The Forgiven Read online

  Hector was an authority on flowers and his wife ran the books, and that was what Meg—and now, she was quite sure, her younger brother—told anyone who questioned how the Fuentes family could afford one of the most prosperous spreads in their corner of Texas on a florist’s salary.

  “Hola, Papá. ¿Cómo estás?”

  “Meg! Hola, mi hija. You taking care of yourself?”

  “Como siempre.”

  “Yeah, then why do you sound sad?”

  She poured cheer into her voice. “I’m smelling flowers and missing you and Mamá and Eddie and the shop, that’s all.”

  She wouldn’t bring her troubles to her family’s door. Her mother, Anita, had been a force to be reckoned with in supporting the trajectory of Meg’s career in law enforcement.

  But Hector was a man of pride and ruled as head of the household. He’d wanted his daughter to become a chef, after noticing her fervor for baking treats to sell in the flower shop. Then he thought she might earn a teaching license and devote her career to TESOL. Then, when she’d announced to the family that her calling was in law enforcement, he’d said he would allow it only if she took the LSATs and failed. If she passed, she would pursue law school and become a lawyer. The thought of her working undercover as a field agent had worried him to the point that it had impacted his health, and she hadn’t wanted to openly defy him to pursue the career she’d been meant for since she was a girl.

  So she’d lied to him, claiming she failed the LSATs, and he’d given her his blessing to pursue the field.

  Gradually, Hector had begun to accept her career—until she’d been shot. Her parents and brother had come to DC for post-op support and then to Las Vegas to make sure she wasn’t indulging in what gave the place its Sin City name—she was, very enthusiastically—but she hadn’t visited Texas in years.

  Something Hector reminded her every time they managed to catch each other by phone. “You wouldn’t miss us if you came home once in a blue moon, mi hija.”

  “That’s what you say. I think if I came home, I’d only miss you more each time I left. That’s no way to live.”

  “Right. So you should live here, work in the family business. We won’t even require an interview.”

  She smiled. “And leave all this sin and debauchery behind? You’re a silly man, Papá.”

  Hector grumbled, “You think you’re being funny when you say shit like that, but it worries me.”

  “I don’t mean to worry you… Listen, is Mamá around?”

  “She’s back at the ranch, asleep. Want me to get her to call you? I know when there’s something you want to tell Anita that you can’t tell me, it’s important.”

  “Don’t bother her. It’s all right.”

  “You sure?”

  No, she almost blurted. Remy Malik is back and I can’t be certain everything I felt for him died when he disappeared.

  Except, she’d never given her parents Remy’s name. She had said a colleague had fired during an operation and she’d been unintentionally hit. Clinical. Clean. Unemotional.

  “Anita will be sorry she missed you. She’ll send me to the couch when she finds out I let her sleep through your call.”

  “I’ll call again—soon. Promise. Tell Eddie I’m thinking about him.” She hesitated, touching the phone as if to lay a hand on his cheek. “Papá, don’t work too hard. Dale un beso a mi Mamá. Te extraño.”

  “Buenas noches, mi hija.”

  Speaking to Papá, hearing the concern and unconditional love in his voice, never ceased to leave Meg with a scratchy sensation of guilt. She hated lying to him. But she lied to protect him and for years had been searching for ways to be at peace with that.

  Drawn out of her room again, she declined a defensive lineman’s proposition of a fast fuck in his room and went downstairs to the ruckus of revelry in the players’ lounge.

  She hesitated to infiltrate. She wanted the men to maintain a sense of a safe place that wasn’t threatened by a narc. So she needed an invitation. A player, preferably one with tenure on the Villains’ roster, would have clout. If he vouched for her, then she had a better chance of gaining acceptance.

  The starting quarterback would be a bona-fide ace in hand, but Simon Smith wasn’t expected to report to camp until tomorrow morning. The press was obsessed with his affair with the team’s former general manager, Veronica Greer. Meg knew that Simon and Veronica were each other’s obsession, and love made them crave private moments however and whenever they could be found.

