The Client

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "I have a feeling it's a tequila night, Aero," I told him as Fenway moved out toward my side, going around the table. "Thank you," I added, my gaze following Fenway as he took the empty seat beside Faye.

  "That's a nice dress, Wasp," he added, his cool gaze on me.

  Cool.

  That was the right word.

  Cool.

  This wasn't fun, easy-going Fenway.

  This was the darker, sexier one.

  And if I wasn't mistaken, he was pissed.

  Did he know?

  Surely not.

  I was very careful about my reputation.

  "And who might you be?" Faye asked him, giving him an assessing glance.

  "You mean he hasn't been one of your clients?" Richard asked, smirking. "With his reputation with women? This is Fenway Arlington," he said.

  "Richard. It's been a while."

  "Still Scotch?" Richard asked, rising, buttoning his suit jacket.

  "Always," Fenway said, gaze barely leaving me.

  "So how do you two know each other?" Faye asked, clearly picking up on the tension, and seemingly enjoying it.

  "We met in Paris," Fenway supplied since my tongue felt paralyzed in my mouth. "Toured the world together," he added as I numbly accepted my drink from Aero as he returned, taking his seat, oblivious to the dark mood around the table.

  "Did you do anything fun?" Aero asked, shuffling his chips around.

  "Would you like to tell them about the cave in Bali, darling, or should I?"

  "Scotch," Richard cut in, saving me from having to answer. "Fenway, are you still a terrible player?" he asked as the dealer started handing out cards.

  "Apparently," Fenway agreed, and I was pretty sure everyone but Faye and I missed his double meaning.

  "So, Wasp," Aero said a moment later, shifting in his seat, sensing the tension, but not able to pinpoint it, just wanting to mitigate it. "What is it you do for a living? And no need to pretend here. We are all open about our... more unsavory dealings. Nothing leaves this table."

  "I'm a dog trainer," I claimed, my go-to, and also what I needed to say with Fenway's gaze boring into me like it was.

  "Really?" another voice asked from behind me, making me tense up as I felt the owner of it moving close. So close, in fact, that he rested a hand at the back of my chair, knuckles touching my bare back as his other hand moved around me. Expensive, spicy cologne teased my nose as his fingers traced down the length of my cold chain, toying with the bee pendant. "That's not the way I hear it, Wasp," he said in a delicious accent—English or maybe even East African—making me tense again. "The word on the street is our new guest here is a conwoman," the stranger claimed, making bile rise up in my throat as Fenway's eyes widened. Surprised? Hurt? Both? I didn't know. But this man refused to leave it at that. "Known for sweetheart cons, if I'm not mistaken," he added, finally releasing my pendant, moving out from behind me, going around the table, giving me my first sight of him.

  Eamon Awan, I decided.

  The man looked like a model with his Middle Eastern coloring, his inky black hair, his pristine shape-up, and his short beard. He wore all black, giving him an intimidating look that was right there in his surprising light green eyes.

  "See!" Faye declared as my gaze followed our host, wondering why he was outing me, what he stood to gain from that, keeping my focus there because I couldn't stomach the look of disgust I was sure was on Fenway's face right about then. "I knew I liked you," Faye added, smiling. "This is Eamon, by the way," she said. "The owner of this lovely establishment."

  "You'll learn to forgive me," Eamon declared, keeping unnerving eye contact with me as he moved behind Faye, clamping a hand on Fenway's shoulder.

  "I'm not so sure I will," I told him, voice tight.

  "You can live a lie all you like outside of these walls," he told me. "But in here, we air our dirty laundry. It keeps everyone from being able to use anything against the other guests."

  From a business perspective, I could respect that. If I was a true guest here, a regular like the others seemed to be, I would be appreciative of that sort of measure.

  But as a woman sitting across from a man who had been her most recent mark, who was in love with him despite not believing I was capable, I was furious.

  "Yes, well, I think I am no longer going to be a guest of your fine establishment," I snapped, rising, turning, making my way toward the door.

