“Hey.”
He looks at me, his expression almost eerily blank for a moment before he manages a small smile. “Morning.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He gets up. “Do you want to get breakfast?”
“Sure. I need to get some clothes from the house.” I cross my arms and rub them with my hands to fight off the slight morning chill that feels like dew on my skin.
“Okay. I was hoping we could go someplace after.”
“Where?”
I frown a little because he’s so businesslike suddenly. Last night we were a couple in love. I was professing it in the throes of our passion. Passion like I’ve never felt before. He hasn’t even touched me.
He tips his coffee mug to his lips once more. Only then do I recognize the puffiness under his eyes. We’d tumbled into bed together after recovering somewhere in the entryway last night, but he doesn’t look like he’s rested at all.
“Have you slept?” I ask.
He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I was thinking I could teach you how to shoot today. I know you’re not especially keen on guns, but you should at least learn the basics so you can handle one confidently.”
My muscles tense a little more, which has nothing to do with the temperature and all to do with the plan—the one that requires me to have a weapon to protect myself in the worst-case scenario.
I swallow hard. “Okay. That’s probably a good idea.”
I wait for him to touch me in any way. Instead, he opens the front door and we go back inside.
“There’s an indoor shooting range near Noam’s. We can grab breakfast close by and head over.”
He puts his mug in the sink and grabs his jacket.
“Tristan.”
He looks up wide-eyed, as if he might have forgotten I was here.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You seem kind of intense right now.”
His rolls his shoulders a little. “Sorry. When I have a job to do, I make sure I’m ready for it before I head in. You’re not ready yet.” He comes close and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Let’s go. Time to work.”
Tristan drops me at Martine’s so I can change. I’m able to dodge Skye and any interrogations she’ll likely have ready when I see her next, even though “all business” Tristan is making me anxious. Still, he has a point. All the dread I’m feeling about dealing with Vince probably roots in doubting my ability to execute on the plan, which is to end this shit once and for all. Being able to pick up a gun and not feel like I’m a danger to myself with it would definitely help the cause.
Tristan and I eat breakfast quickly at a nearby café. We fill the brief time with small talk about New Orleans. I wouldn’t mind spending more time here and exploring more of its hidden gems, but I have a feeling we’ll need to move on after this weekend. I haven’t talked about that part with Martine yet, but the last thing I want is to bring any of this mess to her doorstep.
Tristan checks us into the range, taking the lead since I have no idea what I’m doing. We use two guns Tristan already owns. A Sig Sauer for him and, for me, a Glock 19, which he assures me will be good due to its smaller size. He shows me how to load it and unload it several times until I’m comfortable with the routine of releasing the magazine and operating the slide catch.
He picks up his weapon and models how to hold it with both hands.
“Firm like a handshake, finger along the frame. Keep your grip high so it’s easier to stabilize the muzzle on your target.”
I mimic everything. His easy confidence here helps mine. Still, when we finally go into the stall, I’m shaking a little from anticipation and feeling so far outside my comfort zone.
He points to the target ahead of us, which is pretty close, because any real-life threat would be this close. I try not to think about that and instead focus on keeping a relaxed stance and controlling my breathing, which I can hear more acutely with the protective earmuffs on.
I raise the gun and line up the white dot to the bullseye on the target. I look to Tristan out of the corner of my eye, and he nods for me to go ahead.
I exhale slowly and empty my thoughts. My finger moves the trigger. There’s a loud pop and a sharp jolt from the gun firing in my hands. My heart thumps rapidly.
With a broad smile, Tristan nods to the target, which I’d forgotten existed with all the adrenaline whizzing through my system. I zero in on the tiny hole just outside the bullseye.
I jump on my toes a little. He gives me the thumbs-up to keep going.
My next few shots aren’t as gifted. I pout a little because the competitive part of me has decided it’s important to impress Tristan. So I go through the magazine, increasingly intent on mastering the fine art of drilling the bullseye. I go through another, and another, until the paper is covered with pocks, several of them in the center circles, which pleases me.
After about twenty minutes, I’m a little exhausted. Maybe from concentrating, or inhaling gun smoke, or absorbing the nonstop rush that seems to happen behind a weapon like this.
I might feel more comfortable with the mechanics, but as we pay and head back to the car, I’m still uneasy with the power of it all. My attempt to wield a gun when Noam confronted me at my car seems even more absurd now. That missing pistol mysteriously reappeared in one of my dresser drawers yesterday, though, which must mean Noam trusts me to treat it more responsibly.
Maybe after today I can. Though, if I’m lucky, one day I’ll never have a need.
“Do you feel better?” Tristan asks when we get back to the car and pull away.
“I guess so. I just have a hard time with the idea of it all,” I say.
I stare at the houses we pass. Without discussing it, he’s bringing me back to Martine’s. My home for the time being.
“I know you do. Maybe after this is finished, you won’t ever have to deal with it again.”
