The Manolo Matrix by Julie Kenner Read Free Book Online Page B

though I’d definitely been sucked into a terrifying situation, I wasn’t the one whose ass was on the line. At least, not directly. Because I wasn’t the target in the game. Instead, I was the protector. (Which, frankly, made me feel a little sorry for Mr. Devlin Brady. I
    mean, I’m qualified to do a lot of jobs, from waitress to receptionist to makeup consultant.
    Bodyguard, however, is not on the list.)
    And that’s when I remembered: That little tickle in my brain was because of Devlin Brady.
    Devlin Brady was the FBI agent who’d investigated Mel’s case.
    And nowI supposed to protecthim?
    This was not computing in a big way. How the hell was I supposed to protect an FBI agent?
    But then I realized that I was looking at this all the wrong way. Maybe this was a good thing. The man had a gun and a badge, right? If he couldn’t watch his own back—and mine, too—then who could?

Chapter
10
    DEVLIN
    Devlin only remembered because of the panties.
    He’d dropped his goddamn beer, and he was bent over sopping up the mess when his fingers had brushed a bit of satin under the sofa. He’d tugged it out with two fingers, the light from the television illuminating the pale pink panties. Panties that brought back a rush of memory highlighted by a wash of self-loathing.
    God, he’d been a fool. When was that? Yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t remember; it was too much of a blur. All he remembered was picking up the girl. Fucking the girl. Forgetting the girl. And all in the hopes of forgetting his own damn problems.
    Hadn’t worked.
    Now he sat on the couch, the panties in his hands, feeling lost and disgusted.
    And, once again, alone.
    Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    Frustrated, he shoved the balled-up panties down into the couch cushions to rot with the loose change and old Cheetos. Then he just sat on the couch in the dark and tried to lose himself once again.
    Didn’t work.
    The shades were drawn in the apartment, the black-out kind, designed for people who worked at night and slept during the day. Devlin didn’t care about that. All he’d wanted when he’d pulled the shades weeks ago was darkness. All he’d wanted was to forget. Forget his partner, dead and buried. Forget the investigation that was either going to clear him or crucify him.
    Forget every goddamn thing.
    Lately, though, that was getting harder and harder.
    Had he really nailed the girl just so he’d have a reason to escape from his thoughts? From the fucking mess his life had become?
    He sat there like a slug, miserable and drained, as colors flashed from the television, illuminating the room with images fromGilligan’s Island. Or maybe it wasBewitched. He hadn’t bothered to look up once, and even now, with the television right in front of him, he didn’t care enough to look at the screen.
    It was just television. He didn’t give a fuck about television. He told himself he didn’t give a fuck about anything.
    Page 25

    Disgusted, he shoved himself up off the couch, kicking the take-out containers that littered the floor in front of him out of the way. He stumbled to the kitchen, then turned the water on in the sink. He leaned forward, staring down at the Indian food stuck to his cheap plastic plates, glasses half-filled with watered-down scotch, apple cores, pizza crusts, and half a dozen other unrecognizable food products. In short, a disgusting mess. If anything, the mess gave him some minor degree of satisfaction. He wasn’t a complete basket case. Not yet, anyway. Because at the very least, he was still remembering to eat.
    Idly, he wondered if he’d bought the girl dinner. He doubted it. Somehow, he didn’t think that chivalry had been on his mind.
    Devlin shoved his hands under the running water, then splashed his face. The back of his neck ached, and he rubbed his wet hand along his hairline, trying to ease the tension.
    Three sharp raps sounded at the door. Automatically,