"But... why?" I asked.
Bellamy was absolutely the sort of person to meddle. Everything he did made him butt his nose into your life. Even your relationships. He was the first one dragging you out on the town if he thought you hadn't gotten laid in too long.
This seemed different, though.
Unlike him.
"I had been starved for entertainment lately," he told me, hedging, only giving me a partial truth. I knew that move all too well. Clients tried to pull it all the time.
"And you thought fucking up my life would be fun?"
"Improving upon it, more like. Fucking it up is a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"No, actually, I don't think. In fact, I know it isn't dramatic, because I am the one living through it."
"Come on, you had fun. Admit it."
"I was held against my will. I was cut off from the outside world. I was nearly killed."
"But you got to have Adamos rush in and save the day, all 'knight in shining armor' and such. That had to have been fun."
"Yes, activating a bit of my PTSD was a rip-roaring riot, Bells."
His face, usually so calm, so carefree, so incredibly pleased with himself, looked uncharacteristically serious, worried.
"I didn't know."
"I mean, no one could have predicted that someone would break in and try to murder me in my bed. I can't be mad at you too much about that."
"I meant that you had PTSD, pretty girl. I didn't know that."
"Yes, well, only one person really does. So you couldn't have had any idea. I didn't want anyone to."
"Is that one person Adamos?" he asked, too smart for his own good sometimes.
"We played poker. Winner chose the personal question."
I wasn't going to mention that even if Christopher didn't ask, I wanted to tell him, I wanted him to know.
"Can't you just play strip poker like a normal person?"
"So you can cheat to get me down to my panties like last time?" I shot back, small-eyeing him.
"If you wanted a fair game, you shouldn't have decided to play with a known cheat," he suggested, nudging me with his shoulder.
"I think I fell for him, Bells," I admitted, voice low because it was surprisingly difficult to admit. As though it was some sort of weakness. Something others might judge me for.
"I was starting to suspect that," he agreed, nodding. "Spent a lot of time icing those eyelids to get the swelling down. You almost accomplished it. Almost," he told me, chin ducking, giving me sad eyes. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt. I just thought you two would hit it off. He conveniently had that situation with his brother going on. You were between cases. It was serendipitous."
"Except it wasn't. I believe his words were 'It was always going to end'."
"Sounds like maybe he was hurting too."
I had come to that conclusion myself.
I'd been going through cycles.
One part of that cycle was complete misery and selfishness, just being completely consumed by my unhappiness. The next was annoyance at myself for getting involved. Then there was all-consuming insecurity; the surety that I had sort of blown things out of proportion, and had created this big fantasy in my head. And then, lastly, there was the small, niggling idea that maybe—possibly—what we had wasn't silly or one-sided, that he cared for me. Even if his parting words had been a bit cool.
Cool was a defense mechanism.
I knew this well.
Maybe he was using it to cover up his pain, possibly even to spare me more of it. Since I had lost my shit on that deck with him.
Not one of my finest moments, that was for sure. It would haunt me, to be perfectly honest.
I didn't like being that weak, that vulnerable.
Thank God it had only been Christopher and Quin who had witnessed it.
I didn't see Christopher day in and day out. And Quin was too good of a man to tease me with my breakdown.
"What were you thinking, Bells?" I asked, shaking my head. "I mean, really. If you wanted to get me laid, you could have taken me to any random dive bar in any corner of this country, found me someone with trouble written all over him. You know, tall, dark, handsome, covered in tattoos, some of them maybe even gang symbols. Then plied me with tequila. And things would have taken care of themselves. Why would you drag me halfway around the world to introduce me to this particular guy? When you knew it was doomed to fail?"
"I knew you could get yourself laid, Mills. I wasn't trying to get you orgasms. If that was the goal, I would have gotten you a vibrator. Or one of those things that blows puffs of air on your clit. I read the most glowing reviews of one of those on a site once, that said—"
"Bells," I cut him off. "Focus. We were talking about why you set me up with Christopher, not recommending sex toys."
"Well, let me just say, that stimulator came highly recommended. Anyway, look," he said, sighing. "I get that not everyone came from the background that I did. Not everyone had it easy in the money department, in the career department. I get that you had to claw your way up. And I even get that it was harder on you. The only girl—at the time—in this all-boys club. As such, you busted your ass. You forsook everything else that life had to offer. You defined yourself by your career successes. You built this persona of this badass workaholic chick who avoided men like the plague, except for the couple hours of fun they could provide her in bed."
"Gee, way to make me sound like a workaholic with a sad personal life who has more than a few miles on her."
"It's fine, Mills. It's a perfectly fine life. But you are not a fine person. You are better than that. You deserve better than that. You are magnificent, Melody Miller," he told me. Now, everyone seemed comfortable calling me by my first name all of a sudden. I couldn't decide how I felt about it, either. "And you deserve a magnificent life. My goal was to shake up your status quo, to make you see that the world has other things to offer than people's problems that they want you to solve. More than a house you never spend any time in, than shallow roots while you fly off to random places at a moment's notice. Not for fun, not for adventure or experience. But to work. You needed to slow down, and dig deep in life."
