Under Covers

twenty-five | nice

A/N: FYI, I will be switching to Sunday updates from now on!! (I need the weekend to write, lmao...) xoxo Ami

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twenty-five | nice

a city in the south of France, situated in the French Riviera on shores of the Mediterranean; named after Nike, the Greek goddess of victory

JAKE

May 9th, 10:44 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

INSTEAD OF SPENDING the hour-and-a-half plane ride to Côte d'Azur Airport strategising about stopping criminals, I waste the entire time plotting revenge against Rayna in gory, vivid detail.

I rap a fingernail against my knee impatiently as the airplane taxis after landing, slow as a slug.

I'm already woefully behind. Back in Paris, it took me bloody ages to maneuver my feet so I could dial the front desk for help. Fucking humiliating. By the time I'd managed to escape (with the assistance of a flummoxed hotel porter and the caretaker's hacksaw), Rayna had already fled on the first flight to Nice.

"Anderson," I grumble into my earpiece. I stride through the arrivals doors, the beaming glare of the noon sun attacking my retinas. Date-palms lourd green along the boulevard. "Track Rayna's phone and send me her coordinates ASAP."

The daft bugger asks, "Can't you just give her a ring, mate?" I have not and will never explain to him this morning's debacle. No, I cannot give her a ring so she can gloat and preen about my enormous idiocy.

Do you trust me, she asked. I can still feel her little fingertips sinking into my throat. No, was the correct answer. And never, ever again. "Don't ask stupid questions, Harry. Just do it."

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, eh?" The whiz of his fingers darting over a keyboard clack through the speaker.

"You've no idea." I fish my Ray-Bans from my briefcase and flick them on, blinking the sunlight away. "Can you access her camera-roll? Find any photographs she took in the last twenty-four hours?"

To make matters bloody worse, she has the only copies of all the pictures she took of Nikitin's boot in the car park last night.

"Mm, that might not be possible, Morgan. Would need to implant malware onto her device, which would require physical access to it. Or she would need to be obtuse enough to click on a link I send her, which is about as likely to happen as me licking your hairy arsehole."

My palm scrubs my temple. "Fuck. Alright. Give me a moment, I'll call you back."

Time to cash in a favour.

The drive to Monaco is about half-an-hour. I rip down the highway in a rental Benz, phone on bluetooth. I've a contact in the Monaco police department – after a ten minute conversation and a promise to buy him a Scotch, he agrees to put out an APB for Rayna, detain her on sight, and confiscate her mobile while they're at it.

Just as the call disconnects, the ping of an incoming message reads, "I hope your knees aren't in bad shape, grandpa. You're about to spend a very long time on the ground"

Fuck, she must be closing in...

Cassidy was last seen at one in the morning exiting a Monte Carlo nightclub with her former bodyguard, Marin, in tow. Harry and I contact every hotel in the vicinity to see if any guests matching their description have checked in.

My foot flexes against the accelerator, itching to blow past the speed limit but unable to.

"The Fairmont," Harry informs me briskly. "Staff says they left the hotel two hours ago and haven't yet returned."

It's half-past twelve... My head races. "Check security footage for any surrounding restaurants. They're probably having lunch."

"Nothing yet..." Harry narrates under his breath. I can hear him clicking through one view after the next.

To the right, rippling past my windows, the sea shines so blue it glows.

Tuscan, sun-baked villas laze across the valley. I've just pushed into the city limits of Monte Carlo when the phone rings, Sûreté publique de Monaco printed as the caller ID.

"Jacques," my connection greets, "Nous l'avons appréhendée. Elle est... comment dit-on en anglais... crazy. Très farouche. Comme un chat."

Heat twists in my gut at the memory of her fingernails raking down my shoulders last night, the tug of her teeth at my throat. Fierce is an understatement.

"Ah, merci Mathieu."

She's going to fucking hate me for this one.

The thought makes a grin tug up the corner of my mouth.

Find Cassidy as soon as humanly possible, then deal with the rest of this shite later. As solid a plan as any, I suppose.

"Have you found anything?"

"Nothing, mate," Harry apologises.

I guess we're doing this the old-fashioned way.

I park the car on a sun-spackled block near the Fairmont and then set off on foot. Think, Morgan. She's an eighteen-year old girl. And, by all accounts, a vapid, rebellious one of that.

"Anderson, have the beaches open for the season?"

"Let me see..." After a couple clicks, he recites, "It's been an unseasonably warm May. Most of the Monte Carlo beaches opened this past weekend."

Aloud, I process, "She was out late clubbing, likely has a hangover. What's the nearest beach within walking distance of her hotel?"

"That would be... the Plage de Palmiers. I'll send you a pin, it's about a seven minute walk from your location."

I glance down at my attire; jeans and a polo might not be the most appropriate choice to blend in. Thankfully I have a pair of swim trunks in my luggage.

"Oh, and Jake, mate?"

"What?"

An incorrigible snigger crackles through the line. "It's a nude beach."

Oh, bloody fucking hell...

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Author's Note [Jan 15th, 2022]:

Sorry for the late and short update y'all, school won't leave me the fuck alone. Ugh.

Any ✨ideas✨ or predictions for the next chapter?

Question of the day: have you or would you visit a nude beach and strip down to your birthday suit?

xoxo Ami