by Max Monroe
There was more to this story, and I’d be a moron if I didn’t follow what my gut was telling me. This is all connected.
Before I lost my nerve, I grabbed the newspaper off the counter and strode out of my apartment and rode the elevator up thirteen floors until it dinged my arrival on Matt’s floor. The same man sat outside his door, watching me closely as I strode toward him.
“Is Matt home?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell him Alex really needs to talk to him?”
He nodded again and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He typed across the screen a few times, and once his phone buzzed with a response, he slid it back into his pocket and opened the door. “He’s in the kitchen.”
I walked through the long entry, and once I reached the kitchen, I found Matt, standing behind the island, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I took a deep breath and pushed the words out of my mouth before I lost my nerve. “I’ve got questions.” I slammed the newspaper down beside his mug, the article with Vinnie Pat’s name front and center.
Matt glanced down at the newspaper and then back up at me. “Questions?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I’ve got questions.”
He didn’t falter at my words, merely leaning his back against the counter and staring at me with neutral eyes. “I don’t think you really want to ask those questions, sweetheart,” he warned, but his voice never swayed from the powerful combination of calm and in control.
Uncertainty, maybe even fear, started to seep into my nerves, but I tamped it down. I wasn’t going to let myself back down from this.
“I think I do.”
“I already know your questions, and I can tell you, you knowing the answers to those questions isn’t in your best interest.”
My eyes went wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you think it means.”
“Is this one of those ‘if I tell you, I might have to kill you’ kind of things?”
Matt didn’t humor me with a response, merely staring back at me with an irritatingly and slightly terrifying middle-of-the-road expression.
“Holy hell,” I muttered to myself and averted my eyes from the strength of his gaze. I looked out the big kitchen windows that faced the terrace. The California sun shone bright and blinding, but gave no insight into how I should proceed.
To know or not to know, that was the question.
But eerily, it felt like it might be more like stay alive or end up ten feet under the ground.
“It’s up to you,” he said, and my gaze slowly moved back to his. “I’ll answer any questions you have. But you just need to be aware of the risk knowing those answers holds.”
I stared at him, and he stared at me.
The options were simple. Yes or no. But internally, I felt like I was one clip away from either dismantling a bomb or blowing myself up. Thrumming wildly and fueled by adrenaline, my heart pounded.
Holy hell, think, Alex.
This was some deep and dirty kind of shit. I knew that much. But for some unknown reason, my curiosity was still front and center, demanding attention, asking questions, needing answers.
Red wire.
Blue wire.
An overwhelming sense of unceasing and ravenous curiosity had become front and center in my mind. Uncertainty, fucking explosions, be damned, I had to know the truth. I’d never let it go, I knew myself, and I didn’t think Matt would ever give me the chance again.
Maybe I was being impulsive and rash.
Maybe I wasn’t really understanding the gravity of the situation.
But when it came down to it, only one word sat on my lips, waiting to be said.
“Yes,” I answered. One word. Decisive. Determined. “I want to know everything.”
“COME HERE,” I ORDERED SOFTLY, resisting the urge to reach out and pull her toward me with the belt loop of her shorts. She wouldn’t want to be touched right now, and as much as I wanted the complete opposite, I could respect that.
Pride mushroomed inside my chest at the courage she refused to forfeit. It’d be so easy to bury her head in the sand, to take the money and fortune Wonderland had provided her with and go about her life. Between her one thousand a night party rate, and the generous tips she’d received from our wealthy clients, I knew Alex had to be sitting on five figures in extra cash flow at this point in the game.
But she was stubborn in her risk-taking, confident in the path life had laid out for her, and happy to live with the consequences of her own making, even if they were less desirable than those of someone else’s creation.
The ability to keep your mouth shut and your ears closed was what made a good soldier. But the endless, unbreakable curiosity and ferocity that Alex had—they were what made a good leader.
She was willing to take chances, take risks, and that said a lot about her internal strength. And when the day arrived where her subtle naïveté was replaced by wisdom and life experiences, Alex Little would light the world ablaze.
“Take a seat,” I directed. She did as asked, if cautiously, and hoisted herself up to the barstool on the other side of my kitchen island, settling her palms on the surface of the counter in front of her. White mottled the tips of her fingers as they flexed into the elaborately patterned stone.
“What happened to Vinnie Pat?” she asked directly, staring at his ugly face and the imperfect smear of ink on his cheek.
I reached out and put my fingers under the hollow of her chin, lifting it until her eyes met mine. The paradox of my already healing knuckles from teaching Moosa a hard fucking lesson and her silky, ivory skin wasn’t lost on me in that moment.
I glanced at the paper just briefly, and then back to her brilliant, turbulent eyes again. “Was he a problem?”
She furrowed her brow, a tiny wrinkle creasing the skin just above her nose. “I don’t—”
“Was he a problem?” I cut her off to reiterate, carefully emphasizing the last word with a coarseness uncharacteristic of even my often jagged voice.