"And the only way for me to do that was with a man?" I challenged, just on principle. As a whole, I didn't think anyone would accuse Bellamy of being sexist or backward. He was a progressive guy.
"I think sometimes we learn lessons faster when we are with the opposite sex. Something to do with our caveman instincts or some shit. But it speeds up the changing process. How long did it take you to realize that you weren't as fulfilled in your life as you thought you were?"
The truth was not easy to admit. But I did it regardless. "Not long."
"How long, after your inevitable resistance, did it take for you to start to imagine a whole different life for yourself?"
"Again, not long."
"I didn't know you'd fall in love with him, Mills. I thought maybe you would get some warm feelings, and start to think of things like slowing down, settling down, and finding a steady man?"
"I learned how to cook," I admitted.
"In this world of all-night delivery, why on Earth would you want to know how to cook?"
"It's relaxing. And it feels nice to serve people something you put time and effort and thought into. What?" I asked when his lips twitched.
"I am just thinking of all the aprons I can buy you for your birthday. In pink. With frills. I bet they even make matching, oh what are they called, the things you put on your hands so you don't burn them..."
"Oven mitts," I supplied.
"Look at you with the lingo," he told me, patting my thigh. "You gonna cook for me sometime?"
"You'd have to stay in the same place for more than a couple hours."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Have you ever had a home-cooked meal, Bells?"
"The cooks growing up cooked at home all the time."
"You know what I mean. A meal cooked with love and
you in mind."
"Then never," he admitted.
"Have you ever stopped to think how sad that is?"
"No."
"Are you considering it now?"
"Why? So I can get real depressed?"
"You want me to face up to these harsh realities, but you don't want to do it yourself?"
"I thought we covered this," he said, slapping a hand on my knee to use it to haul himself to his feet. "You're amazing."
"You are pretty amazing too, Bells," I told him, even if I was still a little mad at him.
"You might not want to be too nice to me," he told me, going to the door.
"Why not?" I asked, watching as he grabbed the vest off the floor.
"Because I hooked you up with Christopher because I lost a bet to Fenway," he told me, scooting out, closing the door, knowing I wasn't supposed to follow.
I was getting uncomfortably accustomed to being on a lockdown. Though, I had to admit, being locked down in Greece was preferable to Navesink Bank.
Don't get me wrong, I loved my town.
But if I looked out the window, I saw a mix of storefronts and apartment buildings.
At least in Greece, I had an epic view from my prison.
And, you know, Christopher.
Here, I had my friends.
Each of them had dropped by. Finn had cleaned, brought me some things from my house, including items that I knew had seen in the laundry bin, which meant he had been to my house as well, doing his usual deep clean.
Jules, the glue that held our whole business together, stocked the fridge and cabinets, made sure I had a care package full of bathroom essentials.
Quin, Smith, Gunner, and Lincoln all dropped in periodically to give me updates on their search for Chernov. Which had been frustratingly slow, producing next to nothing.
Even Nia, our resident hacker and obsessive researcher, had hit dead end after dead end. I was sure the distance wasn't helping. I couldn't help but wonder if Christopher and his team were having better luck.
All I knew was, I missed my home.
I missed my bed.
I missed fresh air.
For God's sake, I missed exercising.
Which was saying something.
I'd been trying to keep myself distracted. I watched movies. I messed around on my phone, pinning recipes I wanted to try out. I spent some time cooking with the items I found in the fridge and cabinets.
But I suddenly had a lot more sympathy for the clients we stuck up in this space for weeks and weeks at a time. I had always rolled my eyes at their complaints, since they were safe, and had a lovely room and every TV show and movie available, and food delivered to the door. It was a forced vacation of sorts. Nothing to bitch about.
Yet, I was at the bitching stage.
Quin had left a few hours before because he was sick of me whining about wanting to go home.
"Do I want to know why Bellamy had a bulletproof vest?" Smith asked, standing in the doorway.
"It's Bellamy," I told him, shrugging. "Someone pretty much always wants to put a bullet in him."
"That's true," he agreed.
"Are you here to give me another non-update?"
"I am actually here to bring you home."
"Wait? Really?" I asked, brightening a bit.
"We are all going to take turns sitting on the house. But we all agreed you'd be a lot more tolerable from a distance," he told me, smile warm.
"If I knew being a pain in the ass would get me what I wanted, I would have ramped it up much earlier," I told him, jumping off the couch, already rushing down the hall, ready to shove all my stuff back into the suitcases Christopher had lent me.
"Are you on first?" I asked, handing him a suitcase a few moments later.
"Yep."
"You want to order a pizza?" I asked, leading him out of the door, down the stairs, each step making me feel more and more like an actual human being.
"I'm supposed to be on patrol."
"I think it's more that you're on protection duty. And wouldn't you be more protective if you were close by? I mean, there is a reason the Secret Service stands, you know, right by the president."
