Cameron Taylor is an independent, strong-willed girl who happens to have a knack for violence. After completing her junior year at UCLA, she's not looking forward to spending a Summer at home. Besides having a dark past that she keeps locked away fr...
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I let my head fall face-down onto the kitchen countertop for the third time in the past hour, the cool granite biting into my skin, giving me a much-needed boost to stay awake.
I fucking hate this case.
It's currently 2 a.m. and Cole and I have been awake all night trying to connect any pieces of this case together. The island is covered in papers and pictures, none of which make sense. We even have a fucking corkboard with string, pushpins, and red markings all over it.
"Why doesn't any of it make sense?" I grumble into the counter, making it come out all muffled.
"Because these people really don't want us to know what they're doing," Cole answers.
I turn my head to see him rubbing his temples with both hands and looking just as exhausted as I am.
We've been here for hours.
None of it makes sense. The Russians cover their trail after everything they do and it all leads back to this fucking mole, who nobody can find. The bureau has been cross-checking every employee and bringing them in for questioning with no leads yet.
How the fuck can they just slip right under our noses without anyone noticing?
"God, I fucking hate them," I sigh, sitting back up to close my eyes and take long breaths through my nose.
"Who? The mole or the Russians?" Cole's voice echoes in the empty kitchen, sounding more distant than before. I open my eyes to see him facing the coffee maker, preparing yet another pot.
"Both," I grumble, narrowing my eyes at all the dead ends on the corkboard.
"Hmm," he hums in agreement.
I take the moment of silence to admire Cole's form. Maybe it's late or maybe I'm tired, but I've been doing that a lot lately. Just pausing to stare at him and his beauty. Because let me tell you, he's gorgeous. He threw his shirt off a couple of hours into our analysis, complaining about being hot, not receiving any objections from me. Now he stands, all muscle and black ink, fiddling with the buttons and I'm left gaping like a creep. Even sleep-deprived, he somehow looks good. His hair is mussed and he's only wearing a pair of low-hanging sweat pants, but still manages to look better than me.
I probably look like a panda at this point with how big the bags under my eyes are. My hair is thrown into a bun and I washed all my makeup off hours ago when I changed into a big t-shirt. Of course, I don't have any pants on. I mean if you had the option to wear pants, would you really? I think Cole's gotten used to it by now because he's stopped making comments and staring at my legs for long periods of time when I don't wear them.
I finally snap out of my little daydream and decide I need a break as I stand up from my stool and begin to stretch my sore muscles. After cracking and popping about every bone in my body, I make my way over to the other side of the island and push myself up to sit on it while Cole finishes making our coffee.
