Fox needed coffee, a smoke, and fresh air, in that order.
After a visit to the bathroom, the Keurig down on the first floor, and back to his room for the crumpled pack of Marlboros he’d brought all the way from Amarillo, he headed up to the roof.
The building that housed Baskerville was an old one, though its roof had been tarred afresh and retrofitted with modern AC units and vents. The buildings around it, though, were modern, sleek, and made Baskerville feel like a place out of time. Backward, almost.
Fox leaned up against an electrical box and took his first long, soothing drag off a cigarette, welcoming the chill the morning air put into his bones, and the contrasting warmth of the coffee mug in his hand. When he heard the scrape of a shoe and the clearing of a throat, he thought of course. Of course someone had ruined his stolen moment of peace.
Fox closed his eyes a moment, briefly, took a deep breath that tasted of London smog and rainwater. Steeled himself, because he knew who waited behind him. And when he opened his eyes and turned, he was proven right.
Devin – not-Devin, whatever his real name was – stood a few feet away, smoking his own cigarette, shoulder propped against the brick shed that housed the top of the stairwell. “Good morning,” he said, pleasantly, though his face was strangely flat and hard to read. Fox had never seen him not laying on the charm; he didn’t know what to make of this inscrutable seriousness.
“Morning,” Fox echoed. “Ready to die today?”
Devin snorted, small smile gracing his mouth. “I’ve always been ready to die. Comes with the territory, kid. Doesn’t mean I want to, though.”
“And there’s a distinction.”
“There is. You know there is.” He cocked his head. “I think you live the same way, hm?”
“No,” Fox scoffed, but yes, yes, he did.
Oh, Jesus, why was his brain doing this to him? Last night, fueled first by panic, then by whiskey, had been bad. But this, sober and exhausted and hurting, standing in the cold morning air, was somehow worse. A lifetime’s worth of suppressed daddy issues were bubbling to the surface all at once, and they were as inconvenient as they were terrifying.
Devin let out a deep breath and settled back against the bricks, shoulders slumping. “I know what I said yesterday,” again with the seriousness, “but none of you kids have to be a part of this. I can still take off.” He jerked a thumb over one shoulder, smile turning wry. “It’s what I do best, right? No worries for you, and Phil, and the little ones. The girls. I can make my own way. Always have. Just might have to lay really low for a while.”
Fox glanced across the roof, to the place where a ladder sprouted over the edge, one that led down to a fire escape, and eventually to the pavement below. Devin could run; it was what he’d done his whole life. In twenty minutes, he could be across the city. In twenty hours, he could be on the other side of the world. They might have some tidying to do, convincing his many enemies that he was really gone and that they had no idea where he’d gone.
Let him go, a voice whispered in the back of Fox’s mind. He’d never been of any use to any of them. Probably didn’t love them. Definitely wasn’t good for them.
But…
Something stirred, deep down. Something foreign.
“Before,” Fox said, slow so he’d be sure to get it right, “every other time you’ve disappeared. You’ve never told anyone. You just…left.”
Devin studied him, silent.
“I think maybe you don’t want to leave this time.” His pulse accelerated. It wasn’t hope. Wasn’t affection. Wasn’t. He hated this traitorous asshole.
“I’m old,” Devin said. “Running’s not as easy as it used to be.”
Fox took a deep breath. Tug in his gut; sweat prickling along his palms; shiver crawling down his spine.
He came to a decision that wasn’t a decision at all, because it had been a given from the first.
“We’ll handle it, then. All of us.”
“You’re a good boy, Charlie.”
“No. I’m really not. You wouldn’t want my help if I was.” And Fox went inside to shower, and eat breakfast, and plan a fake murder.
Nine
Eden was awakened by her mobile. Not the alarm she’d set on it, but the trill of an incoming call. She pushed up on one arm, bleary-eyed, head pounding, and had to make three grabs at it before she finally managed to wrap her shaking hand around the device.
Too much whiskey last night. Fuck.
