by K. T. Samois
“I know, Evie, thank you,” Ree says again, for the hundredth time. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need you to give me a job. I enjoy the one I’ve got.”
“It appalls me you sling coffee. With your brain-” Another familiar canard. Ree cuts her off, firm and polite but final as a guillotine.
“Evie. I invest all the Christmas card cash you give me and I do just fine. Thank you. But — could you stop? Please? You know it makes me uncomfortable that I can’t return the generosity.”
Evie rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to repay me, Thing Six. It’s my pleasure, and anyway, you’re fucking impossible to shop for. I’d rather just give you cash so you can spend it on something you like.”
Ree stares at her. “Evie, you taped the Christmas card to a briefcase. It came with a goon handcuffed to it!”
Evie grins. She’d ensured said goon’s comfort with a fuzzy Santa-red pair of novelty handcuffs. And it’d been for show, anyway. She’d already wired the amount into Ree’s account.
“John’s lovely,” Evie says, and there’s something foxlike about her smile. Ree’s stomach sinks when Evie adds, “I was hoping you two might hit it off.”
“Evie, be serious. I appreciate the offer, but I do just fine.”
“Tell you what, Ree. I’ll make you a deal. If you tell me what’s got you smiling, I’ll not mention the job thing again. I’ll just table the offer for when you need it.”
When. Wow.
“And the John thing?” Ree says, because she’s all about the fine print.
“The John thing, too,” Evie says. She scuffs the toe of her shoe against the parquet. “I meant well, you know. With the Christmas card.”
“I know”, Ree says, because she does. Evie’s always shared everything, from the last cookie to her first million. And her second million. And however many more she’s got tucked away in offshore accounts. Evie never means ill, but she never thinks about the practicalities. Like how Ree’s going to need to declare an additional ten grand in income on her taxes. Nobody at the IRS will ever believe this was a gift.
“Thanks, Evie. It was a good thought, really. I just… I had a fun shift last night.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her eldest sister’s voice is ripe with insinuation. “What kind of fun?”
“Not yours,” Ree says, because all it takes is attending one of Evie’s parties to know that she and her sister run at very different speeds. “It was just a great day for people-watching, that’s all. There was a plane full of art students on a red-eye to Florence, and they were all making architectural sketches, and then at another gate, one lady started snoring super-loudly…”
Idle chatter isn’t enough to throw Evie entirely off the scent, but it’s enough to buy Ree some breathing room. She isn’t ready to tell the world about — about a man she’ll probably never see again, Ree reminds herself sternly.
A shout from the kitchen draws their attention, and Evie snorts out a laugh. “Never a dull day.” Evie says, and Ree just shakes her head and wonders who Hardin knows in Khartoum, and how he’s enjoying their reunion.
***
Another boring night spent in a halogen-bright airport blur. It’s been two weeks, and she’s probably seen a million people pass by. None of them have been him. Not that there aren’t the regulars.
There’s the pilot on the JFK - CDG route — she takes a doppio with enough hot almond milk to drown an elephant. Occasionally, a flock of Air Arawak flight attendants will come through in their flamingo-pink livery and fresh suntans, ordering trenta cold-brews and drinking them like water.
Then there’s the businessman who flies the overnight to London so regularly she can set her delivery schedule to him. He flies business, but only on the company dollar. He has a points card that he uses for upgrades. Does he have a family? He sits in the corner booth and leers at her every time he comes in, so she hopes he doesn’t.
His eyes follow her as she goes about tidying up, and it makes her feel dirty. When he raises his hand, her skin crawls like she’s just walked through cobwebs. She’d tried ignoring him once. He’d made a stink about it to her boss, and her boss had made a stink about it to her.
Now I’ve got to deal with this creep.
Ree leaves her post behind the counter; she scrubs her sweaty palms on the apron once and then folds them in front of her.
“How may I help you, sir?”
His eyes crawl over her body like he owns it. She wants to slap his smug smirk clear off of his face, but she needs this job. After his long look, the businessman speaks.
