by J. Calamy
“I don’t want to go to this show tomorrow, David,” Graves said. “I promised Jeanne. But I really don’t want to go. I just don’t have the heart for it.”
“Maybe our Nick will be there,” Bishop said. “I love that little ginger and his temper.”
Graves smiled. The little ginger with the temper had certainly enlivened the week. Jeanne said she adored him, was keeping him forever and ever. And rugby the day before had been a great time. But then, with René. He was looking right through me. Didn’t buy into the Lord Graves nonsense for a moment.
“Maybe,” Graves said. He had to admit, the thought of the American did cheer him up. He remembered the boy’s face when he tackled him. It had been a long time since anyone had laughed at Nelson Graves quite like that.
Little bastard. I bet he bites when cornered. What did he call me? Too big, no-leg motherfucker?
“Once the ship is in,” Bishop said, rubbing Graves’s head. It rasped; he needed to shave. “You can get that shrapnel out, you’ll feel much more charming. Then you can seduce the little ginger boy. That would cheer you up.”
“Pfft. Too young,” Graves said. Bishop shot him an incredulous look.
“What a load of toss. He’s the same as our Tony!” he laughed.
“Well, I’d rather be with Jeanne,” Graves said, waving him off. “Think I’ll go there tonight. Get away from you gossipy old matchmakers. Add a couple of lads to Jojo’s team, will you?”
*
Nick crossed the garden to Jeanne’s patio, humming quietly. The morning was misty and silent, except for the birds and little ripples of the fountain in Jeanne’s garden. The stone path was damp and cool under his bare feet. Jeanne’s cook said she was out on the patio and even handed Nick a pot of tea to take. He padded along the tiles, careful not to spill.
The pot was hot, and he shifted his hands as the heat made him bobble a little. He didn’t want to drop it and wake Graves. He only wanted to sit with Jeanne and start their morning. The nightmares had been bad: the boy’s screams, the smell of burning rubber and oil. Nick wanted company. He needed to be distracted.
But they weren’t sleeping, not by any stretch. Jeanne was straddling Graves’s hips. She was tied in a crisscross pattern of red ropes, arms high above her head. A series of harsh grunts were bursting from behind a silk gag. It looked like—it was—a man’s necktie, the same that covered her eyes. It was red like the huge jewel that hung around her neck on a gold chain, sparkling with her movements.
Nick drew in a shaky breath at the sight before him. He felt his own balls draw up as Jeanne twisted her body, moaning and trying to talk behind the gag. To Nick’s horror, Graves sat up, his face appearing over Jeanne’s sweaty shoulder, bracing himself with one arm. He ran his tongue up the side of her neck, but as he did, he caught sight of Nick in the doorway. Nick froze. He was still holding the teapot in both hands. Graves grinned.
Deliberately, holding Nick’s eyes with his, he began to thrust upward.
“I’m the only one who can give you this, you know,” Graves growled into Jeanne’s ear, but it was Nick he was speaking to. “Keep you tied like this on the deck of my ship; make you mine.”
Jeanne let out a garbled shout, her body arching, abdomen working.
“That’s it, give me what’s mine.” He bit his lower lip. Jeanne’s orgasm tore through her, and she snapped her hips hard. Graves’s face was open, defenseless, amber eyes locked on Nick’s. That’s what he looks like when he comes. It was the only coherent thought in the roar through Nick’s mind. He came, untouched, soaking the front of his pajamas and nearly buckling his knees. Hot tea sloshed over his hands, a burning reminder of where he was. He staggered backward and fled, leaving the teapot on the first table he passed.
*
Nick showered and went back to the kitchen. He had changed to a bathing suit so he could do some laps, work off his nervous energy, try to exhaust himself, so he wouldn’t think, for fuck’s sake!
He was reaching for the sugar when he heard Graves come in, the clink of his prosthetics clear against the marble. The man didn’t even pause, coming right up behind Nick and dropping his hands on either side of him, gripping the edge of the counter. He boxed Nick in, surrounding and encasing him. The smell of Jeanne and sex, opium, and coffee—all of it enveloped Nick, making his knees weak. Graves wasn’t touching him, but Nick could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his breath hot against the top of his head.
