by J. Calamy
Outside. I need to go outside. What a piece of work that guy is. The wind blowing off the bay was fresh and gave Nick a chance to cool off, breathe deep. Calm himself.
“That was stupid,” he said. “He helped you, scared Peterson quiet. And you’re mad because he didn’t let you get your stupid ass sent to prison?”
Diplomatic Security Service, US Marines, the police, all of them. Nick would not have come out of that well. He would have lost everything this fragile new life had given him.
“Again,” he said, tilting his head up to the wind. “Stepped on my own dick again. Why am I so stupid?”
He turned back to the party.
I have to go find him. Thank him for real. Show a little class for once.
He was coming around the front of the building again when he saw a familiar shape turning the other way, heading down the road toward the waterfront. He was unmistakable. The size of him, the cane—Nelson Graves was easy to spot. But where was he going? Nick waited a moment but decided to follow.
If it looks like he wants to be alone, I’ll go. Otherwise, I’ll catch up and talk to him.
Along the road and down the path to the Gardens by the Bay—Graves was walking slowly, his rolling step closer to a limp. He seemed to be thinking, free hand stuffed in the pocket of his trousers, eyes down on the path in front of him.
As they got closer to the water, the crowds picked up, a mix of tourists and local couples and families out on the waterfront. The first time Nick had seen the park with its soaring towers of plants and futuristic buildings, he felt like a traveler to the future. Singapore, with its perfectly clean streets, its gleaming sky rises and trains that never ran late—it was a kind of utopia.
Until I realized that everything is illegal; they will cane you publicly if you cross the line, and it’s so expensive there is nothing to do if you’re broke.
Nick’s third week in Singapore the government had hanged a Malaysian man they claimed was smuggling drugs into the city for Red Sky. He had been carrying less than three ounces, and it had been the topic of every conversation in the embassy for weeks.
But still, the city never ceased to amaze him. There was a light show in full swing, the fountains and towers glowing and sparkling. There was music but it was hard to make out over the sounds of laughing children and people talking. Luckily, Graves was easy to follow, being so much taller than everyone. Nick stayed back; he wasn’t sure why. Something in him just wanted to watch for a moment, see what Graves did on his own without all the security and fuss that usually followed him around.
A cascade of blue sparks swooped overhead, making everyone gasp and laugh. Nick reached for the lights, already fading. When he looked back down, Graves was gone.
*
Nick spun in a circle, looking down every possible path.
How did I lose track of a six-foot-seven guy with a limp in a hundred-thousand-dollar suit?
He looked a little farther but then gave up and headed back to the road. Disappointed. That was the feeling. He had hoped…
What exactly? Hey, sir, uh, sorry I put my whole foot in my mouth. I think maybe you and I should start all over again. Hi, I’m Nick. I know you are some billionaire British lord guy but do you want to go eat ramen with a college dropout from Minnesota? I’m an ex-con, though, so if the tabloids see us be ready for that too. Okay?
“Moron,” Nick said and shook himself before stepping into the street.
It was like a replay. A roar of an engine, Nick turning, looking the wrong way again! And there was the Bugatti. Except this time it crawled slowly up beside him, the engine revving purely for show. The window slid down.
“Get in Nick.” The deep voice, the flash of a toothy grin—
“Oh,” Nick said, “it’s you.”
Inside felt like a private jet—all leather and shining chrome trim. It also felt like they were sitting on the ground. Graves had shed his tie somewhere in the interim. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a ring of tattoos low around his throat. He was leaning back in the seat, humming to himself.
The cockpit was clearly customized for its owner—more room, a bigger seat, and some kind of adaptive pedals—not something he wanted to bring up until Graves did.
“God, what a car. What is it? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Nick said.
“It is a Bugatti Chiron, and I decided I owed you a spin in her since she almost murdered you. I had the scrape taken out and the tires replaced,” Graves said. He rolled his head on his shoulders. The smile he gave Nick was crooked, not his usual confident shark grin.