“My coffee’s cold,” he says, somewhere between a command and a whine.
“I’m sorry,” she lies. She’s already reaching over for the cup when she asks. “Would you like me to heat it up for you?”
“I would.” he says with interest, and Ree realizes a few things in quick succession:
First: she works the night shift alone.
Second: he’s pushed his chair back just so, and one hand is in his pocket.
Third: he’s hard and intent on doing something about it.
Her spine snaps straight so quickly she makes herself dizzy. She retreats a step, pale as ash. Her hands flutter once, grasping at any excuse. “I... on second thought, I’ll just make a fresh one for you. It’s no trouble.”
“Oh no, I insist.” he oozes at her, and now Ree’s stuck. He’s going to get her fired if she doesn’t come closer — and if she does, god knows what he’ll do. She’s frozen, and all she can think to do is pray.
“Please-”
“Riona, good morning,” Hardin interrupts with parade-ground authority. She’d been too fixated on this creep to notice him, but now her relief is so acute that her eyes prickle with it. “Am I interrupting something?”
She can’t bring herself to explain the situation to Hardin; this creep won’t try anything with him here. “Just a, um… customer service situation. I was just making this gentleman a fresh cup of coffee; his has gone cold. What may I get started for you, sir?”
Ree’s moved closer to Hardin as she speaks; she knows he’s noticed her shaking hands. He says nothing, though, which she appreciates. She’s working. She doesn’t need a scene.
“Just a black coffee, please.” He lies. His voice is civil, composed, but she thinks she detects some warmth. His quiet composure is a balm on jangled nerves.
“May I sit in?”
“Please!” Ree says, too quickly. She doesn’t care. Relief makes her smile at him; she’s so glad to see him.
***
Her distress had been obvious across the terminal concourse. Now he’s a table away, and he can see what’s frightened her. His upper lip curls at the way the man leers at Ree, having forgotten that Hardin exists. Low-lives. Crawling out of the gutters and into every titty-bar in every port on the planet. There’s a fix for men like him.
Hardin shifts out of the man’s line of sight. As soon as Riona’s back is to them, his hand snaps out, grabbing hold of the man by the collar of his cheap business suit and almost overbalancing the pervert. Only Hardin’s vice-grip on the pressure points of his neck prevents a messy fall. From all angles except in front, Hardin looks like he’s greeting an old colleague. Just two road warriors filling up the tanks before a series of early morning meetings. Hardin leans down and presses his lips to his prey’s ear. When he speaks, his voice is as unequivocal as a scalpel.
“Don’t move. We can be civil, yes?”
His captive has an acute attack of agreement, nodding his head so violently he looks like he’s having a seizure. Hardin pinches his grip a bit more, and the man settles down again. The bastard’s eyes are wide, white all around the iris. He’s mouthing silent prayers.
This one’s made enemies… or ghosts. This will be long overdue, then. And it might even be fun.
Hardin had forgotten fun.
“You’re being vulgar,” he says to the man in a quiet tone.
“We don’t paw at our pockets at the first sight
of a pretty girl. We’re decent men.” Hardin adds, grinding thumb and forefinger into the tender meat at the nape of the man’s neck. “Decent men don’t make messes for other people to clean up. They don’t frighten young women who can’t tell you to go to hell, either. You made a mistake… but any man can make a mistake. I expect you to learn from yours.” Hardin’s smile takes a turn for the cruel.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ree slowing down. His time has run out; their drinks are up. He twists the knife.
“One last thing-” Hardin says, voice murderous. The man stops nodding so abruptly that his teeth clack together. “Upset her again — in fact, set foot in this airport again — and I will feed you to whatever lives at the bottom of the Long Island Sound. Do you understand?”
The man quivers, and Hardin smells the sharp tang of urine. Disgusted, he stands upright, clapping the blob of a man on the back in warning. The man flinches like Hardin’s shot him. Without so much as a look at Ree, he pushes back from the table and flees. Hardin’s left with nothing but a vague irritation headache.
