17. Dallas

CHAPTER 17

DALLAS

I lean against the cold wall of the hotel hallway, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to catch my breath. Isaac's lips linger on mine even after he's gone, and I can't shake off the feeling that something has shifted between us. This wasn't part of the plan, but then again, nothing about this mission has gone according to plan.

Thoughts race through my head, vying for attention, but none of them make sense. I've spent months undercover as Cody "Hawk" Smith, trying to get close to Isaac Thoreau—the mystery man who's become the FBI’s new obsession—and now that I'm finally making progress, everything feels wrong.

Entering the dark hotel room, I wince at the pain shooting through my arm from the wound. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me exhausted, both physically and mentally.

After swallowing down another painkiller Doc gave me earlier, I pull off my T-shirt and collapse onto the bed, still fully clothed waist down. I’m too tired to take off the rest. Just thinking about removing the boots gives me jitters. My body no longer feels like mine and I don’t want to fight this heaviness tonight.

"Focus on the mission," I tell myself, gritting my teeth at the ceiling as I force back the memories of Isaac's lips on mine. They are softer than I thought. Sweet and tangy with a hint of cigarette smoke.

Just admit it, Dallas. He’s a good kisser. Probably better than anyone else you've been with.

Do I use this thread that he created between us tonight to gather information? Or am I getting too close? The idea is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying, but I can’t go there. I can’t do option number two even if Isaac is the one who opened the proverbial doors.

I have a job to do. I can't afford to let my emotions get in the way.

With a sigh, I close my eyes and let the darkness swallow me, hoping that sleep will bring some clarity to my chaotic thoughts.

A dull ache in my arm along with the lingering heaviness from the painkiller I took last night wakes me the next morning. As I pry my eyes open and squint at the sunlight streaming through the slit between the heavy curtains the memories from yesterday's events flood back into my consciousness—the ambush in the parking lot, saving Isaac, and that kiss.

Fuck.

It wasn’t a dream.

It did happen.

Isaac Thoreau kissed me and I don’t have the slightest clue what do to about it.

Before I can dwell on it any further, there's a knock on my hotel room door. Reluctantly, I push myself off the bed and pad over to answer it.

The door swings open to reveal Isaac standing in the hallway, his gaze immediately drops below my chin and he eyes my bare torso like he’s going to prepare a thesis on it.

"Hey," he says, clearing his throat and shifting his focus to my face. "I got some errands to run. I'll come back for you in fifteen minutes."

What?

Is he just going to ignore the whole kiss thing?

"Uh, sure," I reply, trying to hide my confusion as the door clicks shut behind him.

What could he possibly want? Have Jeremy bash my head in because he found out I’m a fed? Buy me flowers? No. What the fuck.

The uncertainty gnaws at me, but I push it aside and hurry into the bathroom for a quick shower. I’m disciplined. The Marines will do that to you. I don’t need fifteen minutes. I can be good as new in ten.

When I step out into the hallway, Isaac is already waiting for me, leaning against the wall with an unreadable expression. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Very casual and very un-Isaac Thoreau.

We exchange terse nods before making our way to the elevator in silence.

The undercurrent of tension daunting between us fills the air, heavy and suffocating.

"Listen," Isaac says as we descend, his voice low and serious. "I never thanked you for saving my life yesterday. I appreciate it."

"Just doing my job," I respond, trying to sound relaxed even though my pulse races at the proximity of his body, and my heart jabs against my ribs like an insistent drummer.

Thoughts chip away at me.

Why is this shit happening?

I need to focus, I need to remember why I'm here.

"Still," he insists through his almost always-present frown. "You’re new. Heroics are usually left to those who've been around the block. You didn’t have to."

I don’t have the time to give him a response.

The elevator dings, signaling our arrival at the lobby, and Isaac strides out without another word, leaving me to follow in his wake. As we walk through the downstairs area and then through the casino floor toward the exit, my thoughts begin to race, anticipating and dreading what lies ahead.

When the neon lights of Eclipse reflecting off polished surfaces are left behind and we are in the hotel parking lot, Isaac points toward a black SUV and takes the driver’s seat.

The scorching Las Vegas sun beats down on us as we drive to the outskirts of the city. The landscape changes from bright casinos to monotonous suburban sprawl, and I’m wondering if this car ride is leading me to my execution site.

Instead, with an unexpected turn of the steering wheel, we find ourselves parked at some run-of-the-mill grocery store.

"Shopping?" I ask, glancing at him.

"Everyone has to eat, Hawk," Isaac replies, shutting off the engine with a soft click that seems almost too normal for this odd rendezvous.

My thoughts sit heavy in my mind like loose puzzle pieces refusing to fit.