“You got an eyeful didn’t you, boy?” Graves said directly into Nick’s ear. He kept his head bent, breathing against the side of Nick’s neck. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”
Nick couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.
“Maybe you should have knocked,” Graves said. Goose bumps chased all the way down Nick’s neck and across his bare shoulders. “Jeanne would be very angry if she knew you saw her like that. And I prefer Jeanne happy. Don’t you?”
Nick tilted his head away, shuddering. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut.
“If you sneak in like that again,” Graves continued. His voice slid down into a harsh growl. “I’ll make you howl for it. I know you liked what you saw. I saw you dirty the front of your pajamas. Next time,” Graves snapped his hips forward, grinding his crotch into Nick’s ass and bending him over the counter. The stone surface was cold on Nick’s naked chest and belly, but he barely registered it through the heat of the huge body pinning him. Graves grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled Nick’s head back so he was speaking directly into Nick’s ear.
“Next time you spy on us like that, I’ll beat you like a whore and breed you until it takes. Do you understand?”
Nick nodded frantically, his toes scrabbling against the floor. Just like that, Graves was gone, limping back down the hall with the click-click of his prosthetics against the floor. Nick spun and saw the man’s broad back. He was wearing nothing but a pair of old sweatpants, all shoulders, shaking his head in annoyance as he stalked away. Nick had no doubt Graves meant it.
So, of course, Nick’s temper flared.
“Hey!” he shouted and trotted after Graves, who turned, looking surprised.
“Fuck you, pal!” Nick snapped and gave Graves a little two-handed shove. It was like shoving a wall, but so be it, Nick was ready to throw down. “You think I wanted to watch? You think I would be so disrespectful? You think I’m some peeping little fuck outside your window? Fuck you! I love Jeanne. I would never betray her trust! Never!” He was talking in a low voice, not wanting to broadcast their argument, but it was hard not to shout. “You don’t get to threaten me, asshole. And you don’t get to talk shit about Jeanne, just be—”
“Why, you presumptuous little shit,” Graves started, leaning forward and pointing at Nick who batted the finger away.
“Fuck you!” Nick said. I don’t have to take his shit just because he could pick me up and stick me in his pocket. “What are you gonna do? Kick my ass right here in Jeanne’s hallway? Go for it, big guy, fucking go for it.”
Graves drew back. But instead of looking angry, a smile spread across his face. He held up his hands.
“Well, aren’t you a fiery little bastard?” he said. “You know I could have you wiped off the face of the earth—and you don’t care?”
“You ain’t got the balls,” Nick snapped, jerking his chin. Inside he was terrified. He’s a big fucking guy. And he has the morals of a jackal, the fucker. He would just tell Jeanne I vanished.
“Oh, Nick,” Graves breathed and stepped right up to Nick so they were chest to chest—or chest to face since Graves was so much bigger. “I would love to show you…exactly…what I have the balls for.” He leaned down so he was speaking straight into Nick’s ear again. “I think you already saw. Do let me know if you want a more…personal…demonstration. But don’t forget what curiosity did to the cat.”
And, with that, he stepped back. Nick let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was hard again, and worse, Graves was staring right
at his crotch.
“You know where to find me,” Graves said and walked down the hall with his characteristic rolling step.
Chapter Eight
Nick walked around the show in a quiet buzz, drinking a gin and tonic. Jeanne had been introducing him as her “special assistant” all night. While his contribution had only been doing whatever Jeanne told him: “A little more to the left; no, back again. Good. Go get the blue box,” Nick was still proud of the end result. There was the art—the large pieces by Margo’s husband as well as many smaller arrangements of whatever had caught Jeanne’s eye that added to the atmosphere. But the design museum where they had set up had also contributed other pieces, things Jeanne thought fit the look—and Nick had helped her arrange those as well.
