Dark Places

My empty coffee cup sat across from me on the glass coffee table in my living room.

It was currently 10:30 p.m., and here I was—alone, still in uniform, freshly done with one cup of coffee, and nursing the idea of another.

It was pathetic. Most people wouldn’t believe it. To the public, I was Reagan Davis—the Reagan Davis. The most ruthless and sought-after FBI field agent in the country. I was good-looking enough, and I made enough per year to retire before I hit fifty.

My phone rang, jolting me out of my silent, one-woman pity party. Heather Marin.

I’m tempted to say she was one of my friends, but that would be a lie. She’s actually my only friend.

Her dad’s a big-shot tech mogul who works with the government on occasion. I met her when some idiot tried to hack into his systems and nearly exposed classified information. We hit it off. Trauma bonding through cybercrime, I guess.

I answered the call.

“What?” I asked, ditching formalities.

“Good evening to you as well, Miss Davis,” she replied, and I could practically hear her eyes roll. “I heard you got an invite to Savaut.”

I scoffed lightly. “How’d you know?”

“Friend of a friend knows the organizers. Got them to let me see the guest list.”

“Rich kids and their antics,” I sighed.

“Way to talk about me like I’m not here.” She snorted. “So, who are you bringing?”

“Bringing where?”

“My backyard,” she said.

I paused.

She paused.

“You’re talking about the Savaut Gala, right?”

“Damn right I am.”

“I suppose I’ll bring you,” I said sheepishly.

“Nice try. I have my own invite. But guess who doesn’t?”

“If it’s not Cillian Murphy, I don’t care.”

Another eye roll I could feel through the phone. “Chad Tanner.”

“Ew.” I mimicked a retching sound.

“You know what else is ew?” she asked.

“What?”

“Celibacy by circumstance.”

I snorted, rubbing my temples. “You’re one drink away from being insufferable, Heather.”

“Please. I’m three in. And wearing heels that could kill a man. You’re coming to the gala, Reagan. Put on a dress. Remind people you have legs.”

“I carry a firearm for a living. I don’t need to remind anyone of anything.”

“Exactly. Come. Intimidate men. Look stunning. Regret nothing.”

I let the silence hang a second too long.

“…You’re not giving me a choice, are you?”

“Nope. Car picks you up at seven.”

She hung up.

I stared at the dark screen, then at my empty coffee cup like it might offer answers.

A gala. Glitter, empty praise, champagne. The kind of place where nothing good ever happened—except maybe one-night stands and murder.

I wasn’t sure which I was more in the mood for.

---

The zipper stuck halfway up my spine. Of course it did. It was like God—if he existed—was screaming at me: Stay in your damn house, Reagan. A little solitude never killed anyone.

I twisted in front of the mirror, cursing the overpriced dress I’d pulled from the back of my closet. Navy satin. Slit high enough to distract, neckline low enough to disarm. The tag was still on it—Heather’s doing, probably.

The apartment was too quiet, and the air felt too still. Like the city was holding its breath.

I hadn’t been to anything like this in years. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t care to. Dressing up. Smiling at strangers. Pretending I wasn’t cataloging their facial tics and tells. Exhausting.

But tonight... maybe I wanted the distraction.

I slid on the necklace—a thin silver chain with a ruby pendant. Hard to miss. It had belonged to my mother. One of the only things of hers I still had.

Makeup was next. Sharp liner. Muted lips. Not pretty. Polished. Like armor you wear on your face.

By the time I stepped into my heels, I didn’t feel like Reagan Davis, the agent. I felt like someone she’d buried a long time ago.

Someone who made bad decisions.

Someone who could go home with a stranger and not check his criminal record first.

My phone buzzed.

Your ride is downstairs. Driver: Peter. Silver BMW.

I grabbed my clutch and locked the door behind me without looking back.

Knock em dead.

The ballroom looked like it had overdosed on gold.

Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks overhead, and everything smelled faintly of perfume, entitlement, and blood-soaked money. Waiters in white gloves floated through the crowd with silver trays and fake smiles. Everyone else was already a few drinks in, laughing like they didn’t all secretly hate each other.

I stepped through the doors, and the energy shifted—just enough to notice.

Not because I was anyone important tonight. But because people like me don’t show up to galas. We show up to crime scenes.

My heels clicked against marble as I walked in. The slit in my dress swayed with every step. I felt eyes, casual and curious. Some lingering too long. Some calculating.

My gaze moved like a scanner—name tags, posture, microexpressions. The man near the wine bar with a nervous jaw tick. The woman by the balcony with diamond earrings she kept touching. A habit. Maybe guilt.

