The Middle Man

by Gadziala, Jessica

  Contents

  TITLE

  RIGHTS

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  DON'T FORGET

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER!

  The

  MIDDLE MAN

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2019 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ PRO Stock Professional

  DEDICATION

  To Ashley Jacobs.

  Queen of Care Packages.

  Writer of words.

  Doer of crafts.

  I count myself lucky to

  have you in my life.

  ONE

  Lincoln

  Everyone had gotten together and staged an intervention.

  I was stuck doing my paperwork.

  In all fairness, I had maybe been slipping handfuls of it into everyone else's piles for the past, I don't know, four or five years. I lucked out in that they generally just chugged through it while they did their own without even really noticing it didn't belong to them. I heard shit like that happened when you got 'in the zone' with work.

  I wouldn't know.

  And I certainly wasn't 'in the zone' as I shuffled through the seemingly endless pages they had so gleefully stacked on my desk on their way out of the office for the night so that I couldn't go to them for assistance. Which I badly needed.

  Even Jules had up and left.

  Leaving me to my own devices.

  Which were rusty. In need of some serious WD-40. The only problem was, I had no idea where to find that.

  "Come to pile more on?" I grumbled as a telltale pair of shoes walked into my line of vision.

  Everyone in the office made what most people would refer to as a 'killing.' We all spent it on the things that we gave a shit about. Suits, fixing things up around the house, shoes.

  But no one had shoes like those.

  Because no one had money like he did.

  We all had, for the most part, come from somewhat humble beginnings. If not poor, then just solid workaday middle-class families. It was why a lot of us had joined the military after high school. To be able to afford a future. Whatever the cost in other ways. Mentally, emotionally, physically.

  I had a knee that told me when rain was coming and a tendency toward bad dreams.

  But I'd been able to take care of myself after I was done, albeit not grandly.

  Then came Quin and the fixer firm and more abundance than I could have ever expected.

  Still, though, nothing near what Bellamy had.

  Born rich, he'd learned the ins and outs of investing at his father's knee, then went ahead and something like quadrupled his already insane fortune.

  So, yeah, he had shoes on his feet that belonged in a museum or some shit.

  "That would imply I have paperwork in the first place," he said, making my head turn up, finding him lowering down into the chair across from my desk.

  "Why does Quin have you on the payroll when you never have work?"

  "Because when I do, I am damn good at it."

  That wasn't untrue.

  Quin had courted Bellamy for ages before he had finally agreed to work with us. Because he was good at what he did. He was really good at killing.

  Most of us had done our fair share in the past. In the name of country and for our own safety.

  Bellamy did it for shits and giggles.

  He did it because it needed doing.

  A moral quest of sorts, if you will.

  In his sphere, in particular, there seemed to be a fuckuva lot of closet pedos or rapists or wife-beaters. They were the kind of people with the wealth and status--and all the protection that came with those things--to get away with it.

  Until Bellamy found out about it, of course.

  He took a lot of pleasure in getting rid of people who thought of themselves as untouchable.

  It wasn't until Quin all but insisted on it that he decided to do it for a side gig. A hustle he didn't need given the obnoxious fortune he sat on without any effort at all these days.

  "What do you say we go catch a plane to Vegas?" he asked, inspecting the model car on my desk with pinched brows. "Lose a spectacular amount of money. Hit on an unconscionable number of women. Drink ourselves into oblivion."

  "Pretty sure Quin expects us in the office tomorrow." It was a workday, after all.

  "So, we catch a plane back in the morning. Great way to sleep off the possible hangover."

  It was tempting.

  I wouldn't lie and say it wasn't.

  Going out with Bellamy was like your teenage fantasies come to life. Flights were first class, hotel rooms were presidential suites, drinks were top shelf, managers in bars, restaurants, and casinos tripped over themselves to make sure you were having the time of your life. If you wanted to have a good time, Bellamy was how you would find it. Effortlessly.

  Normally, unless I was on a case, I never turned down the chance when he offered it.

  But, just this once, I knew I needed to be practical.

  "I can't this time. Quin isn't letting me on any active cases until I catch up on all this shit."

  From the looks of things, that meant something like five years from now.

  "So, you are on a paid vacation."

  "I don't like being stuck."

  That was true enough. But only partially so. There were plenty of times when I didn't mind being grounded, when all the traveling was more of a hassle than something I wanted to do.

  I'd been in Navesink Bank for nearly three months now, though. And with nothing but an empty house to greet me day in and day out, let's just say I was looking for any reason to get back to work, to get a change of scenery.

  Even if that meant I had to do the damn paperwork.