He understood now why Jeanne and Roger had insisted on buying him clothes. The circles Jeanne moved in were nosebleed-inducing in their social status. Luckily, Nick didn’t have to dress to quite those heights. But still, he was glad for a good suit. And I have an even better one coming. A real deal bespoke suit. Me.
“This is a new life for you, Nick,” Jeanne had told him as she helped him tie an honest-to-goodness bow tie. “You can completely reinvent yourself if you choose.”
Now he was relaxed and happy, content to be just the assistant, in the background, unnoticed by anyone. Almost anyone.
“Well, well, Nick Erickson. Aren’t you looking glamorous!” It was Lena. Nick hugged her and immediately dragged her off to the side.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “It’s so good to see you!”
“I love these things,” Lena said. “A chance to go out and schmooze with the fancy people. How are you doing? Is it great? Do you love it?”
“It’s amazing,” he said. “God, Lena, I can’t believe how lucky I got.”
“Peterson was pissed,” she said. She made no effort to hide the satisfaction in her voice. “There was nothing he could say or do. I mean, even if he admitted he was firing you—he would have to say why. And his Excellency isn’t about to come down on someone for socializing with his poker buddy.”
“Yeah, he wanted me away, but quietly,” Nick said. He didn’t want to dwell on it. “How is Morris? And Robbie?”
“They are great. Come out with us next week? There is that little dive bar the Marines go to. It will give you a break from all this.” She flicked his bow tie.
“Hey, hey,” Nick said, straightening it. “Don’t mess with it. I have no idea how to retie it. But yeah. I love that idea. We don’t have anything going on next week.”
“Okay I have dinner reservations so I gotta run,” she said. “But we’ll call you to set the date, okay?”
“Yeah, that’s great,” Nick said. He couldn’t stop beaming.
It was a great party. There was plenty of booze, and it appeared people were buying—just as Jeanne had predicted. Halfway through the evening Nick caught a glimpse of Graves. He laughed to see that, indeed, Graves had a gorgeous woman on his arm and was clearly laying on the charm. They came in through a blizzard of camera flashes, Graves pausing on the red carpet like it was something he did regularly.
That must be the countess in the castle. Jesus. Look at her! The woman was tall, with impossibly long legs and black hair in an updo that showed off her long neck. Her skin was pale, features Slavic. She and Graves looked like the cover of a magazine. A fancy one where people wear watches and shit.
Deciding he didn’t care at all, not even a little, Nick went to straighten one of the vases. One thing was becoming clear for Nick: he wanted to keep working for Jeanne. He loved the way the rooms looked, the way the art was placed. He wished he knew more.
He was standing by one display, trying to make heads or tails of it when a man stumbled into him. Nick was turning to help him, when he realized it was Geoffrey Peterson.
“You,” Peterson said. “I should have known you’d be here.”
“I’m doing my job,” Nick said defiantly, but his heart sank. Peterson was here? Was he here to snitch Nick out? Would he tell Jeanne?
Some of this must have shown on his face. Peterson shifted so his bulk was between Nick and the room.
“She doesn’t know you’re a child murderer, does she?”
“I didn’t—”
“Maybe she should know, Daddy Warbucks isn’t here to save you this time.” He glanced behind him, then turned back to Nick.
“What will you give me not to tell everyone in this room who you are?”
“What?” Nick couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what was happening. It was like one of his nightmares. He glanced around, expecting to see the boy in the red coat.
“What do you want?” he croaked. I have nothing. Nothing he wants. There is no way out of this!
Peterson gave him a slow up and down that made his skin crawl.
“I know all about what Daddy Warbucks is into. Did he tell you he procures for John Young? Yeah. Now how about you and me go to—”
“No,” Nick said, drawing up his fists.
“What? Does it remind you of prison?”