A hand looped through my arm before I could reach for a drink.

“Finally,” Heather sighed, materializing beside me like glittery smoke. “I was starting to think you’d ditch.”

She looked like sin in red. The dress clung to her like it owed her money, and her smile was a weapon.

“I thought about it,” I said.

She waved off the comment with a perfectly manicured hand. “You look devastating. Do not make eye contact with the man in the velvet tux behind you. He’s already imagining your wedding.”

“Charming.”

“Tragic,” she corrected. Then her eyes lit up—mischief in 4K. “Come. I want you to meet someone.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I came for the vodka. Not introductions.”

She yanked me forward with a strength that surprised most people who didn’t know her. “You’ll love him.”

“Heather.”

“Reagan.”

We stopped in front of a tall man with sun-kissed hair, a tan that screamed “I winter in Mykonos,” and a jawline so sharp I could probably file paperwork on it.

“Reagan Davis,” Heather said like she was introducing me to royalty, “meet Chad Tanner.”

He turned around slowly, drink in hand, grinning like he’d just remembered he was hot.

“Ah,” he said, eyes sweeping over me without shame. “So you’re the FBI girl.”

I didn’t bother correcting him. He wasn’t going to remember anything past the neckline anyway.

“And you’re the trust fund parasite,” I replied, sipping the champagne a waiter had handed me like divine intervention.

Heather snorted.

Chad didn’t catch the insult. “Guilty,” he said with a wink, then turned back to Heather. “Is she always this charming?”

“She has a gun,” Heather whispered loudly. “So yes.”

I took another sip, scanning the room again as the hairs on the back of my neck spiked. Somewhere, behind the clink of crystal, shallow laughter, and fake poise, someone real was watching me.

I just didn’t know who.

Yet.

Heather’s phone buzzed. She glanced down, and her expression shifted from mischievous to mildly annoyed.

“Ugh. Business call,” she sighed, already stepping back. “Don’t kill each other. Or do. I’ll plead ignorance.”

And just like that, I was alone with Chad Tanner: the human equivalent of a trust fund and a protein shake.

He turned toward me fully, one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his drink like it was a lifestyle accessory. “So… FBI, huh? That’s gotta be exhausting. Always chasing bad guys, playing with guns.”

“I manage,” I replied, scanning the room behind him for possible exits. Or snipers. Either would’ve improved the situation.

He smirked, and I could practically hear the gears grinding behind his unnaturally white teeth. “Bet you’re into handcuffs too.”

I blinked once. Slowly.

“What,” I ground out. “Did you just say?”

He laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Kidding. Unless you’re not.”

I took a long sip of champagne. “Are you always this predictable, or is it a full moon?”

Chad grinned, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying—you’ve got that whole femme fatale thing going on. Dangerous. Hot. Honestly, I’m hoping that if I play my cards right, I might just wake up with you in my bed.”

I didn’t smile.

I didn’t blink.

I let the silence thicken until it could slice.

Then I leaned in slightly—just enough to make him think he’d won something.

“If I ever wake up in your bed,” I said, my voice smooth as the champagne, “check for a pulse. Because I’ve either killed you or died of boredom.”

His smile faltered.

I downed the rest of my drink, set the glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and turned on my heel.

I didn’t know where I was going yet.

But anywhere away from Chad Tanner: walking cautionary tale sounded like a solid start.

I made a sharp detour for the bar, heels clicking a little harder than necessary.

The bartender looked up as I approached—young, polite, probably on his fourth espresso shot of the night trying to keep up with entitled socialites and overgrown boys in designer suits.

I gave him a thin smile, the kind that didn’t touch my eyes.

“Hi,” I said, sliding onto the stool like a storm cloud in satin. “Right now, I’d like one vodka lemonade. Strong. Then two shots every ten minutes until the floor moves beneath my feet, and there’s three of everything.”

He blinked once, then gave a short laugh—half surprised, half impressed. “Rough night?”

“Not yet,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “But the potential is strong.”

He got to work without further questions. I liked him already.

I crossed one leg over the other, letting my eyes sweep the ballroom again. The laughter was louder now. The music had changed. The air was growing thick with perfume and pretense.

Somewhere near the dance floor, Chad Tanner was probably telling another woman about his yacht—or his abs. I wasn’t sure which he was prouder of.

My drink slid toward me with a soft clink. I raised it in a lazy toast to the crowd, to the night, to the decision I’d likely regret by sunrise.

I took a sip.

Lemons and recklessness.

Perfect.