Disclaimer: Not mine.
Somehow, she ended up on an airplane, going back to the States. To Boston. With Eliot. He faked her death and then convinced her to go home with him.
How the hell did he talk her into this?
Oh right, two glasses of scotch. The good stuff, too. After seeing the warehouse…well, she'd needed it. Sneaky bastard asked her while she was drinking. She mentally swore off all forms of alcohol for the rest of her life.
She frowned heavily and resumed her careful study of the clouds outside her window. What the hell was she doing? Hell, what was he doing? It was obvious he didn't trust her, despite his "trust to gain trust" speech. He was watching her much too closely for any sort of trust to be built. He wasn't checking her out either, as one of the flight attendants giggled and pointed out to her when she used the in-flight restroom.
She must've given the girl crazy eyes or something because she's never seen a flight attendant walk away from someone so fast.
Eliot was calculating her as a threat. She knew the difference and it didn't make her feel better since either option made her squirm. Maybe she was still drunk?
One could only hope.
Frankly, she didn't trust him either at the moment. The man had just created a fairly gruesome murder scene, gone out for a drink at a well-known mob bar, and then invited her home.
As far as she could tell, said gruesome murder site served two purposes.
1) It showed, in a very meticulously way, exactly what he was capable of doing if she double-crossed him, because only someone with firsthand experience could recreate that scene in such detail.
2) It proved how far he was willing to go to help her. Something that very, very few people had ever done.
The dichotomy confused her.
She wondered what the rest of his team would think when they saw her. They knew she was coming. She'd grinned and waved cheekily to the cameras in the terminal after Eliot mentioned that his hacker was deleting the footage of them. She was suitably impressed. Hacking into an international airport's terminal security camera footage wasn't a walk in the park. Now they probably thought she was crazy too. An assassin and crazy. A killer combination. She laughed at her pun and ignored the odd look from the woman in the seat next her.
Why the hell did she let Eliot talk her into doing this again?
His team probably thought she'd corrupted Eliot. Or worse, that she was using him to get to someone else. Both were tactics she'd used in the past to eliminate her targets but it wasn't like they would work on Eliot. He knew all the tricks. She doubted he was surprised by much these days.
The flight was uncomfortable, even in first class. She wasn't sitting near him and she definitely didn't ask any questions about the Air Marshall badge she's pretty sure he flashed to the captain after boarding. Truthfully, they haven't really talked at all since her drunken acceptance to go to Boston.
Sleeping was out of the question. Too many people, too many variables, not enough control. It's enough to keep her wired during the whole flight. Damn.
She was almost tempted to pick something off the in-flight alcoholic beverage list if she wasn't nervous about what she'd agree to next.
When the plane landed in Boston, they went their separate ways. She'd meet him at the predetermined location after she's positive no one's tailing her and he'd mentioned that his team would need some time to make sure no was following an electronic tail and to just follow along. She'd reluctantly agreed.
So now she stood outside the building where they were supposed to meet and stared at it for a moment. If she wasn't supposed to be dead, she'd probably like this place. McRory's Pub, not a bad little hole-in-the-wall joint. She was settled in and sipping her rum and coke—minus the rum—when Eliot arrived and the cute red-haired bartender greeted him like an old friend.
She frowned and downed the rest of her drink, irritably wishing she could pull off the mental acuity needed to meet Eliot's team and drink at the same time. Damn metabolism.
Her eyes narrowed as Eliot smiled and flirted with the girl for a few minutes before taking his beer and casting his eyes around the room. He already knew where she was sitting, of course. It's the booth with clear visibility of the entrance and exit and her back to the wall. She didn't even think about it when she chose her seat, it was an ingrained habit. It's where he would have sat too.
She really, really felt like ripping his arms off when he came her way and casually started chatting her up as though she was just another pretty face in a bar. Cover, shmover. She thought irritably.
He tricked her into coming to Boston, met her in what is obviously a favorite bar, and then expected her to what? Pretend like everything is normal? She could've been long gone by now, halfway around the world, buried in aliases, and relaxing on a beach somewhere.
If Eliot realized just how close she was to decking him, he didn't show it.
She mentally rolled her eyes at the whole cloak and dagger routine he insisted upon. It isn't necessary. She knows she wasn't followed. Eliot's better than this and he sure as hell knew she is too so she isn't sure why he felt the need for the pretense.
She glanced at the entrance as she responded to his comments. His team probably insisted on this place. She's fairly positive they're within a two block radius. The security system she spied on the doors and windows is too good for a back alley bar. No visible cameras, but that's not saying much, especially given the caliber of Eliot's hacker. She's probably being watched on three or four different feeds and she'd bet her last paycheck that the whole room is wired for sound from floor to ceiling. She shifted in her seat slightly and hid a grimace. Actually, she knows it is.
A half hour of flirting banter later, during which she's suppressed the urge to do physical damage at least four times, she smiled coyly at him, which led to an open invitation. She followed him to the back room where she found a staircase leading to the apartments above the bar. She really did roll her eyes then.
"Alright, James Bond, I think we stop here." She pulled her hand out of his and folded her arms, waiting. "Explanations first before any…funny business."
Eliot scowled and she rolled her eyes again. Doesn't he have any other expressions?
"I'm moving you to a safe house until I know no ones followin' us."
She arched an eyebrow. "Like hell you are." She snapped. "Sooo…let's get this straight, what you really mean is you're stashing me away somewhere until you and your team are in the clear? Screw that." She tossed him the bug she found under their table. "Try again, Spencer. This place is bugged. By your team, no doubt. So why don't you tell me why I'm here and not off in the black by now?"
"Damn it Lacey! You think no one's going to be looking for you on the off chance you faked your death?"
"You did fake my death, Spencer." She shot back. "Are you saying someone's gonna doubt your work? 'Cause you sure as hell could've fooled me!"
"The safest place for you is gonna be wherever I'm at."
"Quite the opinion of yourself, Eliot."
"It's not funny, Lacey. People are gonna to be lookin' for you and they aren't gonna expect you to be near me."
"I'm not laughing, Spencer." She bristled. "I can take care of myself."
"You shouldn't have too!" he retorted angrily and she stared at him in stunned silence. "I'm making sure you get out of this clean, Lace. Stop being a stubborn ass and just accept that I'm helpin' you!"
She didn't respond. She's not exactly sure how to respond to this macho protectiveness kick. It's reassuring, in all its weirdness, and yet totally and completely unnerving. Damn him and his do-gooder nonsense. It was messing with her brain.
Eliot uncrossed his arms and his expression lightened. "Give me three days, Lacey, then go."
She studied him, looking for the lie. Anything that would give her a justifiable excuse to kick him where it counts and walk out the door.
She didn't find it. She mentally cursed and followed him up the stairs.