  "Which is why I am offering to un-stick you. If Vegas is too close, we could go to one of the islands. White sand, clear water, coconut-flavored drinks, beautiful women wearing next to nothing..."

  He was a hard man to turn down.

  Still, I knew I had to.

  "I can't this time. And," I started, pinning him with a look, "that does not mean 'Offer to get my coffee, and slip a pill in it, then take me against my will.'"

  You'd think this did not need to be said, but this was Bellamy we were talking about. A man who had done as much before. A man often forgiven for it simply because he showed you the best time of your goddamn life after you woke up.

  But when it came to Bellamy, if you didn't lay shit out in minute detail, he saw it as an opportunity to do whatever the hell he wanted.

  "Suit yourself," he said, making his way toward the door. "Maybe I will find Fenway, see if he is game."

  "Christ," I mumble
d, shaking my head. If there were two people who absolutely did not belong out on the town together, it was Bellamy and Fenway. Both rich and carefree and oblivious to consequences. "Should I just tell Quin now to expect you two to be making headlines tomorrow?"

  "You know us, we try to keep it out of the papers..."

  "No, man, we keep it out of the papers. At a price. You will do what the fuck ever you want, and let someone else handle the blowback for you."

  "Sounds about right," he agreed, eyes mischievous as he walked out into the hallway.

  I reached for my phone, going ahead and shooting off the warning text to Quin, getting back a simple Not a-fucking-gain. I'll keep an eye out.

  Then I got back to work.

  It was well after two when I finally called it a night, sighing at the finished stack, which was still not nearly as tall as the to-do pile.

  Eyes like sandpaper, brain slow from so much paperwork, I decided not to get behind the wheels of the Camaro, figuring that I was going to be stuck in the office for a couple of days anyway, so I might as well just crash upstairs.

  On that, I closed down the office, making my way up the stairs to the second floor, punching in the code, moving inside.

  Nothing hit me at first.

  It was the same space I had seen dozens of times. The same seating area, the same small kitchen I knew to be fully stocked at all times thanks to the very diligent Jules who had the best eye for detail I had ever seen. There was the same hallway that had doors on both sides to the bedrooms, each sparsely decorated with utilitarian little bathrooms just barely big enough to turn around in.

  Nothing seemed out of place.

  Until I heard something I shouldn't have been hearing.

  My coworkers were all at home or on jobs. Bellamy was likely bending a few local laws out in Nevada. And we had no clients seeking temporary refuge.

  Why then was there shower water splashing on the floor? And the low, honey-sweet voice accompanying it, softly lilting out some song that tugged at the edges of my memory, something I'd heard, but couldn't quite place?

  More curious than concerned, I didn't bother texting Quin first or going back downstairs for a weapon.

  It had to have been someone we knew, someone who worked here, someone's wife.

  I'd automatically figure it was Miller if I didn't know from many trips with her on jobs that her shower songs were of the early 00's hip-hop/pop genre.

  Sometimes it was hard to see her without hearing her in my head belting out Ja Rule and Ashanti songs with all the enthusiastic confidence--and none of the talent--of a drunk couple trying out karaoke.

  Singer-songwriter classic shit? Not Miller's thing.

  Moving down the hallway, I found the voice coming from the last door. The one across the hall from where I typically stayed.

  Definitely not the type to startle a woman when she was at her most vulnerable, I leaned back against the door across the hall, arms crossing, waiting.

  The shower stayed on for an unfathomable amount of time. But let's just say I knew enough about women to know that they seemed to stay in there mulling over the secrets of the universe for an hour or so while their deep conditioner 'soaked in' before finally rinsing and getting out.

  But the water finally cut off and about ten minutes after that, I heard the bathroom door open, footsteps on the floor in the bedroom. Then, finally, a hand on the knob.

  The door pulled open.

  All I saw at first was a tall, slight body clad in a pair of burnt orange shorts and a yellow tank top, her head ducked, hair wrapped in a white towel.

  Sensing me or seeing my feet, her whole body jolted, stiffened, jerked backward as a shriek escaped from between her lips.

  Her very familiar lips.

  I'd know that face anywhere.

  It had started temping at the office back when she was still in high school, her bright red hair and big blue eyes reminiscent of her older sister.

  Side-by-side, there was no mistaking they were sisters; the genes were strong in that family. The same hair, eyes, height, build, porcelain skin. Jules had a small smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, but her little sister had them over her nose and the tops of her cheeks.

  I hadn't seen her in a while.

  Not since Jules' wedding.

  The second one.

  The one that was real.

  The only one that mattered.

  The one that put Kai out of his misery after puppy-dog-eying Jules for years.

  She'd been, I dunno, nineteen or so at the time. A kid still, really.

