Raina tapped one long red nail against her color-coordinated crimson mouth as she considered him from where she was seated at her desk in front of the window, paperwork strewn around her. Her glossy black hair was up in its customary chignon, her copper-hued skin was flawless, and her black suit was perfectly tailored to set off her figure to enormous advantage. He sometimes wondered if there was a rule that models should continue to be fashionable after they hung up their stilettos, because her glamour never faltered for a heartbeat. “Did you get burned?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? We could sue.”
“Your concern is duly noted, but it was cold, and that’s beside the point anyway. I want a better job.”
She stood up, hitching a hip against the desk. He’d triggered negotiation mode, and in negotiation mode, Raina refused to sit while others stood over her. “You seem very serious this time.”
“I am very serious this time. There was enough tequila in his mug that I’m lucky no one lit a cigarette around me or I’d be on fire right now.”
“Who puts tequila in coffee?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Child support-avoiding dirtbags.” He dropped the remnants of his nice shirt in the trash before coming to stand beside her at the window. They were in an older part of Denver, full of grand, crumbling red-brick houses and steep crayon-green lawns. Raina had chosen the two-story Colonial they used for office space with the same attention to image that she did everything else, finding the perfect balance between the modern, technologically advanced investigative agencies of the future and the smaller, more affordable and—to be frank—sketchier agencies of the past.
He was pretty sure that drive for balance was why Raina had hired him in the first place. She met with the upper-echelon clients concerned with privacy and status on her own, only pulling Sullivan into meetings when she needed to impress someone expecting a rougher element. On those days, he’d roll into the office wearing big black boots, ratty jeans and a T-shirt that showed off his tattoo sleeves, his dark hair gelled and sprayed into its full, gravity-defying, mohawked glory, and he’d curse every time he opened his mouth.
He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t fun to play the brute, especially since it didn’t fit the more upscale image of their firm.
Raina was a monster about money—if it didn’t build the client base or contribute to first-rate work, she was a notorious tightwad. Any parts of the first floor that clients might see were exquisitely arranged; the second floor was a cesspool of unfinished renovation. Raina’s office was downstairs, her furniture slick and polished, the chairs leather, the windows shining. Sullivan’s office, on the other hand, was in a closet near the upstairs bathroom. Because nothing larger than a fifth-grader would fit inside, he didn’t have a desk, just a tray that Raina had handed over with such a blank expression that he was certain she’d been laughing wildly at him in her head. Usually he sat in the kitchen next to the constantly complaining fridge, his laptop propped up on his knees because the table wobbled. He spent hours each day violating every rule of ergonomic practice possible, and when he did get out into the world, it was to have assholes throw doctored coffee on him.
Really, everything about his job sucked. He should’ve stuck with the game plan he’d sketched out when he was six and become Sherlock Holmes. Holmes might’ve had an opium problem, but the great detective had probably been spared carpal tunnel.
“Talk to me.” Raina’s eyes, dark and deep, met his. “We’ll brainstorm.”
He sighed. The air conditioning was up high to combat the August temperatures, and he shivered in his damp undershirt. “I feel like a mouse in an exercise wheel. Running fast and going nowhere.”
“Pretty much the definition of serving subpoenas for a living. But I can’t spare you. Cases come and go, but you’re the most reliable source of revenue.”
He’d been expecting that response. “You could serve some of the subpoenas and I could do some of the actual cases. Split the interesting ones and the boring ones fifty-fifty.”
“We could, but I don’t want to.” She smiled when he gave her a baleful look. “The good part about being the boss is that I can delegate all the shit work to you.”
“What if I find an intern? Someone to take over the subpoenas for college credit or something?”
She lifted an exquisitely groomed eyebrow. “What would I need you for then?”
Yeah, he’d walked into that one. He cleared his throat. “Okay, try this out. I do a couple of the more interesting cases on top of my current workload. If it turns out I can balance it, we’ll stick with it.”
“A raise wouldn’t—”
“I don’t want a raise,” he said in disgust, wondering what the hell went on in her brain sometimes. “You think this is about money? I’m bored. And underutilized, which offends me on a purely theoretical level, but mostly I’m bored.”
“And we all know what kind of trouble you’ll get into in that state.” She thought about it for a moment. “This forces me to babysit you.”
“I’m more than capable and you know it.”
“You’re more than capable when it comes to tracking people down, yes. And the coffee stain on your shirt notwithstanding, you’re very capable at interacting with horrible people and getting out in one piece. But the rest of our cases require more discretion and experience than serving subpoenas does.” She stared at him like she was trying to see the inside of his skull. “Be honest. How big a problem is this?”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’m not going to quit over it today. But if something doesn’t change, it’ll