Dawn was just breaking, pale silver through the gap in her ivory curtains.
Her vision was too bad at this point to read the caller ID, so she thumbed to answer and pressed it to her ear with a croaked, “Eden Adkins speaking.”
“Oh dear,” a crisp voice said on the other end of the line, and fuuuuuuck. “You sound lovely first thing in the morning. Been gargling with rocks again?”
She let out a deep, heartfelt sigh. “Simon. What do you want?”
He chuckled, and the sound was one of cultured, tempered humor. The perfect chuckle of a perfect Oxford gentleman. “I think you know. I inherited a case from you, and I want to discuss it with you.”
“Fuck you,” she said, and started to hang up.
“Now hold on a moment,” he said, and to her great shame, she complied. “This is strictly a professional call. Pseudonym said they had to let you go due to personal reasons – a conflict of interest, they said. Now, if this is your family who’s been stealing things from them, it could help both of us if you tell me who.” He sounded almost proud of himself at the end.
“There is no conflict,” she said. “They lied. Goodbye, Simon.”
He heaved a theatrical sigh as she moved her thumb to cut off the call. “I’m only doing you the courtesy of trying to protect someone you care about. But if you’d rather I not…” He trailed off.
And damn it. He had her there.
Eden bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and forced herself to take a few measured breaths.
“Ah, I see you’re considering,” he said, the smug bastard.
“God, I hate you,” she said through her teeth.”
“No, you don’t. Now, what’ll it be, Eden? Tick-tock, I’m a busy man with lots of cases to solve.”
“Ugh. Fine. Where do you want to meet?”
“Our usual place, eleven o’ clock. Don’t be late.” He hung up on her before she could argue.
“I really hate you,” she said to the black phone screen, and then threw off the covers to get dressed.
~*~
The cigarettes and coffee didn’t exactly settle his stomach, but after his second smoke, and all the contents of his mug, Fox felt hungry enough to attempt breakfast. When he went back inside, and trooped down the stairs, Devin followed, and he found that didn’t bother him as much as it might have a day ago.
The clubhouse kitchen served the club and the pub customers, and so was a massive, modernized affair, all stainless steel and oversized industrial appliances. Fox walked into it expecting to find it occupied by a few prospects or club girls getting the ovens going for the day…and nearly walked straight into Eden.
She and her assistant were seated on stools at the butcher block island in the center of the room, cups of tea and plates of scones in front of them. They were both already dressed for the day in the clothes they’d had on yesterday. Eden had pulled her hair back into an efficient bun. If either of them had a hangover, they didn’t look like it.
Eden glanced up, gaze impassive, and lifted her teacup to her lips. “Charlie. You look like shit.”
“Yep,” he agreed, and moved past her to get to the coffee maker. A plate of more scones waited there, the cling film tugged to one side to reveal an assortment of iced lemon, blueberry, raspberry, and chocolate. The idea of anything sweet made his stomach turn, so he rooted around in the cabinets until he found half a loaf of bread and a knife to cut it with. “You ladies on your way somewhere this morning? Or do you still just like to get a jump on things?”
When he twisted to glance over his shoulder, he saw Eden’s spine stiffen. She didn’t like the reminder that he’d known her once, he figured. Maybe she didn’t like the idea of still – that there had ever been a before for them.
“I have a meeting,” she said, and then put her teacup down and got to her feet.
“A meeting?” His hand tightened on the knife and he set it on the counter. “Wait, what? We’ve got–”
“It won’t take long,” she said, shrugging into her jacket. “And it pertains to the murder.” She spared Devin a look. “No offense.”
“Charlie,” Devin said, “I think your girl might actually try to kill me today.”
“Not his girl,” Eden said, just as Fox said, “Not my girl.”
They shared a startled glance.
Fox shook his head and turned around so he could face her fully. “No, hold on. You had to stay here last night in case someone tried to kill you, yeah? And now you’re just going to waltz out the front door? No. That’s not happening.”
She looked at him, open-mouthed, a disbelieving sound huffing out between her lips. “Are you telling me what to do?”