"You're comparing yourself to the president now?" he teased, taking the suitcase from me, tossing it into the trunk of his truck.
"I'm pretty damn important," I insisted, climbing into the passenger side.
"Apparently, worth kidnapping. Twice," he quipped, driving me back to my place.
It had been so long that the place felt oddly foreign to me. And after Santorini with all its stark whites, my house seemed a bit dark. Not in a bad way, but it was something I never noticed before.
My walls were a palette I had chosen out of a magazine I had pretended to read fifteen times over, staking out a client at a hotel. It was mostly browns and creams, with a small splash of sage green.
My living room was the darkest of the rooms. I had picked the swatch that was just a shade and a half too dark for the space that had only two small windows facing the wooded side yard. To be perfectly honest, I had been too lazy to go back to the store to get the paint lightened, and then go over the one wall I had already finished before I realized it wasn't the best shade for the space.
The darkness was exacerbated by the oversize chocolate brown sectional that was covered by a mismatch of blankets that Finn had folded. Each of the blankets had been gifts from my friends who knew that, in my opinion, they were the best possible present. I felt it said something sweet when someone gifted you with comfort.
There was a plethora of pillows as well. I honestly didn't even know where those had come from. If I had to place a guess, it would be that Jules had dropped them off while I was off on a job.
The whole room smelled like bleach, lemon, and the familiar lavender scent of the carpet shampoo I had bought a few months ago and promptly forgotten all about.
"I'm gonna crack a window," Smith said immediately, nose wrinkling.
He was right, the scents were a bit overwhelming. I didn't know how Finn tolerated it all the time. I guess it was a source of comfort to him, part of the ritual, part of his own personal therapy.
"Okay, you order the pizza. I am going to take a shower. In my own bathroom," I said, realizing it for the luxury it was.
I managed to get through that ritual. Washing my hair. Shaving my legs. Doing a deep conditioning treatment. Slathering on buttery lotion. Brushing out my hair.
I walked on through to my room, finding the suitcases on the side of my bed, brought there by a helpful Smith. My gaze immediately went to one of the pajama sets Christopher had bought for me. My hand reached for the silky material, pulling it out of the suitcase.
And just like that, the pain sliced through me once again, stealing my breath, making a choked whimper work its way up my throat.
I managed to pull myself up to the top of my too big, too empty bed, slipping under the heavy blankets, curling onto my side, pulling a spare pillow in to snuggle into; mostly to muffle the sounds of my cries as they came on hard and fast.
I shouldn't have felt so deeply for him in so short of a time. The rational side of me knew this.
The irrational side, though, didn't give a shit about what was typical, about what society told us about how and when it was appropriate to give over yourself to someone completely.
It happened on its own time with its own rules. I was pretty sure the situation with Christopher and me was a prime example of that.
Neither of us was looking for it.
Neither of us really even wanted it.
And we damn sure never thought that finding it would somehow change us, impact us so deeply.
I couldn't speak for Christopher, of course. For all I knew, he was back to his normal life, bedding random women, never letting them into his life, slowly burying the memory of me under a perfumed parade of other bodies.
But, for me, there was no denying it.
I was changed.
Possibly forever.
In big ways, but small ones, as well.
I found part of myself I didn't know I had been missing or had tried so hard to bury. And now that they were recovered, I didn't want to lose them again, to bury them again. I wanted to sit them down over coffee and apologize for denying them. I wanted to invite them into my life.
I wanted to cook meals for loved ones.
I wanted to slow down with work a little.
I wanted to have love and maybe even have babies.
I wanted a life.
I had somehow managed to brainwash myself for years that what I had was a life. It was busy and hectic and interesting and challenging. And all those things added up to a distant sort of accomplishment, contentment.
But it wasn't happiness.
It wasn't fulfillment.
There was nothing wrong with having your career be a priority, but unless you were curing cancer or eradicating infectious diseases that might wipe out half our population, I was starting to think it was unhealthy for work to be your everything.
Especially for people like me.
In careers like mine.
I wasn't stupid. My job had an expiration date. I wasn't going to be able to do it until social security kicked in when I was, what, sixty-seven. I would be forced to retire well before then.
And then what?
No, really, and then what?
What would I have?
Who would I have?
Friends, sure.
But they had their own lives, their own families. They would only be around so much. They would never be able to fill the long waking hours.
Something had to change in my life.
I had already begun to change.
I wanted the things I had so long thought weren't for me.
A slower life.
Deeper roots.
Family.
Kids.
Christopher.
My heart threw that last one in there.
And as irrational as it was, I couldn't deny that it was true.
I wanted him.
I wanted those things with him.
Even if it wasn't possible.
The ache for it was something all-consuming at times, a black hole with a plan to suck everything into its depths.
"Mills..." Smith's voice called what felt like a lifetime later, his tone cautious, sad, making me realize the pillow hadn't been doing as good a job as I thought in keeping the sobs and the sniffling quiet.
The Negotiator Page 19