex did to you,” he says softly, delivering a plate full of some strange concoction in front of me, and topping my wine up. “You’ll get there. I’ll help you in any way I can.” Sincere blue eyes gaze into mine.

I can tell that he means what he says.

A ring from his pocket breaks the spell. He quickly scans it and then drops it back in his pocket without answering. “Rain, meet Cheeseburger-roni.”

Knowing that the soft interrogation has to be dropped for now, I focus on my meal, poking it with a fork. “How am I supposed to eat this?”

“Shit,” Luke mumbles through a mouthful as a gob hits the floor. He snaps his fingers. Stanley, the faster and arguably smarter, beats the bulldog, cleaning the hardwood with his tongue.

“Like that, I guess,” I say, laughing. “Well, you have Stanley’s approval.”

“Do I have yours?” He watches me take a bite using my fork.

“Not bad,” I admit, washing it down with more wine, flashing him a smile. “I still win, though.”

“Oh yeah? And what do you win?” His eyes dip down to my mouth, stealing a heartbeat. I like having Luke’s attention, his interest. His affections. Too much.

When I don’t answer, he merely smiles, taking a drink.

“Water?” I glance at the clear liquid.

“Rust got me on vodka. It’s pretty much all I drink now. When I’m not drinking twenty-thousand-dollar-a-shot scotch, that is.”

“Vodka and Chef Boyardee.” I make a gagging sound, earning his roar of laughter.

We finish dinner in comfortable silence, sharing frequent glances and smiles, both dogs waiting patiently by our legs for another accident. I’m sliding the piece of soggy bun into my mouth when his phone rings yet again.

He offers me an apology and answers. “Yeah?” A pause and then his eyes flicker to me.

I’m immediately off the stool, collecting plates and heading for the sink, using it as an excuse to stay within earshot while looking preoccupied.

Luke grabs onto my forearm with a frown. “No, don’t worry about it,” he says to me, nodding toward the living room. “Go and relax.” Then into the phone, “No one. Just . . . a friend.”

I earn another twenty seconds of hovering time by pouring another glass. It’s the Bureau’s fault if I get drunk tonight.

“No . . . I can’t . . . not tonight. I’m busy . . . No!” Aside from when Stanley bit him, I don’t think I’ve heard him snap. “Tomorrow . . . Yeah. No . . . Tomorrow.”

Still within earshot, I float over toward a wall of pictures with mismatched frames that match in that perfectly eclectic way. The faces that stare back at me are all ones that I’ve seen before, that sit within the safe in my condo. His sister, both as a bright-eyed, plump-lipped little girl who you want to put on a shelf and simply stare at, and as the curvy blond who garners plenty of attention; his mother, both as the knockout that ensnared Luke’s father and as the sallow-faced, haggard-looking woman she has become.

My eyes are transfixed on Luke, though, through many stages of his life. The little boy in pajamas who sits in his grandpa’s lap, skinny legs dangling over the side of the burgundy armchair, a swirl of cigarette smoke creating a grainy haze above their heads. The gangly preteen boy sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game, his uncle’s arm thrown over his shoulder, that wide, innocent grin stretching across his face. The tall, lean young man in a blue graduation cap and gown, flanked by his mom and sister on one side, his uncle on the other.