“So you knew I was following you?” Nick asked.
“Of course,” Graves said and moved them back into the flow of traffic.
“I wanted to apologize to you,” Nick said. “But I couldn’t tell if you wanted to be alone. So I figured I would follow a little and see.”
“I sensed something like that,” Graves said. “I owe you an apology of my own. You’re a good lad, and I decided if I was going to sneak off, I should take you along.”
Nick couldn’t help the huge smile that split his face as the car roared to life. Even inside, the thrum was like nothing real. He whooped and saw Graves was genuinely pleased at his reaction.
“Now,” Graves said, putting the car in gear. “On some nights there is a midnight race club. You have to be a member to know the dates. They close the Grand Prix Circuit for a few hours for private racers.”
“We’re going to race?”
“Yes,” he said. Again the shifting shoulders and toothy smile. “I hope that’s okay?”
“Yeah sure—but Bishop is going to beat my ass for letting you escape again,” Nick said, glancing in the mirror. “We going to be okay without your escort?”
Graves laughed at this, a real booming laugh that made his eyes disappear. He pulled up the far side of his jacket, and Nick saw the same gun he had glimpsed at the gala. A huge, well-worn thing in a shoulder harness. Nick’s belly did a slow loop. Holy shit.
“We’ll be fine,” Graves said. “I’m a big boy, and Bishop is a bloody old hen.” He dropped his jacket again and turned them out onto the main road. “Could we start over again, Nick?” Graves said after a moment. It was such an echo of what Nick had been thinking that he let out a little snort of laughter.
“I think we had better,” Nick said. “Jeanne will be mad if we don’t.”
“That is a good point,” Graves said. “And so will my team—they decided they liked you right away.”
Nick’s heart twisted at this. Graves had no way of knowing it, but it was the nicest thing he could have said to Nick. The idea that these…badass? (Was he that shallow? Yeah, yeah, he was.) These badass guys with their guns and ear pieces liked him? Bishop liked him? Hell, if he was being honest, he had to admit that Graves’s hand on the gearshift, with its gold rings and wide palm had…appeal? He felt like his life was being turned over every time he moved. It was hard to keep up.
They drove around a little, Graves clearly amused by the attention the car got. People took pictures with their phones but Graves shrugged it off.
“The glass is one way,” he said. “No one can actually see in. A little trick of Tony’s.” They drove along the shore, and up around Singapore’s beautiful downtown. The amount of people thinned as it got later until it was nearing midnight and Graves said, “It’s time.”
He pulled the car into a lot by the Republic highway, and Nick noticed other powerful exotic cars, off under the streetlights—with rich young men shouting insults and laughing. Nick and Graves got out, staying a little apart from the group. Graves leaned against the car to wait. Nick took in the empty highway and the informality of the setting.
“Wait, isn’t street racing illegal?” he asked. He felt the usual flash of anxiety about his parole before remembering—I’m in Asia. And I’m with Nelson Graves. He could probably shoot someone and it wouldn’t matter.
Graves laughed again, hand over his eyes—this
time he couldn’t seem to stop, even when Nick shoved him—finally he had to put his face in his jacket.
“Stop laughing at me,” Nick said. “You asshole. I’m being serious!”
They pushed back and forth a little, until Graves threw an arm over his shoulder and leaned Nick against the car by his side.
“My hip can’t take this, Nick, stop,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“Okay, old man,” Nick said and gave one last elbow. Their height difference meant it hit the side of Graves’s stomach, not his ribs, so he didn’t even seem to notice. Graves let his arm where it was, even as he pulled out his phone and sent a text.
“Just making sure Jeanne knows you’re with me,” he said. Nick didn’t answer. He was too focused on their relative positions. Nick had to admit, there was something…nice…about a man’s arm over him. Nick was honest with himself enough to admit he was probably so touch starved at this point he would hug a lamp post. But still… He shivered and leaned a little more tightly.
“Is this okay?” Graves asked.