  "Hey, you can't—" a guard warned me, hand curling around my arm.

  I wasn't anyone's martial arts Barbie.

  But I'd taken a couple self-defense classes with Raven as a sort of business move, always wanting to make sure we could take care of ourselves and each other should a job go south.

  I'd only ever needed to use my memorized moves once in the past. A part of me was convinced that the only reason I'd been successful was because the man had been tanked.

  And my advantage here seemed to be that this man didn't think I would turn on him.

  Because he didn't even try to defend himself when I planted my hands on his shoulders, using his body as leverage to ram my knee up between his legs.

  I didn't pause as he collapsed, just dashed up the stairs, threw the door open at the top, rushing past the guards there, men who likely never expected anyone to disobey the rules, to rush out, to ruin their secret location.

  I didn't give a damn about their location.

  I never planned on returning.

  I just had to get the hell out of there.

  I had to get away from him.

  I couldn't face him now that he knew the truth.

  The only reason my job worked in the first place was because no one ever saw me again.

  And having to face the one mark I'd screwed up and gotten unprofessional with? Yeah, I couldn't do this.

  I didn't get far.

  It was naive of me to think I would.

  A hand closed around my arm, pulling me to a stop.

  "While I admire your willingness to try to run in those heels, Wasp, you're going to break something," Fenway's voice said, barely winded. "Do you really think you can run away from this?" he asked, hand loosening enough to allow him to move in front of me, looking down at me. "Look at me," he demanded, voice firm, brooking no argument.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I forced my chin to lift, my gaze to move to his face, knowing this confrontation was going to need to play out. Whether I liked it or not. No matter how much it would hurt.

  "How did you find me?"

  "I keep a fixer firm on the payroll."

  "Why does that not surprise me?"

  "When you left without a word, I came back here to them. I wanted to find you, so I could figure out what possessed you to up and leave in such a way."

  "How did you know I was here?" I pressed. "At the casino," I clarified.

  To that, his lips curved up ever so slightly as he reached into his pocket with his free hand, producing a chip.

  "Your best friend thought I might need this," he said.

  "Raven gave me up?" I asked, the words not making any sense. She would never do that. She always had my back.

  "You can't be mad at her."

  "Actually, I can. She had no right."

  "What about me, darling? What rights did I have in all of this?" he asked, chin lifting, daring me to try to lie to him again.

  "I don't want to do this, Fenway," I told him, hearing the crack in my voice, not trusting the floodgates to stay strong. Not with him standing there looking at me with accusation and—much more devastating—pain in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry, darling, but that's just too fucking bad," he told me, tone cutting.

  "Wasp, Fenway," Eamon's voice joined us, making me turn to find him approaching, arms raised. "I see you two have a thing going on right now. But I feel I need to warn you that you are standing on gang territory with a ten-thousand-dollar Rolex and a two grand gold necklace on," he said, making me glance around, seeing the group of young guys on the next
corner over. "You might have some moves, babe," he went on, looking at me, "but I don't think you can knee them all in the cock at once. Why don't you take my car back to, well, anywhere else but here," he added, brow lifting, making it clear we didn't have a choice.

  "He can take the car. I will get a ride."

  "Oh, but I would enjoy it much more if you two had to endure each other on the ride back to the pick-up location," Eamon told us, snapping, making his guards move toward us.

  The bigger guard moved over toward Fenway first, grabbing his arm.

  Fenway stared daggers at me as he was led away. The other guard grabbed my arm, starting to pull me in the direction of the limo as well.

  "You're a real asshole, you know that, right?" I asked Eamon as I moved past him.

  "I do, babe, I do know that," he told me, lips curving up like he enjoyed my anger. "Don't bother trying to plot your vengeance, sweetheart," he told me in that annoyingly delicious accent of his. "I don't do love."

  With that and nothing else, I was shoved none too ceremoniously into the back of the limo, making me half-topple over Fenway who made no move to help me get back up as I tried to get as far away from him as possible.