Something about the way he says it bothers me. Like maybe I’ll never have to deal with him again.
When he parks in front of Martine’s, I want to press him more on his tone and the weird attitude he’s had with me all day. Especially after last night, which was decidedly more than sex.
“I had an amazing night with you.”
“Me too.”
I catch a flicker of heat in his eyes before he looks away, out toward the road.
“I wish we had more nights like that.”
That he doesn’t answer. The engine is still humming. He’s belted in, and for some reason, I feel like I should go. Our date is over.
“We should meet up Saturday morning to go over everything,” he says. “Make sure we’re all on the same page and you’re as prepared as you need to be.”
I stare at him, confused. “It’s only Thursday. I’m not going to see you until then?”
His expression doesn’t change. “I need some time to scope things out. Do what I do.”
“But Martine—”
“I know you have faith in her, and I think her heart’s in the right place. But trusting other people with the plan isn’t how I stayed alive all this time.”
“You trusted Jay.”
He twists his lips slightly. “I relied on her direction. But when she handed out the assignments, I always did my homework.”
And the final test was someone’s death. Cold-blooded murder.
“And you were such a good student.”
I catch the smallest twitch of muscle under his eye and a tenseness in his jaw as he looks away.
“I guess I should go, then,” I say, my voice tight, inviting him to stop me. Because I don’t want to leave like this. Missing him already is insane, especially since he’s felt a million miles away all day, but I do.
“One more thing,” he says. “You’re not going to like it, but I think you should know. Just in case Kolt tries to come back into your life somehow and you decide to let him.”
My brows furrow.
My heart lurches into my throat, and my whole body turns cold. Curling my hands over the edges of the car seat, I try to ground myself. Replay the words. Kolt was sent to Rio. For me. I shake my head, unwilling to accept this new information.
“That can’t be true.”
“I’m not a fan of his, but I never brought him up before with Jay. I don’t know why she would mention it unless it were true.”
I look out the window toward the house, my thoughts a violent blur. Kolt’s face. His cocky smile. His privilege. The way he always seemed out of place yet almost determined to stamp his presence wherever we were instead of blending into the richness of what already existed. Every memory is tainted. Stained with betrayal.
I bring my hand to my mouth and breathe deeply, staving off the nausea. I let him fuck me. I let him pretend to fall in love with me.
“Isabel…”
Tristan’s voice is careful and tentative. So is his touch when he reaches for my hand. I rip it away. Because suddenly I hate him too. For telling me. For being right. For whatever smug satisfaction I know he’s feeling right now. More than anything, I hate him for pulling away from me today when I gave him so much of myself last night.
I’m empty of trust. Bone dry.
“See you Saturday,” I say as I open the door and step out.
“Isab—”
I slam the door and quickly start punching the code into the gate’s box. He doesn’t chase me. Doesn’t call after me, which makes me even more miserable as I enter the house alone.
Skye wanders into the foyer looking like she just finished a class with Noam, a jar of peanut butter in her hand and a spoon in her mouth. Her eyes widen with concern.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not now.”
I contemplate locking myself in my room, but I’d be a caged animal. I’m too pissed off. I need to scream. Cry. Throw and break things.
I tear my fingers through my hair with a frustrated sound—something between a growl and a scream.
“Is it Tristan?”
“No,” I snap and speed by her until I reach the back door. I rush down the steps into the courtyard.
It’s mercifully empty. Quiet. Lush. I pace to the far end. Except there’s nothing to throw here. Everything’s too pretty to violate. I pace back. Skye’s there waiting for me.
“Do I have to kill him?”
“I told you it’s not Tristan.”
“Then who is it?”
I walk around a little more, cursing Kolt and especially myself for being so stupid. So blindly naïve.
“Isabel. What’s going on?”
I halt and turn to her. “Vince Boswell’s nephew.”
She scrunches up her face. Confusion. Yes, that’s the face of my life. Warped confusion.
“They sent him to Rio to get close to me.” I grind my teeth. Tristan was wise not to tell me this when I had a gun in my hand.
“Okay. So what? Their family is screwed up.”
“I was sleeping with him for months!”
I groan loudly and pace off again. I can’t believe it. How could Kolt do this to me? How could he convince me he cared? How could I have been so wrong to believe him? I didn’t love him, but I cared about him. The chemistry was real enough. He’d been fun and charming and passionate, even if that passion wasn’t always matched. We were lovers sometimes, but we were friends too.
Finally my anger begins to ebb away and the ugly tears come. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, causing bright colors to flash behind them. I refuse to cry over this man, no matter how violated and foolish I feel.
I feel Skye’s arms come around me in a gentle hug. She’s so delicate compared to Tristan, but I feel her concern and do my best to hug her back. A silent thank-you for her support even though I’m a cluster of emotion right now.
She lets me go, her face still pinched with worry. “But what about Tristan? I know you’re raging right now, but I’m confused.”