Axelle chuckled and then put a hand over her mouth, trying to hide her smile. “Oh shit.”
“Are you,” Eden continued, voice rising, “actually trying to pull some macho biker club bullshit on me? Because let me tell you, Charlie Fox, I don’t answer to this damn club, or to you.”
“Oh my God,” Axelle said, and turned her back to them, shoulders shaking.
At another time, Fox might have joined her in laughing, because Eden like this? It was hilarious.
But another part of him was…disturbed to see her let her emotions get the best of her like this. And another, even more insistent part of him knew that letting her go off on her own was a royally stupid idea.
He took a deep breath and kept his voice even. “Who are you going to meet?”
She opened her mouth – “None of your damn business,” she wanted to say, no doubt – and then closed it. Took a deep breath of her own. “Simon Cavendish,” she said on a sigh.
“As in Cavendish Security?”
“Yeah.”
Fox whistled. “What does he want?”
“Pseudonym hired them, and he wants to compare notes.”
“And you’re going to?”
“No, obviously not.” She made a face. “Have a little more faith than that.”
“I don’t have to have faith. I can make sure you don’t say anything because I’m going with you.”
“Oh, like fuck.”
“You’re not allowed to leave here without a security detail. You can have me, or we can see which one of Phillip’s charming lackies can come along.”
“I’ll take the lackies, thanks.”
“Too bad. I’m going.”
A muscle flexed in her jaw. “You look like you’re about to heave all over your boots. You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”
“Not until I’ve had some toast,” he agreed, turning back to the counter. Over his shoulder: “Dad, don’t let them walk out that door.”
“Get out of my way, old man,” he heard Eden say, “or I’ll kick you right in the balls.”
Devin held up both hands, placating, his smile caught between soothing and leering – Fox really didn’t think he was capable of outright sincerity. “Now, sweetheart–” he started.
Two things happened at once:
Eden took a swipe at him.
And Axelle grabbed her arm and barely managed to hold her back.
Fox could see that Eden, ex-agent, trained in hand-to-hand, hadn’t just aimed for a slap either; her fist was closed, headed straight for his old man’s eye.
“Holy shit,” Axelle said, not sounding so amused anymore. “Eden, you’ve gotta cool it.”
Eden’s response, something furious and spluttered, was overshadowed by Albie’s arrival. He appeared in the doorway behind Devin – they were almost the same height, Fox noticed, Albie only a half-inch or so taller – and gave them all the most deadpan look imaginable.
“What now?” he asked with a sigh. “Are we hitting him? Have we devolved to that stage already?”
Eden pulled loose from Axelle and stalked away a few steps, toward the fridge. She smoothed her hand back along the crown of her head, which pulled a few wispy strands of hair loose from her bun.
Albie shouldered past Devin and into the room, hands landing on his hips, shoulders lax with a tired kind of frustration. His gaze skimmed over Devin, and Eden, and lingered, a moment too long – interesting, Fox thought – on Axelle, then came to Fox. His brows lifted. Explain.
Fox tried to keep his tone nonjudgmental. Really, he did. “Eden wants to run off and have a business meeting with the bloke who took over the case. Without a security escort.”
Albie’s brows managed to climb another notch. He turned to Eden. “You understand that’s incredibly dangerous, right?”
Eden put her back to the steel door of the fridge, arms folded. She’d wiped her face clean of all emotion. “Yes. But seeing as how I’m a trained professional, who’s armed, I think it’s a level of danger that I can handle.”
Albie snorted. “No offense, but if you could handle it, you wouldn’t have spent the night here. The whole club wouldn’t be involved.”
She pressed her lips together until they turned white.
“You – both of you,” he said, turning to include Fox with a stern look, “are going to have to put your personal feelings aside and get along until the dust has settled. I know there’s bad blood here, and you don’t like each other, but, well, too bad. Even if you hate each other, you don’t want to see each other get killed. Suck it up, act like adults, and get on with it.”