  To have a man of his status stand by her would be great, but Meg could do this with a touch of creativity. “I missed a hard-core foosball game, didn’t I?” she said softly from the entryway, and the man nearest her twisted around holding a bottle of beer topped with a lime wedge.

  “You’re talking to the champ.” He held out a hand and her gaze followed a trail of eclectic tattoos up his arm to the cotton shirt stretched across the muscles carved into his body. A cocky grin and dozens of thin cornrows were a shot of handsome on such a troubled, severe canvas. Dark skin, rough edges, callused hands. She’d always been more comfortable with rugged, unrefined men.

  Laborers similar to her father, who was as much a gardener as he was a scientist, athletes who pushed their bodies to extremes, and men who confronted danger with selfless bravery intrigued her.

  Shaking his hand, she recognized him now.

  You’re exactly who I’m looking for, Mr. Beckham.

  Omar Beckham, a twenty-five-year-old in his second season as the Villain’s kicker. Las Vegas had picked him up after San Diego had dropped him for steroid abuse—along with a slew of off-field transgressions. “Congratulations.”

  “I’m Omar,” he said, still holding her hand, and she was at risk of blushing at the blatant interest emanating from him. He probably didn’t realize he was sending all sorts of flares but she wouldn’t embarrass him by calling him on it, especially since she needed him in her corner.

  “I know. ESPN has a crush on you,” she said, with a smile of her own. “Plus, I know you’re Waverly Greer’s friend. As am I.”

  “Waverly didn’t tell me she had a friend as smokin’ as you. That ain’t right.”

  It was such a line, one he’d do better to save for a woman he had a chance of wooing. He was twenty-five to her thirty-three, lived the high life to its fullest, and she was unavailable in a multitude of ways.

  “Forgive her,” Meg said brightly. “I should go. Wouldn’t want to bring down everyone’s good time.”

  He faltered, then, “Naw, mostly everybody’s chill. The ones who aren’t, don’t pay them any attention. Come in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Descending on the lounge, she appreciated that Omar was laid-back and didn’t feel the need to hover at every moment. Eventually, as one hour drifted to the next, others lowered the drawbridge of mistrust just enough to allow her a glimpse into their personalities. She wouldn’t push too hard too fast and had to accept that she’d done what she could as the crowd started to thin.

  “Want a breather from the VIP?” Omar asked her. “The practice fields aren’t that far.”

  Meg was in flats and her hip could stand some motion. Outside, she quickly paged through her memory bank for league infractions that had been linked to the athlete.

  Cocaine possession. If the man had used cocaine and bulked up with steroids, who was to say he’d turned a complete one-eighty and was clean now? Any team member with a history of prior recreational drug use should be looked at closely, and the Greers were right to put him under a microscope.

  “So is this camp drug program league-wide?” he asked after a few minutes of silence as they crossed the turf. It all seemed endless—the crisp lawn, the heavenly sky that might be star-dotted if not for the bright field lighting.

  “No, this is something Villains management constructed to keep you men educated and healthy. You don’t sound excited about it.”

  “The
thing is, I heard the ‘say no to drugs’ spiel all through school.”

  “And how old were you when you started using coke?”

  “Are you talking about that possession charge? That was a bad rap. Wasn’t mine.”

  “Okay,” she conceded, watching her cane swing forward as she walked. “Then what did you use, and when did you start?”

  Omar picked up speed and was a yard or so ahead of her when he said without turning back to look her way, “Weed. I was fourteen. I gave it up after I got drafted. Doesn’t seem to matter, though. The fuckups are all that folks like to remember when they’re looking for somebody to blame.”

  “Are you back on steroids, Omar?”

  Finally, he turned around. “Hey, I don’t owe you any motherfucking answers.”

  “I know. But I want them anyway.” She stopped walking when he began to cut away the distance between them as he strode across the field.

  Stretching out his arms, then gesturing from his chest to feet, he said solemnly, “This is all me. This season I’m in it to break records.”