She swallowed thickly and stared into the seedy eyes of a printed Vinnie Pat aimed at the ceiling of my apartment. “Yes.”
I shrugged, allowing myself a small, mischievous grin. “I fix problems.”
“You fix problems?” she asked, a hint of disbelief coloring the edges of her question a dangerous red.
God, she’s magnificent.
“Yes,” I answered simply.
“How can you be so callous about it?” she questioned with both curiosity and complaint. Both were expected, but she surprised me with the percentage of composition. There was far more inquisitiveness in her voice than derision.
“I’m not a bad man, Alex,” I explained patiently. “But sometimes, under very particular circumstances, I have to ask myself, ‘What would a bad man do?’”
“What would a bad man do?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“What would the bad man have done this time, Matt?” Each word flowed smoothly into the next, no hesitation, no fear, no regrets.
“Exactly what I did.” I turned the paper around and pushed it to the space right in front of her. She lifted her hands from the counter as though it might burn to the touch, her breathing circulating faster and faster with each inhale.
She scanned the lines of text for several moments before lifting her eyes to mine once more. “Won’t the drug cartel miss him?”
The corners of my mouth carried my smile all the way to my resolute gaze. “Who says he wasn’t a problem for them too?”
Wide and innocent, her eyes doubled from their normal size.
“Are you saying you know…that you…are you—”
“I’m not saying anything, Alex. And believe me, if you’re the smart girl I think you are, you won’t be saying anything either. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, but I could see her still-racing mind. She had more questions. Riveted, I watched an
d waited, wondering if she’d find the words to ask them.
Her mouth opened and closed, then repeated that movement three more times.
But then, that fire. I saw the exact moment it lit behind her eyes, the vivid aqua turning even brighter.
“Is Mike involved with Wonderland?”
“Yes.”
“Is he even a real landlord?”
I shook my head.
“Vinnie Pat. Mike. Being relocated to your building. It was all connected?”
“What do you think?”
She worried her teeth into her lip before shifting off her stool and stumbling a little as she took to her feet. She glanced to the door and back to me nervously. “I think I should go now.”
Shaking from the top of her blond head to her red-tipped toes, she stood there, her gaze unwaveringly locked to mine as she waited. For permission, for an ugly fate, or something else, I didn’t know.
All I knew was that she was extraordinarily brave, and I, despite all reason suggesting I should be otherwise, was wholly beguiled by her.
“Go on then, little one,” I allowed. She moved quickly to the door, her gait that of a walk but her speed somehow that of a jog. I waited for her hand to surround the cool metal of the door handle before calling her attention back. “Remember what I’ve said, yes?”
It was both a threat and an entreaty. For, as much her life undoubtedly meant to her, I was finding it was coming to mean a great deal to me as well. She wouldn’t change who I was. But the bloodstains her demise would leave on my hands would endure after a lifetime of washing. Fuck, I’d never feel clean again.
She jerked her head to a nod just once, the tendrils of her hair sweeping out in front of her, only to land peacefully on her shoulders once again. I watched the whirl of her weight as she pivoted on the ball of her foot and threw the door open to escape, waiting for the crack of the slamming door to finalize her departure. But the sound never came, Cal’s hand instead shooting out to ease the door to a stop and send it careening back the other direction so that he could step inside.
It clicked closed nearly inaudibly behind him, but though quiet, the noise transfixed me.
My chest tight with unease, a feeling I rarely allowed, I stared at the place she’d been and hoped this wasn’t the last time I got to touch her gently.
“Matt,” Cal called impatiently from the other side of the bar. The severity of his scowl suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d called my name.
“Yeah?”
“What happened?”
I shook my head, trying to think clearly enough to make smart decisions.
“Matt.”
“Have someone follow her,” I ordered.
“What?”
Instead of punishing him for questioning me, I paid attention. I could use his concern.
“No. You follow her.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” I gritted. “Now.”
“For how long?”
“I’ll fucking tell you when to stop, goddammit,” I snapped. “Follow her. Don’t let her know you are, and don’t do anything other than pay attention. Anything you’re unsure about, you call me.”
“Yes, sir,” Cal finally agreed, stalking to the door angrily.
There’s the slam I was waiting for.
Hands to the counter, I let my weight sink into them and my head fall back. After a few minutes, vivid images of Alex’s challenging light and hard-fought affection for me flashing through my mind, I suppressed any last traces of worry.
I didn’t need to.
My Alex would pass the test.
TWO DAYS AFTER MATT HAD opened the bad and dirty version of Pandora’s box, I was pretty sure my brain had inserted some kind of numbing agent into my veins as means to cope.
I should’ve still been freaked the fuck out. Scared. Paranoid. Hell, I probably shouldn’t have prodded and probed him for information in the first place.
But once the information had settled into my brain, the fear and panic had been replaced with this sort of numbed curiosity. I was inquisitive more than anything else. It was like I couldn’t even wrap my mind around the risks that now surrounded me by knowing the things Matt had revealed. I knew this was a Danger, Will Robinson! kind of situation, but my mind just kept fixating on more questions.