Riona approaches his elbow, but he doesn’t look at her for a moment. He stares at the cup of coffee instead, unsure of why he feels as prickled as he does.
“That must have been unpleasant,” he says and earns himself a weary smile in response.
***
“Yeah. It happens.” Riona sighs, but then brightens up.
“At least you were here. Not everyone’s as ... nice as you, sir.”
His eyebrow raises; Ree’s gaze cants down to the ground, hoping if she doesn’t meet his eyes, he won’t notice her poppy-splotchy cheeks.
“You may call me Hardin.” He says, and Ree nods.
“I know. It just… comes naturally. You know, with the-” Ree makes an expansive gesture at the whole of him: the way he sits with his back to every wall, the way he surveys every room, the arch of his body and the flex of his gestures. The way he can make a lesser man flee, and still make her smile…
“—everything.” she says, because this crush is ridiculous and she needs to chill. It has distracted her, remembering the way his eyes had felt on her, or the way he’d licked the whipped cream off of his lip—
Maybe she’s cleaned the litter box one too many times and caught that brain-eating thing. That might explain this sudden onset of cat-crap craziness.
“That... was an all-encompassing gesture, Riona. Speaking of gestures,” he asks, tone deceptively casual. “Did he touch you?”
“Who, Mr. Manhattan?” She sniffs. “No. He’d have liked to, I’m sure, but he never managed it. You swooped right in. Thank you, Hardin. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he says, because it had been. “If there’s ever further trouble, let me know.”
His features become harder, colder. There’s murder in his eyes, and Ree knows he isn’t just talk the way she knows cold freezes and heat burns.
His hand reaches into his pocket and removes a single business card on ivory-coloured paper. A single name, a contact number — minimal, elegant, and sharing no unnecessary details.
If Ree had any delusions about his line of work, they’re extinguished now. She should probably snatch her hands back, or run screaming into the night. Instead, Ree slides the card into her breast pocket, tucked beside her name-tag. Hardin watches with steady eyes, but even as she opens her mouth to retort, she’s interrupted by the airport PA, squawking at her like a maiden aunt.
ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS. THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR TUCANAIR FLIGHT 354 DIRECT TO TEGUCIGALPA. PLEASE GO IMMEDIATELY TO GATE C24. FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR TUCANAIR FLIGHT 354.
“Well, that’s me.” He says, and she blinks at him.
“It is?! That gate’s halfway to Jersey!”
He shrugs. “Yes.”
“There is literally another Starbucks at C18.”
“Yes.” Hardin says, without a hint of remorse, and with amusement in his eyes. He doesn’t make any excuses, and Ree feels her stomach swoop. He came here for me, spooked off a pervert, gave me his card, and now is probably going to miss his flight because he wanted to say hi.
Am I going to let him walk away empty-handed?
Grow a pair, Riona.
“Thirty seconds,” she says, and is off like a whirlwind.
The double-fudge chocolate chip cookies are the freshest, so she slips one into a bag. Grabbing a pen, she scrawls her first name and her number onto a napkin. A quick look around assures her she’s out of sight of Hardin and the cameras.
Fortune favours the bold, she tells herself, and goes for it. She presses the napkin to her lips, leaving a perfect red gloss kiss.
Slipping the napkin into the bag before she can second-guess herself, she’s back at his side in a flash.
“I couldn’t let you go without a thank you, or a treat. Have a safe flight, Hardin.”
He offers her a genuine grin and a murmured word of thanks before disappearing into the throng of travellers.
She watches until he’s gone and then fishes the card out of her pocket. Rereading it, she can’t help it. She’s grinning so wide her mouth aches. It’s the crack of dawn o’clock, but she knows it’s going to be a great day. Her phone chimes from where she’s got it stashed under the counter. She scrambles over to check it as a new number flashes on her screen.
Unlisted 03:31
Thank you for the cookie, Riona. You are very sweet.
-H
(332) xxx - xxxx 03:32
I’m glad you enjoyed it! Enjoy... Tegucigalpa! Did you know she’s a sister city with New Orleans?