  The car lurched to life as the silence in the back became nearly unbearable. I kept my gaze out the side window, willing my stomach to tolerate riding sideways because it gave me an excuse not to look in his direction.

  "Don't," I demanded, catching his lips starting to part.

  "I'm afraid you're not in control anymore, Wasp," he told me, voice low, lethal. And, damnit, a little too sexy given the situation. "We're going to do this. And you're going to give me answers. I deserve that, at least."

  It was hard to argue with that.

  Still, I felt like I had to.

  I had to gain some ground. I was stumbling on the small plot I was standing on.

  "Look, everyone who gets conned is embarrassed and angry. It's natural. I get it. But that's just how it is. You'll come to grips with it."

  Being snippy—even if I was faking it—was the wrong move with Fenway's apparently volatile mood.

  One second, he was in his seat.

  The next, he was shooting across the space, dropping down next to me, fingers snagging my chin, forcing me to face him.

  "Tell me, Wasp, do you fuck all your marks?" he asked, voice tight, barely holding onto his anger.

  The revulsion in his face was a hot knife to the stomach.

  I didn't recognize my voice when it came out, small, weak, choked.

  "No."

  "I don't know if I should believe you," he said, jaw so tight a muscle ticked there.

  "I know you're angry, Fenway," I told him, wincing, "But you're hurting me," I told him, trying to pull my chin away.

  His hand yanked backward like I'd burned him, face jolting back as though I'd struck him.

  He wasn't a violent man.

  He didn't hurt people. At least not on purpose. Which only served to prove just how badly I'd affected him.

  "Why?" he asked, voice small, pained, another stab wound in my chest. "Why me? What did I ever do? What did you want from me? And don't," he cut me off when I started to speak. "Don't try to tell me it doesn't matter. It matters. You fucked with my life, Wasp. That matters. I deserve to know why."

  I swallowed back the plea for him to forgive me that bubbled up and threatened to burst out, steeling my voice.

  "I was hired for the job."

  "Hired by whom?"

  "I don't know who. I got an email through my website. They didn't give me much information other than your name, whereabouts, and the fee they were going to pay me to do the job."

  "And what was the job?" he asked, eyes accusing. I deserved it, but it still hurt to see in those eyes that had only ever looked at me with kindness and wonder and humor and affection.

  "To make you fall in love with me. And then break your heart," I told him, feeling the sting of tears, blinking them back. It wasn't the time or place. I just had to hold it together for a little while longer. We weren't that far from the pick-up location.

  "Why?"

  "I can't answer that, Fenway. I didn't ask. But, usually, this kind of thing is because you hurt someone else," I told him, eyes begging him to understand, to see this through a lens other than his pain. Maybe then he could see mine. That was selfish, but I couldn't help it.

  He had a right to his pain.

  But he wasn't the only one hurting.

  I felt like my heart was getting crushed to dust inside my chest.

  "I haven't been a saint," he admitted, eyes cold. "But I have never been cruel enough to make someone love me, then fuck them over for the hell of it. Oh, forgive me. Not for the hell of it. For something much worse. For money."

  I couldn't... I just couldn't do this anymore.

  "Hey," I called, seeing us drive right past the pick-up location. "Hey," I called to the driver again, turning to look at him. "You're supposed to let me out there. Hey!" I yelled when he ignored me, just pushing the button so the privacy window slid into place. "Let me out!" I shrieked, flying at the window, fists pounding on it. "Let me out, damnit. I have to get out of here," I added, hysteria rising up and bubbling over.

  I never understood people who lost their ever-loving shit. Until that moment. When I was yelling and slamming my hands against a window, tears flooding my eyes.

  "Let me out!" I tried again, voice catching.

  "Hey, hey," Fenway's voice called, hands grabbing my wrists, pulling them away from the window. "Calm down," he demanded.

  "I need to get out of this car. I can't breathe in here," I added, yanking against his hold. "I can't breathe," I hissed, my throat tight, invisible hands closing around it, cutting off my air, making my pulse pound, my face feel tingly.

