Page 21 of Wasted Lust

“Whatever—”

“But listen,” I say, lowering my voice. I imagine her leaning in to the speaker on the other side of her fortress to hear me better. “We had a date. It’s eight o’clock and I’m here to make good on my promise this morning.”

“Not interested, Agent—”

“You can’t possibly know that, Miss Cherlin, until you hear my offer. So please open the door and let me explain your options face to face.”

“This conversation is over. Goodnight, Agent.”

I drape the one bag over a nearby porch chair, set the other bag down on a small table next to it, and then remove the photograph from my breast pocket and hold it up. Her cameras are not visible, so I pan it across the front entrance. “We made contact with Nick Tate, Miss Cherlin. We don’t have him in custody and we don’t know where he is. But we know he’s about to make contact with you. We think he’s going to kill a lot of people, Sasha. And we need your insight to stop that.”

Silence.

And then the whirring of the camera lens. I hold the image still. It’s a much better photo than the ones I showed her months ago.

“I know you two have a history. If you open the door and talk to me face to face right now, I’ll let you have this photograph.”

Silence.

And then the unmistakable sound of disengaging locks on the other side of the door. Her face appears in a small crack. “You have ten seconds.”

I tuck the photograph back into my breast pocket and her eyes track that movement.

She wants that photograph pretty bad.

I pick up the bag draped across the chair and the other one on the table and hold them up in the air for her to examine. “You have two choices if you want the photograph, Miss Cherlin.” I shake the garment bag. “Put this dress on and go out to dinner with me.” I shake the paper bag, wet with grease stains. “Or we dine in tonight.”

She looks me in the eye. “My third choice, Agent Jax, is to tell you to fuck off.”

Ah! Finally, I have her engaged. “Alu gobi,” I deadpan back at her, still holding up the bag from the restaurant. “Or the dress.”

She crinkles her nose when I say the name of the dish I brought. She hates Indian food. Our spy invited her out a few months ago and this was one of the only tidbits of information we got from that conversation.

“The dress is beautiful. When was the last time you went out on a date? Years ago?” I smile, tucking down a chuckle. “It’s sad, really. A woman like you all buttoned up in here like a spinster.”

Sasha opens the door a few more inches. She’s in a robe, her hair is wet, and now that some light from the street lamps can get past her walls, I realize her eyes are red.

“You’ve been crying.”

“I don’t cry,” she says defensively. “I’m tired. I had a very bad day, and I’m not hungry or feeling up to going out.” I wait for her to close the door in my face. But she looks at my breast pocket again.

She really wants that photograph.

I set the bag of food back down on the table and push the dress towards her. “Let’s go out, Sasha. I promise not to ask you a single question about this case. All I want is an opportunity to unwind.”

“With me?” She sneers, far from convinced. “Surely there are slutty co-eds you can pass the time with.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to simply pass the time with you, Sasha. I said unwind. I think we’re a lot alike.”

“I think we are complete opposites.”

“We could laugh.”

“We’d probably fight.”

“I could buy you a drink and a nice dinner.”

“I can buy my own drinks and dinner.”