Hardin 03:32
I did not, but good to know. We are taxiing. Good night, Riona.
Her fingers fly over the keyboard. They pause, trembling, for a single moment.
Riona 3:33
. . .
Taking a breath and steeling her nerves, Ree hits SEND.
Riona 03:33
Good night, sir.
***
“She’s gonna kill you, cabron.”
The man spits at Hardin through tombstone teeth and a mouthful of blood. He’d been decent looking, once, but their disagreement has resulted in his introduction to the business end of Hardin’s boot. To be fair, the man had tried to stab him first.
The man lying bloody on the floor cringes away from the barrel of the gun, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling that jack-o-lantern smile up at Hardin.
“You can run all you want, but she’s gonna find you, Captain,” the man says with a smile, and no remorse. Blood leaves a sheen on his skin, and on Hardin’s gloves.
“She’s gonna find you, and she’s gonna kill you. Slow.” His victim says with some relish. Hardin looks down at the man who’d tried to stick him in the belly and feels nothing but dull anxiety.
A close call. Far too close.
“You won’t live to see it.” he promises, and the dead man looks at Hardin as though he’s the stupidest fuck alive.
“Tu me ta jodiendo?!” The man spits, incredulity in his tone. “I know that. Don’t matter. There’s five million of me — one for every dollar she’s paying for your head, Captain. The rest of the body is optional… but there’s a bonus if you’re alive.”
Hardin lets the insults slide, even as ice sluices down his spine. “It’s flattering to know I’m worth so much.”
The sneer he gets could blister.
“Tu ni vale la puta pena. She makes that much taking a shit. You’re just another dead man walking, Captain. When she finds you, you will wish you were me.”
Hardin swallows a mouthful of blood.
“Then I suppose I’ll see you in Hell,” he says, and shoots the man between the eyes with his silenced firearm.
Hardin picks his way down the stairs and into the alleyway.
From there, he joins the crowd on the street. A fabric field hat shields his face from the scorching equatorial sun — and the prying eyes of heavily armed policia who wander around.
He browses through the
stalls for a while, looking idle and unobtrusive. When he sees the uniformed officers make their way towards the alleyway, creating a mess like a pack of amateurs, he turns back to the stall-keeper with a shrug, and gets one in return.
Nobody here is keen to pry.
Something in the stack catches his attention, and he nods to it. The stall-keeper beams a salesman’s smile and offers it. It’s a lovely thing, a tooled leather dust-cover in a rich autumn red. The stall-keeper has wrapped it around a notebook, but Hardin imagines a journal would fit just as well. He turns it around in his hands and runs his thumbs over the cover. The pattern of vines and crescent moons appeals to him, and the deep red reminds him of a beautiful, solemn-eyed young woman in an unremarkable green apron. When the salesman names his price, Hardin doesn’t haggle.
After seeing and not being seen, Hardin makes his way back to his hotel room, cleans and disassembles the gun, and packs his bag.
He tries — and fails — not to worry about the dead man’s threat. He tosses for hours, and sleep, when it comes, is restless, and punctuated by flashes of red.
Chapter Two
It takes four repetitions of the song for Ree to contemplate sororicide.
Her little sister likes to amuse herself by making obscene playlists, and her eldest plays along by slipping them into Ree’s Spotify account when she isn’t paying attention. So at two-thirty in the pitch-black morning, Ree’s listening to bubble-gum pop through corporate contraband earbuds. What’s worse is that it’s good. She’s caught herself wiggling along more than once, and that — like all of Moira’s recommendations — it’s unrelentingly obscene.
I am going to kill Moira. This song is catchier than herpes.
It’s a syncopated beat, the sort that makes Ree think of bouncing herself across an open stage, fast footwork and loose arms moving through negative space. She’s pretty sure she’s got a sway to her walk. She grins to herself as she drops at the knees, tucking the cleaning solution back into its little cabinet. When she pops back up, Hardin’s standing at the counter. He’s watching her with a tight jaw, and Ree yelps like she’s scalded herself.