Page 38 of Holding On

“Isn’t your appointment at eleven?” says Nic, who arches an eyebrow after waving off an offer of coffee.

“Yes,” I say, “but they know we’re coming from Portland. I told them we might be late.” Two lies in as many sentences. Just keep ringing them up.

“Travis, how’s working for one of the best?”

Travis breaks into a grin. “Thanks for not asking ‘How is it working for your sister?’”

Nic claps him on the shoulder. “That’s a different question, man.”

They talk for a few minutes about animals, surgery, and Nic’s family dog growing up—a mutt named Dexter—and then Travis finishes off his coffee. The swift memory of his hands on me makes me gush warm and wet between my legs. Jutting a thumb toward the door, he starts to make his move.

“Going to go,” he says. “You back tonight?”

I can’t help but glance at Nic. I can’t answer this because I don’t know.

“I’m bringing her back either tonight or tomorrow afternoon, depending how long this takes.”

Travis stops for a moment, one hand on the door. “I thought you were visiting a friend.”

“I am, but I’m also doing some research for Audrey.”

At this, he stiffens. “I thought you were working for Barr this week and that’s it. On loan.”

“I am, but I still have stuff to do for Audrey.” I can’t keep track of how many stories I’ve told at this point.

His face is tight, his easy smile gone, and hurt lies behind those golden eyes. When he leaves a few minutes later, I feel sick to my stomach.

I can’t do this.

***

This is what I’m telling Nic in the blue Lexis. We’re heading south on Route 1 toward Interstate 95, and I’ve had too much coffee. I’m gripping the edges of the passenger seat.

“I know this is uncomfortable.” Nic looks straight head, a shock of black curly hair suddenly gone rogue across his forehead.

“It’s more than uncomfortable. I’m lying to them. I’m lying to Travis. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Is this why you took the houseboat? To avoid the whole ‘How was your day?’ discussions over beer?”

“No, the point of getting the houseboat was so Judge Barr wouldn’t connect me with the Russos. It’s why I gave him a fake last name.”

“Carlson’s running you with an alias? That’s ballsy.”

“Whatever.” My head is beginning to pound. “This isn’t what I signed up for.I don’t mind playing a double agent—”

Nic shakes his head and then smiles at me over his shoulder. “You’re just an agent. No doubling here. Believe me, I know all about double lives.”

Whatever. I’m aware I’m pouting, arms folded.

“Hey, in the grand scheme of things, this is pretty minor stuff,” he says.

“Not for me.” Flashes of green mountains and dots of white houses flash by the passenger window. I can’t help myself. There’s no one else to direct my frustration at right now, and Nic is a great target. “I don’t mind the work. It’s the lying,” I repeat.

He clears his throat. “You and I are in exactly the same position.”

“Don’t think so.”

He gets serious. “I’ve told Finn none of this. I have never kept a secret from him. Ever. But this doesn’t involve him. This involves his fiancée’s—shit.”