“Fuck you,” Fox said, but quietly, without any heat. It was more reflex than anything.
Albie ignored him. “Eden, is this meeting necessary?”
“I might be able to learn something new, who knows. But mostly…” She winced. “I feel like I at least owe Cavendish a warning.”
Albie nodded. “Fair enough. What time do you meet? We should clue Phillip in and see if he wants to run it as an op.”
Surprise flickered across her face, like she hadn’t considered the possibility. “We’ve got some time.”
“Good. Fox will go with you.” He turned to Fox. “You’re sober, right?”
Fox slid two pieces of bread into the toaster and pushed down the lever, frowning. “Yeah, I’m fucking sober. Not sure I like you giving the orders, though.”
“Too bad.”
“You already said that once.”
“Get used to it.”
~*~
To no one’s surprise, Phillip did want to run it as an op.
After more coffee, four pieces of toast, and a shower and shave, Fox felt relatively human and found himself walking side-by-side down the pavement with Eden.
It was another disarmingly pleasant day, the sky a faint blue, the temperature mild enough to warrant pushed-up sleeves and scarves stuffed into pockets.
But Eden walked with her jacket zipped to her chin, hands crammed in the pockets, shoulders hunched at defensive angles. She hadn’t spoken on the ride over, riding shotgun in Axelle’s GTO while Fox tipped his head back in the backseat and concentrated on not getting carsick. She was angry, he guessed. Hated him. Nervous. Probably all of those.
He thought he deserved credit for leaving her be. Surprisingly, it had taken no small amount of effort.
The coffeeshop where they were set to meet Cavendish loomed up ahead on the right, a modern affair built into the ground floor of a shiny new office building. Fox hated it on sight. It was all chrome and retro-chic industrial, none of it authentic or classic. Through the window, it looked to be full of posh, suit-wearing office types.
“Ugh,” he said, coming to a halt. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass, and he could see the bags under his eyes, the creases at their corners. He looked like
he’d slept out on the street, the collar of his shirt askew beneath his cut. “What is this shithole?”
“A nice place,” Eden said. “Try not to embarrass yourself. Or me.”
“Hmm,” he murmured as he followed her into the shop. He busted out his best West Texas drawl. “I’d really hate to do that, darlin’.”
She froze just inside the door. Fox was only halfway in the door, and it tried to slam shut on his shoulder.
“Ow, what are you–”
She whirled to face him. “Charlie, do not–”
Oh. Now he got it.
He felt a shit-eating grin split his face. “Wait,” he drawled. “Is my accent…embarrassing you?”
“Don’t–” she started.
And someone called, “Ah, Eden, there you are. Over here.”
Fox snuck a look around her shoulder and felt something like giddy. “Holy shit,” he said in his real voice. “Is that him? That’s Simon Cavendish of Cavendish Security?”
She grabbed a handful of his cut, leveled a truly deadly glare of warning on him, and then towed him over to the table.
Simon Cavendish looked, to be blunt, like the sort of wanker who accidently wandered into a biker bar in a post-apocalyptic eighties B-movie. Tall, slender, immaculate, the canned lights gleamed on his oiled dark hair. The perfect pale English gentleman.
Fox tried to reserve judgement.
He tried, okay?
“Well, well,” Cavendish said when they were crammed into chairs around the tiny table. “You’ve brought a friend.” He sent a chilly smile Fox’s way, and his gaze strayed down to the front of his cut, the assortment of well-loved patches there. It was probably Fox’s imagination that the man’s eyes lingered over the knife patch, the one dripping a single drop of bright red blood.
When his gaze lifted again, Fox sent him a smile of his own. “You’re welcome for this,” he said, flicking his fingers off the cut’s zipper. “This is your sniper insurance.”
“My what?” Cavendish turned to Eden.
She sighed. “We were shot at yesterday.”
“But don’t worry,” Fox said, “no one’s stupid enough to take a shot at a Dog flying colors. That’s asking for the sort of retribution they can’t handle.”
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 7