We step inside the supermarket, smack-bang under harsh white lights bouncing off high metal aisles stacked with myriad food items.

Isaac scrubs a hand through his dark messy hair before grabbing onto a cart handle—worn but sturdy—and he commences operation fill-up.

He slowly loads the cart with an assortment of food that seems fit for a family with kids—cereal boxes flaunting flashy mascots, cold milk bottles sweating under the artificial fluorescence, fresh fruits with their glossy skins intact softly blushing beside crisp green veggies fighting frosty breaths in their plastic-wrap prisons. Cookies pile in last.

I scrutinize his choices. Partly amused, partly baffled as he saunters past aisle after aisle. I would've bet my life savings on him being more of a whiskey-soaked steak devourer than a domestic dad-does-grocery type. But then again—he isn't one for playing it predictable—is he?

"Got a big appetite?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as he tosses in another box of cereal.

"Something like that," he answers cryptically, pushing the cart toward the checkout.

Silently, we pile up all the bags into the back of the SUV and navigate further toward the edge of the city.

Suburban scenes this serene usually only exist in films: rows of well-loved homes tucked into leafy streets, children chasing after dogs in manicured yards. It feels worlds away from the dark, dangerous life we lead back in the city.

Isaac parks in front of one such house, and as soon as he steps out of the car, two kids burst from the front door, shouting excitedly, "Isaac! Isaac!"

I climb out of the SUV too, while watching him ruffle their hair affectionately.

"Hey, guys. What’s going on?" Isaac grins as they cling to his legs. "How have you guys been?"

"Good!" the older boy exclaims.

"I got a new dress," the girl announces. "It’s pink."

I round the car and pop the trunk, guessing the groceries are for the family who lives in this house, whoever they are.

My first thought is that they are Isaac’s kids, but then things get a little clearer when a woman in her thirties appears in the doorway. Shonda Murphey. Her husband was busted to make room for me. Her eyes are tired but light up when she sees Isaac. "I didn’t know you were coming," she says. "Should've called before showing up. I would have made a lasagna."

"And then you would have told me you didn’t need my help," Isaac argues.

He embraces her briefly and she kisses him on the cheek while the kids are already eagerly eyeballing our haul stored inside the SUV’s trunk.

The girl is probably around six and the boy could be teetering into double digits.

Isaac turns in my direction and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. "Shonda," he says. "This is Hawk." He jerks his chin toward me.

Shonda smiles and my guts twists. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise, ma’am."

"Ma'am?" She shakes her head with laughter. "No need to be so polite. We’re all family here." She strides over and tries to detach her pint-sized humans from the bags they are currently inspecting. "I’m sorry. They can be such a nuisance sometimes."

Together, we unload the groceries from the car, Isaac carrying the bulk of them with ease while chatting with the kids about their school, friends, and favorite Marvel superheroes.

Witnessing this tender, caring side of him is strange.

As we bring the last of the bags inside, I catch snippets of conversation between Isaac and Shonda—words of reassurance and promises to visit again soon. And as I watch them interact, something shifts inside me. It's guilt. This woman's husband has been taken from her because the Bureau needed an in.

I thought I knew Isaac Thoreau—the criminal, the man who killed his own father in cold blood, stabbed him thirty-three times and then built an empire while in prison. But now, standing on the doorstep of this modest home under the bright Nevada sun, I'm left questioning everything I thought I knew about him.

As I begin to take the food out of the bag in the kitchen, I overhear Shonda's quiet words coming from the hallway, "Isaac, you don't have to do all of this. The money you send is more than enough."

"Shonda, I want to," he replies softly, his tone gentle yet firm. "It's the least I can do for you and the kids."

I file away the information. So, Isaac is playing Robin Hood.

Later on, when all the groceries are organized and Shonda is busy cooking, Isaac and I are in the living room, entertaining the kids. The girl’s name is Mia and the boy’s is Mario. Mia excitedly shows Isaac her latest drawings, proudly presenting them for his inspection. Isaac crouches down to her level, studying each piece with genuine interest and offering praise that lights up the girl’s face.

"Wow! You're quite the artist," he says, nodding.

"Isaac, can you help me with my math homework?" Mario asks.

"I’ll see what I can do."

"Isaac is busy, baby!" Shonda shouts from the kitchen. "We can do it together once I’ve finished here."

As I observe this interaction, my emotions twist and tangle inside me. The man standing before me now doesn't resemble the ruthless gang leader I've come to know. Instead, I see a compassionate, caring individual who genuinely loves this family. Lying to him—to these people—makes me feel like shit.

The sun is already dipping below the horizon as Isaac and I step out of the house and into the fading daylight. The warm orange glow paints the suburban street in a deceptive tranquility, masking the turmoil churning inside me.

