“What the hell, Red?” he hisses. “Since when do you pack heat?”
“I’ll explain later,” I reply, “just as soon as we take care of whoever’s out there.”
“Before, you said someone might be after you, trying to hurt you,” Brooks whispers, laying his hands on my shoulders, “Do you think—?”
“I do think,” I say. “He knows where I live.”
With a low, primal growl, Brooks darts across the room and pulls on his jeans. A sudden glint catches my eye as he produces a menacing switchblade from his pocket. He nods at the door, telling me without words that he’s going to grab whoever’s outside. I nod back, training my gun at the doorway. Across the room, Brooks’ every muscle tenses, his body readying itself for combat. A ripple of desire runs through me at the sight, and I have to will myself to refocus.
“Three,” I whisper, my finger caressing the trigger, “Two...One.”
In one swift motion, Brooks springs at the front door, ripping it open and reaching through. A terrified cry sounds out as my man wrestles someone through the doorway. But the screaming voice doesn’t belong to Bruno, as I expected it to. And the form squirming in Brooks’ arms is far too scrawny to belong to my federal nemesis. Keeping my gun trained on the intruder, I slam the front door and switch on the overhead light.
“Sonofabitch,” I spit, lowering my weapon at once.
Milo Beckett stares wildly around, pinned in place by Brooks’ mighty arms. The switchblade is pressed against my crazy ex’s throat, which could really use a shave, actually. Milo looks like a total wreck—somehow even thinner and scrappier than when last I saw him. But any concern I might be feeling for his wellbeing is dwarfed by my outrage at his presence in my apartment.
“What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I hiss.
“Don’t hurt me,” Milo whimpers, glancing up at Brooks in terror. “Please. I just needed to see you.”
“This is the creep that’s after you?” Brooks growls, keeping his blade trained against Milo’s skinny neck.
“No,” I say, exasperated. “This...is my ex. My crazy ex, it would seem.”
“Him?” Brooks asks, shoving Milo roughly away, “Christ, Red. What were you doing with this scrawny piece of shit?”
“Excuse me,” Milo says, pulling himself together as best he can, “you have no right to talk about me like that.”
“And you have no right to be stalking me,” I spit. “You realize it’s illegal, right? Showing up at someone’s house in the middle of the—”
“You wouldn’t answer my texts. My calls,” Milo babbles, looking for all the world like a particularly awkward puppy who’s been kicked too many times. “I couldn’t get in touch with you, but I had to say—”
“There’s nothing to say, Milo,” I groan. “You were a shitty boyfriend. I’m not attracted to you. At all. It’s over.”
“Apparently you’ve had no trouble moving on,” Milo says sullenly, looking Brooks’ fine form up and down.
“Don’t you worry, little man,” Brooks says, crossing his thick arms, “she’s in good hands now.”
“You seriously want to be with some macho bad boy instead of me?” Milo asks.
“Obviously,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“But I love you,” Milo pleads, taking a step toward me. In an instant, Brooks has stepped in his path, blocking me.
“That’s enough of that,” Brooks growls, snatching Milo by the front of his flannel shirt. “Time for you to go.”
“I bet he doesn’t even care about you,” Milo insists, struggling against Brooks’ grip, “there’s no way he loves you.”
“Yes, I do,” Brooks snaps back. “More than you’d ever know.”
My heart skips a beat, or three, as Brooks’ words sink in. “You...love me?” I breathe.
“Of course I do,” Brooks says, towing Milo toward the door. “You’re my girl, Red.”
“I love you too,” I whisper, grinning like an idiot.
“I know,” Brooks smiles. “But let’s take care of this asshole before we—”
“He’s a thug! You hate thugs!” Milo pleads, his eyes wild. “He doesn’t know you like I do! Quinn, please—”
Brooks stops in his tracks, examining the squirming bug in his hand. “Quinn?” he asks me. “Why did he call you Quinn?”
Shit.
“Because that’s her name, dumb ass,” Milo sniffs. “Quinn Collins. Don’t you even know her name, or...Oh my god.”
“Milo, shut up,” I warn.
“You don’t know!” Milo hoots, wiggling free from Brooks’ grasp.
“What don’t I know?” Brooks asks me, raising an eyebrow. “Keira, what—?”
“Keira? Is that her alias? She’s an undercover agent,” Milo says gleefully. “You seriously had no idea?”
“Get out of here,” I say to Milo, my voice low and deadly. “Get out of here before I put a bullet through your balls and say it was self defense.”
“You would never,” Milo says.
“Wanna bet?” I reply, pointing my gun at his crotch. “I’d be doing the human race a favor.” The color drains from my despicable ex’s face, and he eases himself toward the door.
“If you won’t have me,” Milo whines, “I’m glad he won’t want you now, either. You deserve to be alone, you heartless bitch.”
“That’s it,” Brooks snaps. Milo yelps as my biker boy grabs him by the scruff of the neck and drop kicks him out the front door. Milo beats a quick retreat as Brooks slams the door behind him, his hands balled into furious fists. We listen in silence as Milo’s car peels away into the night. But even though he’s gone, the harm he’s done remains.
“Brooks,” I say quietly, setting my gun down on the couch, “Let me explain—”
“Yeah. That’d be a good place to start,” he replies, looking at me with hard eyes.
“Milo was telling the truth,” I say, my heart pounding, “My real name isn’t Keira Campbell. It’s Quinn Collins. I’m...I’m an FBI agent.”
A long moment of silence passes between us, swelling to fill the entire apartment. Brooks is as still as the statue he resembles, processing my news. I barrel on, ripping off the Band-Aid—or rather, the tourniquet.