  It was just a panic attack, I tried to reason with myself. It wasn't a big deal. I was going to be fine. But I sure as hell didn't feel fine. I felt like my heart was going to break through my ribcage, like it was going to pound out of my chest.

  "You need to take a breath," Fenway reasoned, voice calm, frustratingly kind.

  I couldn't take him being nice.

  Not after what I'd done.

  "Don't," I demanded, trying to pull away. "You don't have to be nice to me," I told him, yanking out of his hold, throwing myself across the car to the other seat, hand closing around my throat.

  "Wasp..."

  "I get it, alright? I fucking get it," I snapped, breathing coming out in strange strobes. "I'm a bitch, okay? I'm an asshole. I hurt people for a living. You hate me. I get it, okay? I get it," I added, voice cracking as the floodgates finally failed, tears overflowing, spilling down my cheeks in fast, hot waves, blurring my vision.

  I've had a lot of low moments in my life.

  Havig a panic attack and hysterical breakdown at the same time in front of the only man I'd ever cared for? This was the lowest of the lows.

  "I don't hate you," Fenway's voice said a moment later, low, almost hard to hear over my frantic breathing, the sniffling as I tried to pull myself back together.

  "Bullshit," I shot back, swiping at the tears that refused to stop cascading down my cheeks.

  "I wish I did," he said as though I hadn't spoken. "It would be a lot easier if I hated you."

  "Of course you hate me," I said, placing my elbows on my thighs, pressing my head in my hands. "I hate me."

  That admission, something I had been trying to tamp down for weeks, this realization that was too ugly to admit even to myself, seemed to create a crack right down the center of me, making my voice catch on a God-awful shrieking, dying animal noise.

  "Alright," Fenway said, voice soft, making me realize he had moved across to my side. "Okay," he hushed, arms reaching for me, holding on even when I tried to jerk away, pulling me until my legs draped over his, until my face was tucked against his chest.

  I had no right to take comfort from him right then. A small part of me—the sliver that was still capable of rational
thinking—knew that. The other part was too busy crumbling to care that my fingers were curling into his suit jacket, that my tears were soaking through his shirt. "Wasp, it's alright," he told me, voice a little louder, trying to break through.

  "No, it's not," I managed to choke out before the sobs became the loud and utterly humiliating sort. Even knowing that, even feeling that, I couldn't seem to stop them, they overtook me completely.

  Fenway said nothing after that, just held me tighter, like maybe he thought if he squeezed me hard enough, he could keep me from falling apart.

  It was too late for that.

  I was dust.

  Nothing could put me back together again in the exact same form. I had no idea what I was going to look like after all of this, but I had a feeling it wasn't going to be pretty. Just a vague facsimile of the person I had been before.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered into his neck what felt like forever later, when my insides felt dry as sandpaper, when my face felt raw from the tears.

  "I know you are," he told me, fingers sifting into my hair. I had no right to enjoy that either. But I did. God, I did.

  "I've never slept with a mark," I told him, truth spilling out. What was the use trying to protect myself anymore? There wasn't much left of me to protect. "That's not how it works. I don't get involved. I don't get attached," I added, struggling to get that last word out.

  "Attached," he repeated.

  "Yes, attached. I don't do that. Ever. Not on a job. Not in my personal life. I don't do it. It's not me."

  "But?" he prompted, sensing it hanging there in the air.

  Squeezing my eyes tight like the admission would somehow be easier if I did so, I let the truth slip out. "But I felt more like myself with you than I think I ever have."

  "That's why you had to leave? Because it wasn't just a job?"

  "It was a job."

  "But not just a job. You weren't just a conwoman. And I wasn't just a mark."

  "You were supposed to be."

  "But I wasn't," he pressed, hands sinking into my shoulders, forcing me backward.

  "No," I admitted, gaze lowered, unable to give him the truth with those eyes boring into me.

  "When did it stop being a con?"