"Stop touching shit," Finn growled as I threw a few final things into my bag that had been laying around.
He'd been flown in a few days earlier, and with no work to do just yet, he was being a royal pain in the ass day and night about what we did and did not touch. Never mind that we had been here a few weeks already, and had each touched just about everything there was to touch in each room. And forget that no matter what we did or did not touch, Finn was going to clean every inch as though we had committed high treason in this room and needed not to hang for it.
"In just a couple minutes, I'll be out of your hair, and you can go hog wild in here."
He needed it too. You could always tell when he was in need of a job, when the obsessive focus was something he was craving. The cleaning wasn't just a job for him, just something he happened to excel in. The reason he was as good as he was came from years of doing it in his own life, driving himself half-crazy with the ritual of it all. Working for me, he got to harness the compulsions into something useful, and let go a little bit in his personal life. His place still tended to have the minty chemical smell that you would learn to equate with him in general, but he could sit and have a cup of coffee with you now without needing to get up and scrub the windows suddenly anymore.
But something was clearly going on with him. In his life. In his head. That was why he was so antsy, so ready to get his scrub on.
He would have plenty of time to get his head back on right while he did a full clean-up on seven hotel rooms, including his own, excluding Ranger since he must have been lost in his woods somewhere because no one could get in touch with him.
"You got the directions for the cabin?" I asked, meaning the hunting one in the woods up a long, steep hill that we would have to get to on-foot since we didn't want any drivers in the city knowing where we were. He gave me a tight nod, unpacking the cleaners he had needed to buy in the market, so they weren't his usual sort, and it was clear this was a problem for him. "Try to get there by late tonight. Check-out is before noon."
With that, I headed out, walking past Smith in the lobby since we were doing our best to pretend none of us knew one another, Miller and Kai excluded.
"Did you just pick up a cathedral music box?" Miller asked a few minutes after we moved through town, packing as much food as we could into the spaces left in our bags.
"Yeah," I agreed, seeing no point in lying since the thing would be sitting in the cabin with us until it was time to bug out.
"You never pick up souvenirs."
This was true. I had been just about everywhere in the world that someone might have needed my help. But if you looked at my place, you would never know I had been outside of Navesink Bank.
Miller's place, however, was a map of all the places she had been, and even how many times she had been there. That This was her third trip to Russia that I knew of, but still she picked up a set of Matryoshka - nesting - dolls. I would bet good money that she had a set of Imperial porcelain and a scarf from Pavlovo Posad at home as well.
Miller was an odd case of equal amounts of roots and wings. She loved to travel, to see new places, to eat new food, to pick up local curse words to add to her dirty dictionary. But when she was home, she settled in deep. She wasn't like me and Smith and Gunner who had places that were just barely decorated, a bug-out bag always at the ready beside the front door. She had carefully chosen the paint in every room, had painstakingly chosen each piece of furniture and art. And she covered her shelves in her memories of other places.
"No, I don't," I agreed, voice a little cutting, not wanting any other follow-up questions. Because, quite frankly, I was trying not to ask them in my own damn head; I didn't need them from outsiders.
Obviously, I did not need a music box topped with colorful Russian cathedrals. So every one of my team knew exactly who it was for.
Christ.
"Did you see what Kai got?" Miller asked, letting it slide, something I was incredibly grateful for as we settled in deep inside the woods after carefully splitting up into teams and entering it at different points. I shook my head. I had been a little too invested in my own purchase to pay attention to every member of the team. I had almost - almost - been able to convince myself that friends bought each other gifts from time to time too.
"A snow globe. With hand-painted cathedrals on the outside. And inside."
Snow globes were not a traditional Russian souvenir. It wouldn't have been found on the main street of the market. He would have needed to dig deep for that one.
But of course he did.
Because Christmas was coming up.
And Jules collected snow globes.
"Of course he did," I said, voice a little faraway. Maybe, for the first time, somewhat understanding the shit that Kai did. Jules was, after all, just his friend as well. Even if his feelings were more than that. But he still did shit like that. Got her stuff he knew would make her smile, not just the cash or gift cards the rest of us often threw at her for holidays.
About an hour and a half later, we came upon the cabin. It was, well, what you would expect from an old, abandoned hunting cabin. It had one room, a bathroom, though there was no running water, and a massive fireplace to keep warm. And cook. And a giant pile of dry wood stacked up one wall.
"Don't worry," Smith said, moving past Miller toward the bathroom. "I'll get started on the composting toilet now."
Miller didn't have many rules. She would be okay with sleeping on a floor next to six men with only a fire to keep warm in the Russian winter. But she would not be copping a squat outside in December. Or ever.
And since none of us were too fond of the idea of an outside toilet either, there was always the option for Smith to throw together something inside that would be a fuckuva lot less disgusting than going in the woods.
"There are some buckets out back," Lincoln added as he moved toward the fireplace to start it up. "I'll scoop some snow into them and bring them in to melt."
Our bathing would be makeshift like that for a while.
But we had all dealt with worse.