As we climb into the SUV and begin our drive back to the city, my restlessness grows.

The silence sticks to us like glue and I feel like I can’t breathe. "Isaac," I begin hesitantly, unsure how to broach the subject. "Why do you take care of them?"

One hand on the steering wheel, he glances over at me while we're at a the red light, his gaze guarded but not hostile. His eyes are dark coffee with unexpected traces of gold. Perhaps it's just a trick of light from the tired sun lashing his face. I have no idea why I never noticed it before.

"Jaheim's doing time because of me. I couldn't keep him safe, and this is what we do. They're family. It falls on me now, looking out for Shonda and the kids when Jaheim can't."

His words, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions, settle between us as the engine continues to purr.

"We’re not just about making money and spending it on expensive toys and booze, Hawk," Isaac adds when the light turns green. His eyes shift to the road ahead.

After this, we drive back to the Strip in silence punctuated only by the occasional hum of passing traffic and music on the radio reduced to a nearly indiscernible whisper.

"Got a second for a smoke?" Isaac suddenly asks as we pull into the parking lot upon our arrival.

"Sure," I reply, curious about what's on his mind.

We make our way up to the roof where a dazzling display of lights and shadows blankets our vision. The city skyline is a tapestry of glitter, pulsating with frenzied energy. The wind whips around us, tugging at our hair and clothes as we stand side by side, close enough for our shoulders to brush without actually touching.

Isaac pulls out a pack of cigarettes, deftly removing one for himself and offering me another. I take it, holding it between my fingers as he flicks his lighter open. The flame dances wildly in the wind, casting flickering shadows across his face as he leans in to light my cigarette first, then his own.

I inhale deeply, allowing the acrid smoke to fill my lungs completely before the exhale.

The smoke from Isaac’s lungs is swirling together with mine in the air above us like a toxic cloud. It's almost symbolic of what we are.

In this moment, the intimacy of our shared vice feels almost tangible, an understanding that exists in the space between words and actions.

I want to ask him questions. The man who’s on the job—Special Agent Bradley—realizes that Isaac Thoreau is vulnerable emotionally right now. This is when getting information is best.

But Hawk can’t do that.

"Sometimes," Isaac says, his voice barely audible above the rushing wind, "it feels like we're all just trying to hold on to something. Family, loyalty, love... whatever it is that keeps us tied to this world. And when you realize you've let someone down, someone who relied on you, it's hard to shake that guilt."

His eyes flicker to mine, and for an instant, I see the human fragility lurking beneath his tough exterior.

We continue to stand there in silence, my thoughts lost in the haze of smoke and fading twilight, as the lines between right and wrong continue to blur and twist within the confines of my stupid heart.

When I glance at Isaac, his eyes are focused on the glowing ember of his cigarette as he draws a slow, measured breath. It's now or never.

"Are we going to talk about what happened yesterday?" I ask, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning inside me.

Isaac hesitates, his fingers tightening around the cigarette between his lips. "I'm sorry," he finally says. "I was drunk and not thinking clearly. It won't happen again."

As the apology leaves his lips, something within me roars as if wanting for him to take it back, to erase that last sentence. But I also know that this growing closeness between us is a double-edged sword, one that could cut through the fragile balance we've managed to maintain thus far. And if that happens, my mission will be compromised.

Play it cool, Dallas , my inner voice of reason orders.

Isaac stares at me with those deep chocolate-colored eyes, maybe expecting some kind of acknowledgment of his apology for the kiss, but I’m too wired up to speak up right now. There’s a lump in my throat.

"Listen," Isaac finally breaks our shared quiet. "You should stay here in the hotel for now. Just keep the same room. Jeremy’s working on getting information about those assholes on the bikes who caught us off guard. He has several leads." Isaac looks at me pointedly. "And we may need your help." Pause. "That is if you want to keep going down this path."

I think for a moment. Staying close to Isaac is crucial for my mission. "Alright," I agree, my voice barely audible over the howl of the wind. "I'll stay."

"Good." Isaac nods, flicking his cigarette butt off the edge of the roof and watching it disappear into the night. "We'll need all hands on deck if things go south."

The tension between us lingers like a thick fog, every glance and touch sending tremors through my already frayed nerves.

"Good night," Isaac says, turning around and walking away.

I stand there, alone and stupefied, until his silhouette disappears behind the door.

Back in the hotel room, I take a seat on the edge of the bed, my fingers tapping restlessly against my thigh. The walls feel as if they're closing in on me, suffocating me with their relentless proximity.

What the fuck do I do?

What the fuck do I do about these dumb, confusing feelings suddenly developing toward Isaac?

Is it pity?

Is it understanding?

Or is it something else?