“I never—”
“Bullshit,” Peterson sneered. Nick shuddered. The chief of staff was drunk, flat-out plastered. He wasn’t even whispering. Anyone could hear, anyone could— Nick felt panic welling up. He needed to shut Peterson up, but if he did the right thing, which was to beat Peterson to a pulp, then nothing would stop him. Nick’s heart was pounding in his ears—his fists tightening, his legs shaking with the need for action for— Peterson put a hand on his shoulder.
“I said no!” Nick was twisting his body away, drawing his fist back to smash the man’s face when suddenly Peterson was bodily removed. Nick stumbled forward and saw that Nelson Graves had snatched Peterson up by the shoulders and thrown him against the wall. The man yelped in fear as Graves snarled something in his ear. Whatever he said, Peterson’s legs kicked helplessly and a wet patch appeared on the front of his pants.
“And I’m always watching,” Graves said, drawing back and forcing Peterson to look in his eyes. “So I am always ready to protect my own.” Dropped back to the ground, Peterson scurried off, looking over his shoulder with wide, fearful eyes. As he passed Graves’s date, she turned, her stilettoed foot happening to move in the man’s way. He tripped, bounced against her elbow and smacked onto the floor before scrambling up and running.
Graves turned back to Nick, his face worried.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, he didn’t,” Nick said. He was breathing hard, flush with adrenaline. He hated, hated, that Graves and this woman had seen him in such a position. Seen him sprawled backward and pinned instead of standing over the bastard’s unconscious body. Ten more seconds and I’d have busted his face open. Instead—
“I can fight my own fights,” he snapped. “I ain’t yours, asshole! I don’t need to be protected. Least of all by you.” Graves narrowed his eyes a moment, then sighed.
“Forgive me, I acted without thinking,” he said. The smooth English accent covered anger, or at least irritation. The two glared at each other a moment before Nick drew in a deep breath. He was being rude, something not in his makeup.
“Thank you,” he said through clenched teeth. He glanced over at the woman and gave her a nod to make sure she was included in the thanks.
“You’re most welcome,” Graves said. “Let me introduce you. This is Romanova Luckyanenk. Roma, this is Nicholas Erickson.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Nick said, shaking her hand. She had a grip like iron and seemed to be fighting a smile.
“You too,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You’re American?” Nick asked, worry snaking through him. What if she recognized him? He shifted his body away from her, glaring in the direction Peterson had gone.
“I really could have taken him,” he muttered. He shook his shoulders, trying to loosen them. Graves gave him a long slow look. It was disconcerting. He spoke just
as Nick got angry all over again.
“Yes, you could have. I see that now,” Graves said. He shrugged. “But the DSS agents in his retinue would have beaten you like a drum, or simply dragged you off. Though perhaps that would have been a better time to interfere than when I did.”
Nick's face fell.
“I didn’t think of that,” he said. Suddenly he felt childish—childish and ungrateful.
“I am being literal by the way,” Graves said. “I really do see you more clearly now. You could certainly have handled yourself. I was too angry to notice.”
Eighteen months in prison, I fucking hope so, Nick thought bitterly.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked. Graves tapped his cane on the ground.
“I don’t meet many Americans. I forgot that you tend to swing first and think later,” he said. He grinned, his eyes crinkling until they all but disappeared. Behind his back, the woman rolled her eyes, throwing up her hands in exasperation. Nick bristled.
“What the fuck—” he said. “That’s rude as hell.”
“I mean it as a compliment,” Graves said, his smile gone. “You would have knocked Peterson flat and he would have deserved it. It’s a good quality. I served with a few Americans, I should have remembered. There was—”
“That doesn’t mean you get to talk to me like—”
“Oh for God’s sake,” the woman interrupted them. “Nelson, honey, pass me a smoke. Then I’m gonna find Anatoly.” She’s from New York.
Graves pulled out a gold-chased cigarette case from his pocket and handed her a joint, lighting it for her. When she took it, he stroked the top of her breast. His fingers slid into her dress, and he said something to her in what sounded like Russian. An apology maybe. She patted his face, a little harder than what seemed friendly.
Nick spun on his heel, angry and hurt and embarrassed. He headed for the doors before Graves could say anything else.