  To be fair, she still looked like a kid in a way. She had one of those faces that could perpetually look like a teenager even well into her thirties. Though, by my math, she was maybe twenty-four or so.

  Still the same girl I used to see around the office all the time in bright, bold clothes, floral prints, mismatching earrings, smelling of clary sage--which I knew because I'd asked once when I couldn't place the scent--and quick with the sweetest, most open smile anyone had ever seen.

  In fact, the only thing different about her seemed to be the subtle silver ring on the side of her nose.

  Suddenly, the song came back to me.

  It was the one I'd heard her singing as she filed or stocked the fridge or made us coffee.

  "Geez, Lincoln," she hissed, her hand slapping over her heart as her towel fell off her head, dropping to the floor at her side. "You scared me."

  "Gemma, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked, brows furrowing, trying to think of a single reason she might be around.

  She hadn't temped at the office in years, having gone off to college, grown up to do her own thing in the world. We all imagined that thing involved brightening everyone's day. She'd always been good at that.

  From what I understood, she didn't even live in Navesink Bank anymore. Not too far, of course, since she was tight with her family, but far enough that she didn't have a reason to be here in town this late at night at all. Let alone in the office. Or, even less likely, in the rooms above the office.

  To that, she ducked her head, leaning down to fetch the lost towel, her wet hair a darker auburn than usual.

  "Let me go hang this up," she said, turning, trying to evade answering. I knew the tactic well. And I knew Gemma well enough to know she was a pretty terrible liar, so avoidance was the only way she could get away with not telling me the truth.

  With that, though, she turned, rushed into the room, and through to the bathroom.

  I didn't bother following, knowing she would eventually--after brushing out her hair and trying to come up with a feasible excuse-- have to come back out and face me.

  "I could go for some tea. How about you?" she asked, brushing past me as though this were the most natural situation in the world. "Do guys like you like tea?" she prattled on, making her way into the common area.

  "Guys like me?" I repeated, following behind.

  "Oh, you know. The save-the-world types. I feel like you are all coffee drinkers. Black coffee, too, the worst kind," she went on, grabbing the rarely-used tea caddy from the cupboard, and flicking on the electric tea kettle. "Yeah, definitely not the tea kind. And certainly not herbal tea. Which is all I drink. I get all shaky with caffeine. Oh, nice. Chamomile. Always a good choice. Especially this late at night when you're trying to calm down for bed."

  "Gemma, honey, talking nonstop isn't going to make me forget my original question."

  "I have completely forgotten the original question, actually," she said, voice rising to an almost laughable level as her pale cheeks flamed. She didn't even try to face me during the lie. At least she knew she was a shit liar.

  But I could play along.

  "The original question was about what you are doing here."

  "Oh, right, that," she agreed, sucking in a deep breath, tapping her fingers on the counter top.

  "Did you forget the question again, Gem?" I asked, watching as she grinned before glancing over her shoulder a
t me.

  "No, I don't have that short a memory," she told me, turning fully, leaning back against the counter.

  "And yet you're still not answering me," I reminded her, smiling a little at her bashful head shake.

  "I know."

  "Did Jules set you up here?" I asked, even though it made no sense for her to do so. At least not without telling one of us.

  "No. Jules doesn't know I'm here. And, actually, I would really appreciate it if you don't tell her. Or anyone else in the office for that matter. I know you guys all have your bro code and stuff, but I'm begging you here."

  Begging.

  That was a strong enough of a word to put me on edge.

  Before, it had just been a genuine curiosity, things that didn't make a lot of sense.

  But if she was begging me to keep a secret from her sister--when she was as close as could be with her family--then, yeah, something was up. Something big. Likely something bad.

  "I won't say anything. At least not until I need to," I told her, not making promises I wasn't sure I could keep.

  If things were on the serious side, then, well, she was our girl just as sure as Jules was; we needed to protect her.

  "I guess that is the best you're gonna give me, huh?" she asked as the teapot flicked off.

  She turned, pouring water, and adding honey to her tea, then faced me again with the hot cup between both hands.

  "I can't go back to my apartment," she admitted, eyes on mine.

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's not safe."

  'Safe' had a lot of connotations. She could be having the place fumigated for roaches, and the chemicals could hurt her. Or she could have an issue with a gas leak or a rabid dog across the hall.

  But I knew.

  I knew this was a different kind of not safe.

  The kind that had you fleeing your life to hide in a place you knew had multiple security levels. From a state-of-the-art system to thermal protected walls and bullet resistant windows.

  So if she was here instead of crashing at her parents' house or with a friend, it certainly made one think she was into something serious.