“Yeah, uh, I don’t mind,” Nick said. It came out as a question.
“I noticed,” Graves said. “Are you coming on to me, Erickson? Feeling a little curious?”
“Me? I hear you’re the one with a weakness for freckles.”
Their eyes met briefly, and they both looked away. But Graves didn’t move his arm. And Nick didn’t move away.
More people were piling in, ordinary cars as well as a few more exotics. Finally a black SUV rolled up and Graves straightened.
“Here we go,” he said. An old man got out with a girl on his arm. He said some things in Chinese, including a few questions directed at Graves. Graves responded in Chinese and answered one question by patting Nick on the shoulder. This drew a slew of comments from the other drivers, mostly in laughing Singlish. One young man said something about “pretty American boy” that caught Nick’s ear. He could only blush and stare at his shoes. Finally whatever needed to be discussed was done and people loaded into the cars. Nick watched as Graves straightened and stretched, his vest pulling tight against his chest. He dropped an arm on either side of Nick, boxing him against the car.
“Now listen to me closely, Nick,” he said. “You can either race with me or wait here.”
Nick looked over Graves’s shoulder and saw that a group of people were strolling up the hill together—presumably for the view.
“Is it safe?” Nick asked.
Graves smiled. It was like a cheerful shark, all teeth and mischief. Hello, Bruce! Fish are friends—not food.
“Are you joking?” he asked.
“I just… I mean…” Nick waved vaguely at the car. I don’t know how to tell you this man, but if we get in a car wreck you are going to have to kill me because I will not be able to take it. Something must have conveyed because Graves’s face softened. He squeezed Nick’s shoulder.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nick said. “For no valid reason at all, I do.”
“Would I let anything happen to you?”
“No,” Nick said. “I’m safe with you.” And that was the final truth. No matter what else went on. Nelson Graves would never allow anything to happen to Nick while they were together.
“Then get in the bloody car.”
The next fifteen minutes—the clock didn’t lie—were the most terrifying and exciting of Nick’s life. He let out a squeak, a sound that shamed him to his core, when Graves dropped them onto Raffles Boulevard and the car leaped forward. It was so fast Nick could feel it in his chest. They hit the curve at Stamford Road and Nick was flung sideways, left and then right, before they dropped onto another straightaway and he was shoved back again.
Graves was saying something about torque and air pressure and algorithms—who knows what—but all Nick could do was hold on. The engine made an enormous breathy roar every time Graves pushed it. They went so fast, banking corners and flying down the deserted freeway—the city passed in a blur. Other cars maneuvered around them, but Graves gradually left them all in the dust.
“I love this car, Nick. God I love this car,” he growled as he drafted behind some low-slung red thing that Nick couldn’t identify. Graves snapped the wheel left, right, left, and the other car seemed to stop, dropping back behind them so fast Nick couldn’t even follow it in the mirror.
“Hang on; this is the tricky bit,” Graves said. He wasn’t even breathing hard, speaking in a purely conversational voice as he came back around the big curve to the tunnel and their starting point. “Learned this in Japan—don’t tell Bishop—he will kill me,” Graves said and jerked the wheel while doing something with the pedals. The car swerved sideways driving in a kind of angled slide that made Graves whoop with excitement. Nick laughed as they slid along, taking the turn as if they were on ice.
A shift and another hitch and the car leaped forward again, exploding through the tunnel and out to the other side where the spectators had gathered on the hill, cheering wildly and popping champagne.
They pulled to a stop, Graves’s face wreathed in a wide smile.
“What did you think of that?” he said. He glanced down and Nick realized he was gripping Graves’s jacket in a white-knuckled fist. He let go right away but not before Graves’s eyes squinted shut in amusement. He opened his mouth to speak when Nick’s phone gave a loud buzz.
“It’s Jeanne,” Nick said.
Graves sagged back in his seat, crossing his arms.
“What does she say?”
“She says someone named Anatoly saw you. She gives us twenty minutes, then she’s calling Bishop,” Nick said with a sigh.