  Diamond rings glittered boldly on his fingers, and the intensity in his tone took her awareness away from the faint smell of sandalwood he carried on his clothes and the hushed rustle of the Mount Charleston breeze.

  Blessed Mary, the man was gorgeous.

  “What’s your next question? Are you thinking I asked you out here to spit some game and screw you under the stars?”

  “I’m thinking it was a friendly offer to take a breather from the VIP. That’s what you said. Am I wrong to have trusted you?”

  I’m giving you a way to sidestep rejection. Take it.

  She nearly exhaled in relief when he said, “A friendly offer. Yeah, that’s all this was about. Want to go back now?”

  “Okay.” She had to let the single word suffice.

  When she returned to her room, she lay on the bed and compiled updates to report to the team owners. She stretched out but somehow the position just wasn’t comfortable. Lying on her side, wrapped around a pillow, she tried to mute the words that seemed jammed on repeat.

  They’re going to fall in love with you.

  They would know hurt, the same as any other man who’d tried to find a future with her. She felt undercover again, though this time she wasn’t hiding behind a false identity.

  Field work had once distracted her with an almost perverse thrill—because for her there’d been no richer high than being deep in a job—but sometimes loneliness and emptiness penetrated, made her desperate. So desperate that she used sex to escape. And so desperate that she’d considered walking away from the FBI, before an errant bullet had made the decision for her.

  She couldn’t entertain loving a man who didn’t understand her world. It was unfathomable that she could rewire herself to love someone the way she’d loved Remy before everything between them had fallen apart.

  That love didn’t exist anymore, and even if it did, the lies and the scars left no room for it now. Her heart was a hostile environment and if she could remember that, then maybe loneliness would stop leaving tears on her pillow.

  Chapter Five

  Meg couldn’t say she was sorry to be dismissed from training camp for the day. It had been a full-throttle morning. First, she’d observed two Good Samaritans of Nevada presentations in an overly air-conditioned film viewing room—one seminar and Q&A session for veterans; the other for rookies. Then she loitered on the sidelines with the media as fans finagled autographs and selfies. After that she’d found Waverly to set up a girls’ night gabfest then wrapped things up with a catered brunch and Bloody Mary cocktails with the Greers and Finn Walsh.

  None of the conversations she’d overheard among the athletes the previous night had been drug-centered or concerning otherwise. Overall, the mood had been low-key and the men easygoing, aside from a heated card game and some social media back-and-forth.

  So she’d need to sharpen her focus and pick out what wasn’t on the surface.

  When the media had been cleared off the premises so propriety team activities could commence, she left, as well, agreeing to meet her supervisor for lunch at Nickel’s, a little off-Strip café.

  The eggs benedict she’d eaten earlier still had her tummy in a happy place, but as Ozzie Salvinski knew, she wasn’t one to pass up free food. Nickel’s spectacular Baileys Irish Cream cheesecake would go a long way toward helping her unwind.

  Professional football was high-octane, glamorous. It wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle—she knew her roots and always kept herself grounded—but she’d be lying if she claimed it didn’t have its surreal moments. Sports entertainment combined two sides of a coin, sweat and celebrity, and it was fascinating.

  Breaking away from it all to shoot the breeze in a linoleum-floored, scratched-countered spot downtown, then going home to a place that embodied neither rough-and-tough sports nor dazzling entertainment would be a welcoming change of milieu.

  “The Greers outfitted you in that?” From a table with a street view, Ozzie pointed out the window as Meg sat across from him.

  Then there was the fact that she’d be driving that home. The Ferrari sat in front of its meter looking like lust with a steering wheel.

  “That they did,” she said, reaching around the toasted submarine sandwich on his tray to pick up the dill pickle spear. She still wasn’t planning on leaving the joint without cheesecake, but couldn’t resist a dill spear.

  “Hey, come on,” Ozzie protested as she bit into it with a crunch. “Get the waitress over here and order your own.”

