Free Beating Ruby by Camilla Monk

garage, and a gray Corvette’s lights flashed twice.
    I sauntered closer to examine it. “It’s not really your car, righ t ? ”
    He unlocked the passenger door for me. “Why?”
    “It’s just—” My eyes scanned the silvery paint, the two large red stripes in the middle of the hood, and the twenty-one-inch wheels. “It looks like something straight out of Fast & Furious . I mean, this is ridiculous—there’s even a spoiler!”
    I settled in the black-and-red bucket seat. I could practically feel hair growing on my chest as I buckled up.
    Alex flashed me a smug smile. “So? Is it that bad? Girls usually like it.”
    I bristled at the implication of his words. Girls. The other girls. The ones he had shown his true self to. How many, anyway? Under my butt, I could feel the engine roaring. I stiffened. “Well, I guess I had gotten used to those dad cars you always showed up with. Shouldn’t the CIA give you something less flamboyant, though? Like a regular sedan or whatever?”
    “That’s exactly why I didn’t choose the FBI,” he said, shaking his head.
    In front of us, traffic was already pretty dense, but still manageable. Alex slipped between two cabs with practiced ease, moving fast down Broadway and toward Battery Tunnel.
    I fidgeted in my seat and peered at his profile while he drove. The peaceful expression I knew was back, as if being content were some sort of default mode for him. I found some modicum of comfort in the thought that this, at least, had been real. “Are you seriously going to pretend this is a standard vehicle for CIA agents?”
    “It’s not. Let’s call it a well-negotiated bonus.”
    “I bet you took all the options because you weren’t paying,” I huffed, secretly reveling in the feel of the seat’s black suede under my fingertips.
    “You have no idea . . .”
    My throat went dry. “Are we talking underbody lights here?”
    “Among other things.”
    Sweet Raptor Jesus . . . This was like GTA ! I fought the urge to squish my nose against the window, hoping to verify his claim. I think my mind went a little into overdrive at that point, perhaps because of the stress. As we plunged—terrible choice of word—into the tunnel and got enveloped in its golden-orange hue, I thought of how it had been flooded by ninety million gallons of water during Sandy—almost a billion soda cans, people!—and then I wondered how often Murrell smoked, and if he had ever set someone on fire with his lighter like James Bond does to Sanchez at the end of License to Kill .
    “So, what were you doing in that vent?”
    My chest heaved, as if he had pulled the brake, sending the disjointed thoughts in my head to collide and shatter like glass. Alex—or rather Agent Morgan—was one sneaky asswipe. I folded my hands on my lap and looked in my mirror. Di Stefano and Murrell were following us closely. “I-I have the right to remain silent. Also I want to speak to a lawyer.”
    “You’re not under arrest, Island,” he said, as we came out of the tunnel.
    “Are you kidding me? You—” I paused upon realizing that the car had taken several turns in Red Hook and we were now somewhere on Brooklyn’s docks, surrounded by brick warehouses and a long, dilapidated concrete building that looked like an old factory. My pulse quickened. “Oh my God, this is starting to look like a bad kidnapping scenario. Am I getting cement shoes or something? Do you guys have the right to do this?”
    Alex chuckled. “Relax, baby. We just wanted a little privacy.”
    I gritted my teeth. It couldn’t be that bad. After all, less than twelve hours ago, Alex had still been the perfect boyfriend, and back in the storage room he had heavily implied he intended to remain so. Plus EMT had allowed him and his colleagues to question employees, and they seemed to be working hand in hand with our top management. Surely they wouldn’t waive procedures and waterboard me in an empty warehouse, even if they were CIA, righ t