I sigh and will the violent resentment to ease. Another deep breath tamps it down one percent.
“I’ve been in love with Tristan for six years. We were together, and then we spent a long time apart without contact. He just came back into my life recently.” I skip the reason why, because saying everything out loud makes my life sound even more insane. “Kolt and I worked together in Rio.”
“Kolt? That’s his name?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck Kolt. I hate that name.”
I let out a laugh because I know somewhere inside her she’s hatching a plan to ruin his whole existence. I think getting his family to stop trying to kill me will have to be enough.
“Unfortunately I did fuck him, and I really thought he was falling for me even though I was trying to put distance between us.”
“Wait, you weren’t into him, but you were messing around for months?”
“Not all the time. We hooked up sometimes. Weak moments, I guess. But I was still in love with Tristan. He left me really abruptly, and I was messed up from it.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Fuck Tristan too.”
I laugh again. “Skye… Ugh.” I drag my hands down my face. “I’m mad at him for telling me. He was so cold this morning.”
“You slept with him last night.”
I roll my eyes at that. “Obviously we’re sleeping together. He’s Tristan. He’s…” I wave my hands in tiny circles, trying to find the words to describe him. “He’s the one. You know, the one who feels like a hit of heroin or something. He’s always been that person for me. Even though he’s massively different now and has done unthinkable things the past few years. Everything is so fucked up, but somehow I’m falling in love with him more. Except he’s an enigma. He’s missing so much. Not just our memories but basic emotions. He’s this beautiful, brilliant man, but in some ways, he’s only just now starting to figure out how to live. How to feel…”
She props her hand on her hip. “You’re making me feel like I really have my life together, you know.”
I crack a smile, grateful to at least have someone to talk to. Being alone in all of this would be ten times worse.
“So what now?”
She purses her lips. “Let’s go shopping. You have a hot date with a bad man Saturday night.”
TRISTAN
The Mercier Terrace is on the fourteenth floor. I survey the layout of the room, now empty save a few hotel staff setting up for the event. No one pays me any mind until I lock eyes with a woman fussing with one of the plants past the courtyard doors.
Zeda.
A minute later, she comes up to me.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, taking in her maid’s uniform. “Nice outfit.”
“You’re not exactly looking covert.”
“I’m a wandering patron of the hotel. I got lost.” I nod to the courtyard. “What’s going on out there?”
“Just setting things up so we have eyes outside and can see her coming.”
Some more workers come into the room and start moving tables around. She motions me to follow her into the hallway.
“He’s booked the Vieux Carré suite. It’s vacant until he arrives tomorrow, so we have the place to ourselves for a while. We’ll be set up in the room across the hall.”
“We?”
She walks ahead of me. “Skye and me. Martine will be overseeing things remotely. You’re welcome to join us.”
Once in front of the suite, she hovers her key over the sensor. It beeps with a green blink.
“That a master key?”
“Sure is.”
Perfect.
We enter a sitting area that expands into an opulent bedroom. This is where Boswell will try to have his way with Isabel.
I shove away the jealousy the way I’m shoving everything else away—all the emotions Martine’s worried will r
uin Isabel’s showdown with Boswell. Spending the day without Isabel has been its own kind of agony. Putting distance between us doesn’t feel good, but right now, it’s necessary.
Pretending I don’t feel a damn thing is easier when I’m back in my routine. Assessing, calculating, hunting. Jury’s still out on whether I’ll be able to keep myself from pulling the trigger out of pure instinct.
Wasting no time, Zeda reveals a thin case concealed under her uniform and sets it on the coffee table. She unzips it and starts setting out several small cameras perfect for hiding in a room like this one.
“Where are you positioning them?”
“One in the corner by the curtains. Should give a good view of the bed. One at the desk. And one above the doorway so we can keep an eye on his bodyguard or anything else he does outside the bedroom.”
“Bodyguard?”
“Private security company. They’re local.”
“Is Martine taking care of that?”
“Of course.” She pulls a chair to the door, lifts herself onto it, and carefully places one of the tiny cameras by the door hinge.
I glance into her little case of goodies and spot a small roll of duct tape. From my jacket, I withdraw a tactical knife and the same gun Isabel practiced with at the range.
“Mind if I borrow your tape?”
She comes down from the chair and pauses, her eyes fixed on the weapons in my hands.
I lift them up innocently. “I’m planting them for her.”
“Sure,” she says, carrying the chair into the bedroom to reach the top folds of the curtain.
While she works on that, I go to work scoping out convenient places. All the while my thoughts circle around this plan. Around Isabel and how all this might go down. This is what I do, but Isabel isn’t anything like me. She’ll react differently. Since I can’t take her out of the equation, I have to make damn sure I’m there and ready when she needs me.
When I return, Zeda is still busy at the curtains.
“She’s got a knife under the coffee table and a Glock behind the toilet.”
“Got it,” she says with a strip of adhesive clenched between her teeth.
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