  “This is all I want. And a slice of Baileys cheesecake.” She watched a string of people stop to ogle the car. “It’s an incredible set of wheels, but I don’t feel like myself when I drive it.”

  “Learning curve? Maybe you’ve been stuck in that Camaro too long.”

  “No, I don’t mean that. J.T. Greer bought it as a hobby ride. It looks like something Batman would drive when he’s cruising through Gotham for sluts.”

  Ozzie wrapped a bear paw of a hand around his sandwich. “You’ve been in good with the Greers for years. All of the flash and money and fame still get to you?”

  She chewed thoughtfully. “Sometimes, yes. Waverly, her sisters, they’re down-to-earth gals, which is probably difficult for people to believe since they grew up in luxury. J.T. and Joan, however. They spare no expense.” She finished the pickle and took a hand wipe packet off their table’s napkin dispenser.

  “Isn’t your family well-off? You’ve got good Texas land, purebred horses, the works.”

  “Well, that’s hardly been my life for a while now. I grew up helping out in the flower shop, went to college, took up a career in DEA, and lived off my own paychecks since. That’s kept everything in perspective.”

  “Except when it comes to shoes.” A sparkle in his eyes said he was teasing, but he set down his sandwich and signaled her to stretch out her leg. “C’mon, let’s see ’em.”

  She waited for a few patrons to shuffle past then showed off a Giuseppe Zanotti cork-heeled stiletto. The shoes were a pop of summertime glam to complement her tailored jacket and short pleated skirt. “Boss, women have a special relationship with footwear. Don’t judge, just accept it.”

  Grunting as if to say “Oh, bother,” he took another bite of the sub and it protruded out of his cheek as he said, “I give it a year before you convert one of your rooms into a shoe museum. I should lay money on that.”

  “Do as you please,” she said flippantly, “but you’ll lose.” Though she had thought about reorganizing her master closet to accommodate the collection, which was growing exponentially. A well-crafted, stylish pair of shoes had a way of hogging the attention from her more complicated accessory, which was hooked onto the back of her chair. “Anyway, you make me sound like that nursery rhyme about the old lady. No judging, remember?”

  “I never agreed to that.” Ozzie waved a napkin. “But I surrender. So you had
a sleepover at Desert Luck Center. Turn up anything?”

  “No, though I sensed the Greers were hoping I’d have something they could use. The guy they singled out, Omar Beckham? He’s got walls up.”

  Even so, there was a sweet sincerity about him.

  “Otherwise, how was camp?”

  “Hmm, positive, from my point of view, at any rate. High tension, a lot going on, dozens and dozens of personalities clashing.” She waited while he had the waitress bring out a slice of cheesecake and a glass of mint water. “I certainly have more respect for Waverly after being in such a concentrated area with those men.”

  Waverly would appreciate that, but even more so an explanation of how Meg could point Remy out as the man who shot her and not go ballistic that he turned out to be her blind date. Meg preferred to shelter this facet of her world from her friends, but sometimes messy truths escaped, anyway.

  “Desert Luck’s practically a town of its own,” Ozzie commented.

  “Still makes for close quarters. The men—their bodies and their egos—have a way of taking up space.”

  “They treating you right over there?”

  “It’s fine,” she maintained. “Some don’t want me around and others want me around just to fuck. But alas, my virtue’s still intact.”

  He smirked.

  “So is ODC missing me, or what?” Then she started in on the dessert.

  “Of course we’re missing you—and the daily supply of sweets.” Meg stress-baked, finding it a nice way to relax and rediscover the feeling of being a young girl buzzing around the kitchen, creating treats that her parents would sell at the flower shop.

  “Folks got used to that first-thing-in-the-morning sugar rush. I might get boycotted for letting the Greers steal you away.”

  She almost beamed and flipped to sentimental mode, but her supervisor never knew what to do with emotional women. He liked to say that was the reason his wife filed for divorce a few years back, though it was a poorly veiled secret that the woman had moved on to a wealthier man.