Read Off the Edge (The Associates) for Free Online

it, like in a speakeasy. You couldn’t find this stuff in Bangkok. She’d go crazy.
    But seducing a poet wasn’t all about lofty ideas and starry nights—that would be the mistake most men would make with her. No poet worth her salt didn’t love carnality. A bit of dirt and teeth.
    Macmillan was impressing even himself now. It was as if he had a direct line to her.
    He stilled when he realized why: Laney was the kind of girl he would’ve picked out in his pre-spy days, back when he lived as Peter Maxwell. She was Peter’s type.
    Macmillan’s throat felt thick.
    Sure, during the last ten years he’d played Dr. Peter Maxwell in and out of lecture halls. He’d played Peter Maxwell the author. But never once had he played Peter Maxwell the man. Not since that night on the train.
    He sucked in a breath. He’d do what it took. He’d court her as Peter, get her to take him back to her room. He’d take her to bed if he had to. He’d use every tool in his arsenal to get the TZ under his control. Sex was nothing but a highly useful tool. He himself was nothing but a highly useful tool, a means to an end.
    He needed to keep his feelings out of it.
    He looked down and flexed his fingers. He could still feel the hand in his palm. The weight of a tennis shoe. The hand, connected to nothing, to nobody. The memory crept over the edges of his mind.
    He shut his eyes, fighting the undertow.

Chapter Four
    Laney had watched him all night, way in the back in the dark. She’d told the waiter to light his candle, just so she could get a better look at him, but he and his friend didn’t want it lit. Still, the torches had lit him enough.
    He put away his phone and looked at his hand, moving it just slightly. Was something wrong with his hand?
    He wasn’t one of the conventioneers, she’d known that right off. The conventioneers were all dense and dark and grunty, and he was quicksilver bright. Shiny in a way she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just his light hair, it was the feel of him. He sat quietly in his chair during the show, focusing hard on the audience—anywhere but her. Sometimes he’d lean forward with something apparently important to say to his friend. His skin was kind of burnished gold, as though he spent a lot of time outside, maybe walking the streets. He wore a light linen sports coat, sort of a tropical colonial deal. Best of all, he wore a T-shirt underneath his white buttoned-down shirt. She liked a man who wore a T-shirt under his button shirt, even in the heat. It showed a certain decorum.
    His glasses had just a touch of gold on the rim and sides; it brought out the gold in his hair, which was long enough to be tucked behind his ears. He was so cool, so dapper, so together, she just wanted to kiss him and mess up that hair. She imagined him disheveled, wet with sweat. Hair hanging over her face. Brushing against her cheeks. Back and forth…
    Furthermore, she’d spent two whole songs wondering what color his eyes were—something light for sure, maybe gray, blue, hazel. That was one good thing about the net hat; she could brazenly stare at people and they never knew.
    She wound the cable around her elbow, thinking about putting the net back down so she could stare at him some more. He was much larger than she’d thought. He’d come off a bit studious back there, but up close he looked so solid and fit in the way he filled out that jacket that she revised her thinking. Maybe he was studious, but he was also an athlete—a boxer. A scholar and a boxer.
    Hellbuckets, that was hot.
    Then, as if he felt her watching, he looked up. Smiled.
    Her heart just about sprung out of her chest. She smiled back. Nodded. “Hey,” she said, and went back to her cord-winding.
    He got up.
    Oh, God, he was coming near. It was one thing to muse about men; it was another thing to engage with them. She still didn’t much trust men.
    “Need any help with that? Are you carrying all this alone?”
    “I’m fine,