We would get by.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, the burner I had picked up on the street to contact a local former spy about weapons, knowing those fucks were sneaky and trained enough to trace my number back to me, and then likely demand money to keep my name secret. "Yeah?" I paused, listening to the man ramble off times and dates. "You're serious? Yeah, no. Alright. I still want them. Alright. Yep."
"What was that?" Kai asked from where he was piling the food we had all gathered on a table in the dining room. Canned meat, beans, and rice. I had a feeling we were all going to drop a few pounds simply not wanting to choke much of that down.
"The spy. He wants to meet tonight. About a three-hour walk from here," I told them, going into my bag, getting a fresh set of socks, dry gloves, and two other hats to stick into the pockets of my fleece-lined snow jacket.
"You can't be taking a trip like that alone," Smith called from the bathroom.
"I can't risk the whole team on something like this."
"Then let me go," Kai suggested, always eager to walk into danger, whatever form it might take.
"You know how these guys are," I said, shaking my head. "They get squirrelly if someone shows up in your place or even with you. He will want to see me. And me only."
"Don't like this, Boss," Lincoln called as the fire sparked to life. It wouldn't take long to warm up the frozen space.
"I don't either. But this is how it has to be. I want you guys here. Two-person team to go out and get food if you need it. But not Miller and Kai who are supposed to be long gone. No offense," I told Kai, shrugging, "but you stand out here."
Kai shrugged, knowing the drill. In most populated areas of the world, he blended into any crowd. Most places were a melting pot. But there were some areas where a Korean guy really stood out, so if he was supposed to be gone, he needed to be a ghost, or it would get around.
"Get all the surv
eillance working. Take notes. I want to go over everything when I get back. Which might not be until tomorrow. I don't want to make this trip back in the dark. But I will check in by midnight. If I don't, get the fuck out of this country."
No one flinched at that, at the possibility of that. One of us getting left behind. Death was something that could be just around any corner for people like us. It was a part of the job. We all had to know the drill if that was to happen.
"Alright. I'm off. Hold down the fort."
With that, not being one for drawn-out goodbyes, I threw myself back out into the cold, bag on my shoulder, money heavy in the bottom.
It was a long fucking walk with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. And as one might expect, they drifted back to her, back to the hours each night we had spent on the phone. I got to listen to her babble, tell me things that sounded like secrets. Hell, I had even heard her laugh. A real, rolling laugh. That I had brought out of her, not Fenway. It was just for me. I swear to fuck, that shit felt like a gift.
And that was about fifty times too cheesy for me, even just remembering it. So I forced her out of my head, thinking instead of the plan, of the logistics, of any possible ways it could go wrong.
The guy was about what I would expect, closing in on fifty, solid but not fat, ruddy-cheeked, rough-voiced, and paranoid as all fuck. After about ten minutes of negotiation, we had a deal to trade off the money for the goods the next morning. He then dragged me into town to show me a hotel I could spend the night in, and plied me with way too much fucking vodka. And since I hated vodka, one shot was too much. But by the time I made it back to my room ten minutes to twelve, I had about eight of them in me, getting rid of the last bit of cold that felt like it was in my bones.
I got to my room, called my team, took a shower, and fell into bed, more exhausted than I had been in a long time, my very bones feeling tired from all the trekking through the snow. And I was going to have to get up first thing in the morning and do it all over again.
I should have been going right to sleep.
My goddamn eyelids were even heavy.
I had no business reaching for my phone.
Yet that was exactly what I did.
THIRTEEN
Aven
I was carefully lining up lasagne noodles over a layer of sauce and cheese for dinner, Mackey at my feet in case I dropped so much as a splash of sauce on the floor like I had done a moment before, onto my foot, where he promptly licked it off, leaving me to let out a squeal as I almost knocked the whole cooking tin onto the floor, when my phone started screaming from the coffee table in the living room.
Things had, for all intents and purposes, calmed back down to my normal pace. Meaning, well, slow. A bit boring. Predictable.
I was back to work, the cuts on the side of my head becoming simple red scars that Benny insisted I needed to rub vitamin E oil on every night to lighten them. But not liquid vitamin E; it had to be right from the gel tabs. This was, apparently, of utmost importance. I wasn't exactly sure if it would work, but I was willing to give it a try. The bruises were light enough now to be covered with some normal makeup, heavy on the yellow and green to cover up, but a lot more breathable than the other stuff.
I was trying, though, not to be such a shut-in, not to spend my entire life inside my house, jumping at shadows, even though I knew none of them were my ghosts come back to haunt me.
After work, I made it a point to hit She's Bean Around, getting myself a small coffee I felt justified indulging in, even if my budget was still tight. I talked to the girls who worked there. I sometimes read a book.
Then I would take Mackey to the dog park every three days or so, something that he pretended to hate, but actually enjoyed. He even let some strangers scratch him behind the ears. He was warming up. And it seemed like he was resentful that it was hurting his street cred, even if he secretly enjoyed it.