Graves leaned his face on the steering wheel.
“I guess it’s back to being Lord Graves again. Well, it was good to get away with you, Nick,” he said. “Even if it was just for a little while.”
“Hey, you got money, right?” Nick said.
Graves gave him a look so flat it was two-dimensional. His brow cocked—the suit, the gold watch, the car, everything conveyed in a single look.
“I mean, sorry,” Nick stuttered, slapping his forehead. “I mean—if you have actual cash on you—I know a place to hide. If you really want to sneak off. I’m sorry. That sounds crazy.”
“It happens I have a few rupees at my disposal…” Graves said slowly, putting the car in gear. “What do you have in mind?”
Chapter Nine
“You’re joking.”
“Trust me.”
“Why on earth would I trust you?” Graves looked genuinely confused by this.
“Because I owe you two huge favors already,” Nick said, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him forward. “And so I need to pay down my Nelson Graves tab a little.”
“Is that so?” Graves was laughing again. It was a good sound, relaxed and happy, and Nick realized he liked surprising Graves, liked making him laugh.
He doesn’t get a lot of moments like this. It was intuition but Nick would have bet anything on it. He remembered Graves’s bunched shoulders as he walked ahead of him through the gardens. He should get out more.
What was stopping Graves now was the backside of a fish shop. The alley was the closest thing to dirty that Singapore had. The trash smelled like low tide and there were puddles of who knew what slime on the ground.
“These shoes cost more than your life, you know,” Graves said, following Nick into the cramped space.
“I bet,” Nick said. “But my life ain’t worth all that much. In rupees I mean.”
Graves made a grumble that sounded like disagreement, but then they reached the door at the back of the alley and Nick rang the bell. A tiny window opened and Nick smiled.
“Leon, it’s me—and I have a friend,” Nick said. The door clicked and Nick opened it.
“Erickson my boy, I can’t possibly—” Graves paused, hand inside his jacket and a frown on his face. Nick remembered the gun and held out a reassuring hand.
“It’s a bar, Graves. A spe
akeasy,” he said. “The secret squirrel stuff is for show.” He pushed the door open all the way and revealed the inside. Graves’s face split into a wide, delighted smile.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said and accepted Nick’s hand tugging him forward.
Leon’s was a tiny bar. Nick had been invited by Father Bob early on, met Leon, been accepted on the short list of members. It was where he came when he had a few extra dollars for a fancy cocktail and wanted to feel a little special, like he was part of something.
Graves was looking around with a lopsided grin. Dark wood, leather, and brass lamps—a bartender in a crisp white shirt and black vest—there were no more than six seats at the bar and three sets of leather armchairs facing each other. There were a couple of women sitting at the bar, talking quietly—the only other patrons. A fire was going in the little fireplace at one end, and a tiny stage with an upright piano sat on the other. And that was it. The whole place was no bigger than the living room in Nick’s apartment. But every detail was perfect. It was like stepping into another world.
“Oh, Nick,” Graves said. “Bloody hell, lad. This is nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time.” He was looking around, touching the leather chairs, the lead glass lampshades and polished wood. Leon came around the bar and shook Nick’s hand.
“What a pleasure to see you again,” Leon said. He was clearly trying not to stare, looking Graves up and down with amazement. “And who is your friend?”
“I guess he is my friend?” Nick said. Graves patted his shoulder, still staring up at the stamped tin ceiling. “Anyway, this is…David, David Bishop. He’s passing through town. And needed a quiet place to think away from the usual bankers and uh…moguls, and things.”
“Welcome, Mr. Bishop,” Leon said. “Drink menu changes weekly; it’s all on the board there. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Two scotch bonnets,” Nick said. “I think he’ll like that. And uh…some of those little dough things?”
“Of course,” Leon said and went back to the bar. Nick and Graves set themselves in a couple of armchairs by the fire. They shifted the chairs so they could face the fire as much as each other. Their knees were practically touching, but they both sighed and stared into the flames a moment.