She rolled her eyes, and without waiting, she twisted the door handle and pushed open the door.
John was sitting on his couch, without a shirt, his head back, a glass with ice and clear liquid clinking in his left hand.
One eye was closed, as if he’d been caught in the middle of a nap, but the other was open, staring at her. He had the lazy, lounging look of a tomcat. His shirt was bunched up behind his head. Adele felt the corner of her lip twitch, and she eyed him.
They had gone swimming once before, back at Robert’s estate. But it had been dark at the time. Now, in the heat of the basement room, John’s chest was revealed. She had always known he had burn marks along the underside of his chin, down his neck, but Adele hadn’t realized just how far the wound traveled.
Criss-crossing patterns of scar tissue ornamented the entire left side of his torso, curling under his arm and down to the edge of his waist. The burn mark seemed to coil as John breathed, twisting like the scaled hide of some snake. Beneath the burn, and around, it was evident John spent time in the gym—his muscles slick with sweat beneath the single naked bulb dangling from the fixture above.
“Like what you see?” he said, a purr to his voice.
Adele cleared her throat and blinked. She tore her gaze away from the wound, looking at John. The handsome agent’s eyes were hooded and his dark hair was combed back out of his face. He looked the picture of comfort, despite the burn wound, as he returned her gaze.
“Does it… does it hurt?” she asked, gently, still meeting his eyes.
“Every single day,” he said with a shrug. “Are you here to admire the view or taste the local cuisine?” He jangled his glass in her direction and nodded toward the makeshift distillery across from the couch, edged against the wall. Adele had been here before, and noticed that John had recently added to his collection of beakers, sugar tanks, and spouts. She didn’t know much about moonshine, but from what little she’d tasted before, she certainly approved.
Adele’s gaze flickered to the edge of the couch, her eyes flitting to a small glass frame. Instead of a painting or a photo, though, the portrait displayed a single metallic emblem attached to a ribbon.
Adele blinked.
“Is that a Légion d’Honneur?” she said automatically.
John noticed her attention and quickly reached out, knocking the thing off the couch and behind it, wedging it against the wall.
Stunned at the cavalier way he treated the French military’s highest medal of honor, Adele ventured, “Is that yours?”
John grunted, his eyes still hooded. “Not mine,” he said. “They gave it to me, but it isn’t mine.”
The only other ornamentation John kept in the room were the two pictures of a group of men. All wearing desert fatigues, all members of the Commandos Marine, the French Navy SEALs. The pictures were worn and sun-stained, and yet placed in positions of honor above the couch, where John could see them while lying down.
“How did you get that wound?” Adele said, softly, nodding toward Agent Renee.
John rolled his shoulders and took a long sip from his glass. “Which wound are you talking about?”
Adele murmured, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
John laughed and shook his head. “I’m not embarrassed, American Princess. Here, it’s not a pretty story, you’ll need a drink.”
He got to his feet and approached the distillery, pressed a spigot, and poured the clear liquid into a spare red cup kept upside down on the wooden counter. He brushed past Adele and handed her the cup. As he passed her, she was reminded again just how tall he was. She found herself looking up at him, her eyes trailing the edge of his chin, down to the scar, then up into his brooding gaze.
“Helicopter crash,” he said, simply. “My stupid ass couldn’t fly in a straight line. Hit by enemy ordinance.” He shrugged. “A lot of good soldiers died on my watch.”
“They don’t tend to give Légion d’Honneurs out for being a bad pilot,” said Adele.
John quieted a bit, going stiff. He took another long sip from his glass and said, “I can’t pretend to know why they do what they do. But that Légion d’Honneur was earned by others, I’m just keeping it safe for them.”
Adele wanted to press further, for the sake of curiosity, but thought this would be an unusual cruelty, and instead switched tack.
She took another sip from the glass and winced. “Stronger than before.” The drink singed her lips, and started with a burning sensation, but it became mercifully sweet and mellow as it went down.
“Secret ingredients,” said John, wiggling his eyebrows.
Adele tilted her red cup, watching the liquid slosh back and forth in the confines of the container. “Do you usually invite girls into your bachelor pad while half naked and drinking alcohol?”
Just as quickly, John retorted, “I didn’t invite you, you came in without permission.”
“And yet you’re still half undressed. Not very professional in the headquarters for the DGSI.”
“Or,” said John, his eyes hooded again, a wolfish grin on his lips, “perhaps you’re the one that needs to match me. I’ve always found moonshine tastes best when half clothed. You should try it.”
She smirked. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
John downed the rest of his glass, pushed off the couch, and brushed past her again, pouring himself another drink. He smelled faintly of sweat and cologne. He moved with surefooted motions, and had a swagger, even in the small space.
John was a strange fellow. Equal parts infuriating and reliable. Trustworthy and blunt. He was the single best shot she’d ever seen with a pistol, and one of the few agents, in either the FBI, DGSI, or BKA, whom she trusted completely.
And yet, he was covered in prickles, like a cactus. Any attempt to get close with someone like John ended in some sort of wounding. He intentionally went out of his way to be obnoxious at times, if only to throw people off. Sometimes he would say cruel things, just to get a reaction.
Now, though, as he eyed her through his hooded gaze, his lip twisted into a quiet smirk. Again, she was struck by the image of an alley cat. A creature bred to be free, the king of its own back street, but nothing further.
“It really is quite tasty,” she said, taking another long sip. John hummed in response.
For a moment, Adele allowed her eyes to travel down to the rest of him, past the scars and the burn marks. She took in the musculature of his form, his lean frame, and broad shoulders. Her eyes lingered, and if he noticed, he made no comment.
Just then, her phone began to buzz. As if jolted from her reverie, Adele jerked, pulled her phone from her pocket. She gave an apologetic wince toward John, turned her back, and held up the phone to her ear.
“Ms. Glaude,” she said. The landlord.
“Yes, is this Adele Sharp from unit 3C?”
“It is, ma’am, did you get a chance to look into what I asked?”
“Yes, darling. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
Adele’s stomach plummeted. Her landlord cleared her throat and said, “Your mother didn’t file any sort of complaint here.”
Adele blinked. How did that make sense? If someone was tampering with her mail, surely her mother would’ve brought it to the attention of the building. “Do you mean your records just don’t go back that far?”