And I had even made plans tonight - as crazy as this one might seem - to have Gunner over for dinner. He had made it a point to check in on me here and there. I woke up one morning to him raking my front yard. When I'd asked him what he was doing, he had shrugged and informed me that if my lazy ass wouldn't do it, then he would have to. Another time, he stopped into my work on the way to the office, telling me that Fenway was demanding another game night and that if I didn't agree, he was going to gag, bind, and drag me there himself because he couldn't take the man's bitching for another minute.
It was a weird friendship, but we were somehow getting along. I guess because I knew exactly how he was and was okay with it. He sensed that I had no real desire to change him, so he could just be his asshole self around me.
Tonight, I had asked him over for food - since he was a prime example of when older women would claim men think with their stomachs - and a movie. Just so I wouldn't be alone every night.
I guess, from this clusterfuck of a situation, some good had come of it.
I was seeing a different way to live my life.
And I was liking it.
Figuring it was Gunner calling to ask what kind of beer I liked - But not that hard cider shit. I won't be caught dead buying that - I hit the speaker button with my pinkie, my fingers covered in starch and ricotta.
"There's nothing wrong with hard cider," I told the phone as I reached for the paper towel in my pocket to wipe off my hands.
"Never said there was."
So, okay.
That was not Gunner.
And as much as I liked Gunner, this voice was even more welcome. Even just hearing it sent a weird shiver of anticipation through my system.
"Oh, hey," I said, scrubbing harder so I could pick up the phone, get his voice closer to me. "This is early for you."
"Long day," he said, sounding beat.
"You sound tired."
"Fucking exhausted," he admitted.
"Then why are you calling me?" I asked, dropping down on the sofa. The lasagne could wait. It was at least another two hours before Gunner was going to show up anyway. "You should get some sleep."
"I will," he said, followed by a short silence. "Wanted to talk to you first."
Oh, my poor heart.
There was simply no denying that over the past week and a half... or was it two weeks? I wasn't sure. But, yeah, there was no denying that my feelings for Quin were no longer friendly. If they ever had been just that.
I waited for his call. I stressed if it was too late. I saved the texts he sent intermittently. I hung on his every last word. From the stories of his childhood and his sister and parents to the ones about the endless construction mishaps on his office, and everything in between.
I was getting to know him.
And what there was to know, yeah, I really liked.
Really.
Like, when he called, I got a flutter in my belly kind of liked.
Like, when I was alone in bed after one of our calls, I would think of him, and my body would heat; my breasts would swell; my sex would clench hard in need.
It was crazy the kind of connection you could build with a person half a world away.
"What did you want to talk about?" I asked, knowing he had to be tight-lipped about his business overseas, so much so that I didn't even know where in Russia he was. He was usually the one steering the conversation, asking things of me, then telling me things about himself as well.
"How I can't stop fucking thinking about getting you under me again."
Oh, wow.
Okay then.
Yeah.
I hadn't expected that.
He had been, much to my disappointment at times, nothing but friendly, casual, appropriate in our talks. Nothing he had ever said could be interpreted as anything other than common conversation.
I had been assuming - with a pit in my stomach at the idea - that he genuinely wanted nothing more from me in that way, that maybe once was enough for him, that maybe it wasn't as good for him as it had been for me.
My mind drove
itself in nauseating circles about all the possible reasons he just wanted to talk to me.
I guess it never actually occurred to me that he genuinely just wanted to get to know me. Before we let ourselves go there again.
"Oh," the word whooshed out of me, sounding airy.
Oh was a stupid response. I was supposed to say something flirty, something coy. Just something.
But I found my mind suddenly blank.
"Tell me you've been thinking about it too," he demanded, his voice low, deep, husky. "Tell me you've been thinking about that night, you on the bed, me between your thighs, tongue moving over your sweet pussy until you were whimpering, begging for release."
He stopped there, waiting for a response. "I've been thinking about it too," I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper.
"Yeah?" he asked, voice even rougher, and I could imagine him half a world away, alone in a hotel room, hand reaching inside his pants and boxer briefs to free his straining cock. The idea made my sex clench hard as a rush of wet met my panties. I knew where this was going. There was a second of hesitation, of uncertainty. Phone sex, for all intents and purposes, sounded incredibly awkward. But then again, I guess I had never imagined it with someone like Quin. Quite frankly, anything with Quin, I was convinced, would be sexy as hell. "I was greedy last time," he told me, voice low, rumbling.
"No, you..." I started to object, only getting cut off.
"I needed to be inside you too much. But what I really want to do is lick that sweet clit of yours until you're screaming my name. And just as you are coming back down, thrust my tongue in your tight pussy, fucking you until you come against my mouth again."
Whatever I said about this possibly being not sexy, yeah, forget all that.
My thighs clamped tight together, the pressure between becoming acutely painful with the need for release.
"Quin," I heard myself whimper, begging for, what? I wasn't sure. Maybe permission. Instructions. New to this, I felt as clumsy as a virgin in bed the first time.
"You gonna slide your hand in your panties for me, babe?" he asked, reading the moment, knowing what I needed. "Think about me pulling out my tongue, and pushing two fingers in instead, fucking you just how you need it now, fast and steady, driving you right up to that edge again."
The Fixer Page 18