to leave it better than we found it. I told him that wasn’t reasonable.
“It’s in our charter, Loc,” he told me. “To do good.”
I had a theory that when he was in the CIA, he killed a lot of people. Like, really, a whole shit ton of people. Someone, somewhere, must have told him that karmically he was fucked unless he could fix it, balance it out, and do enough good to make up for the bad. It was the only thing I could think of that accounted for the above-and-beyond part. Because honestly, how was saving someone from a stalker not enough? Doing more, beyond that, making sure they were content and happy before I walked out the door, was that really something I needed to be concerned with?
“Yes.”
I looked up and was surprised to find that Shaw James had stopped in front of my desk with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“What?” I snapped at him.
“You just asked a question.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, ya did,” he corrected me. “And maybe you were thinkin’ out loud, but the answer to the question of should we concern ourselves with making sure people are content and happy before we leave is, of course, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
I grunted.
“You need to be more caring,” he told me, smiling, as usual looking like some throwback Celtic warrior from the Iron Age. It was the towering height, red hair, and full beard, along with dark green eyes that made one think of the Highlands.
“Get away from my desk,” I ordered him.
“You know,” he began, his voice softening into a steady, soothing croon, “you’ve been a bit on edge since Brann and Croy left.”
Brann was old news. And yes, I’d enjoyed sleeping with him, but once I knew he was serious about Montana, I let it go. The change part of it, that he would need to be replaced with someone new—that had been where my irritation came in.
Croy was different. I’d even asked him, point blank, if he was coming back, and that asshole had lied and said yes. At least with him, I’d kept in touch. I’d gone to see him in Vegas to make sure he was all right. It was weird, but even though I’d been sleeping with Brann, I was closer to Croy. Probably because we weren’t fucking. And even though I missed Brann—or anyone—in my bed, I actually missed talking to Croy. The fact that I’d made an effort had surprised the hell out of him, as well as the other guys in the office.
But again, we still had to replace him, which meant a new face. I was annoyed just thinking about it.
“No one stays on the same team for their whole career anymore,” my grandfather had complained the last time I was over watching football with him, before he and my grandmother took off for Phoenix, where they lived for half of the year. “I hate it when my favorite players change teams.”
Me too. I hated change. Period.
“What’s the matter with you?” Shaw continued, needling me for some reason.
“Nothing’s the matter with me,” I groused at him, hoping he’d drop it and go back to his desk. It was weird. The guys in the office annoyed the crap out of me, but I liked them at the same time. And I was aware, because I’d been told, that it didn’t make a lot of sense, but I knew them, knew how they did things, and there was a level of comfort in that.
“You are a testy motherfucker,” Shaw assured me, walking away, but not before flicking over my pen holder just to be a dick.
“That was mature,” I barked at him, glaring as he gave me a shit-eating grin. When my eyes flicked to Rais Solano at his desk and found him smiling, he quickly glanced away.
“You know,” Nash began, which turned my attention to him as he leaned back in his chair, “maybe if you tried being less of a dick, people would stick around.”
“Did it occur to you that if everyone would just stop bitching at me to be in a better mood, then maybe I would actually get in a better mood?”
He squinted at me.
“You assume I’m gonna be a jerk, so why would I not be?”
“That makes no sense.”
“It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“You’re saying I want you to be a dick.”
“Yes,” I assured him.
“Hit him,” he ordered Shaw, who chuckled. “You know,” he said, his focus back on me, “before Brann