The wig was already stowed safely in my bag, and I’d used the last of the makeup wipes to scrub away Pamela Johnson’s quiet, conservative face. In the passenger seat mirror, my own reflection stared back at me, skin a little flushed from the adrenaline, but free of the subtle contouring and muted tones of my cover persona.
About fifteen minutes out from the compound, as the familiar winding back roads began to narrow, I glanced over at the driver’s seat.
"I bet you fifty bucks Drakon is waiting in the garage right now," I said, a playful smirk tugging at my lips.
Jax glanced at me sideways, a low laugh escaping him as he kept one hand lazily on the wheel. "Nah, I'm not taking a losing bet. If you were my girl, I'd be waiting down there too."
I laughed, shaking my head and leaning back