Maybe what they said was true: Curiosity killed the cat. Or, in my version, replace the cat with a twenty-five-year-old girl named Alex.
Not to mention over the past forty-eight hours, the only contact I’d had with Matt was one simple text exchange this morning.
Matt: Keep your schedule clear tonight.
Me: Okay.
The rational side of me knew I should have probably, you know, questioned what was supposed to happen tonight. But instead, I’d just typed Okay.
Fucking okay? Jesus, Alex. Are you losing it?
I honestly wasn’t sure anymore.
Cripes, I probably should’ve been panicked and pacing in my apartment. Or packing up all of my shit and taking the first Greyhound back to San Diego. Maybe taking things to the police.
To the police chief I saw at the Ari Simon party? Not likely.
How was I supposed to know who was good anymore anyway? It all seemed tainted.
So, basically, I’d been sticking my head in the mundane sand for two solid days.
And today’s agenda was no different. I’d be enjoying a Segway tour through Beverly Hills.
Ever since I’d moved here, I’d wanted to do it. But the one hundred and fifty bucks required to sign up had always made it impossible to follow through.
But thanks to Matt Hadder and the very generous tippers within the two Wonderland parties I had under my belt, I could splurge. So much so, I almost couldn’t fathom my life anymore. I’d made a five-figure salary from two nights of work.
That kind of quick cash felt dangerous, like I was somehow cheating or thieving, but it was nice not to have to struggle for money once in my life. And, although the parties pushed the boundaries of good and bad, they weren’t an uncomfortable or scary place to be. It was a contradiction to say the least.
At eleven in the morning, with matching neon yellow vests and bicycle helmets, our little group of twelve was a ridiculous sight for sure. But hot damn, these Segways looked like fun. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t endured mild humiliation. If I could get through an entire birthday party dressed as Sprinkles the Rabbit, I could handle the hideous and blinding gear.
“Our first lesson of the day,” our instructor Bobby started his spiel, “is safety. That is our biggest priority. The group stays together and must follow all pedestrian traffic laws.”
We stood around him in an empty parking lot and watched closely as he showed us the ins and outs of the Segway.
“Keep a firm hold on the Segway at all times.” He stepped onto his Segway and gripped the handlebars. “Always have both feet firmly aboard and both hands holding the handlebar.”
A woman with bright red hair and a fanny pack raised her hand. Her name tag read Margie. “Can you fall off of a Segway?”
“Yes,” Bobby answered. “But that’s why we’re giving you the crash course prior to the tour. To avoid things like that.”
“Will it hurt if I fall off of my Segway?” she chimed in.
“Yes, but let’s just focus on avoiding falls, okay?” he stated and then made another slow circle around our group.
“How fast can we go?” Another question from Margie.
There was always one in the group. I sighed internally. Jesus, lady. Just let him finish before you ask one million questions.
“Aim to keep a fast walking pace,” he answered. “You should avoid speeding and always give way to pedestrians.”
“But how fast is that? Like twenty miles an hour?” the only goddamn person in our group asking questions asked. Maybe I should have Matt take Margie out.
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. What in the hell kind of thought was that? You’re supposed to be ignoring Matt a
nd death and how the two relate to one another, okay, Alex?
“Definitely not twenty miles an hour. Probably more like five miles an hour.”
“But that’s so slow—” She started to add more, but Bobby appeared tired of her pop quiz and gestured her to quiet down with a terse raise of his hand.
A gesture. That’s how normal people think. Not fucking offing her. Jesus.
“These devices are not meant to go as fast as cars,” he instructed and demonstrated on his Segway as he circled the group again. “Similar to this speed.”
Margie sighed. She seemed annoyed by the prospect of not being able to careen through the streets of Beverly Hills at ninety miles an hour.
Fifteen minutes later, Bobby had us set and raring to go, and I’d finally stopped circling the thought drain when it came to Matt and everything he’d told me. Today was about fun, and I was about to have it. Everyone stood on their Segway, both hands securely on their handlebars, and our instructor waited at the front of the pack, ready to guide us through the gorgeous landscape that was Beverly Hills.
“Everyone keep a distance from one another and stay in single-line formation,” he called from the front, and with a slight tilt forward, he slowly set the pace for the group.
We only made it a block before someone started voicing her irritation with the speed. “Can’t we go faster?” Margie, who just happened to be behind me, complained. More to herself than anyone else. “This is going to take us forever.”
We weren’t going that slow. It was the fucking fast walking pace that Bobby had stated twenty different times.
I tried to tune out Margie’s complaints and enjoy the ride and gorgeous views, but five more minutes into the tour, and she started firing off more questions.
“How close are we to Leonardo DiCaprio’s house?”
“Can’t we just ride with the traffic? We could go a lot faster.”
“What time are we going to eat lunch? I’m starting to get a little hungry.”
Margie was the faucet of bullshit, and her questions and complaints and utter nonsense kept flowing at an annoyingly steady pace.
I had no idea if Bobby couldn’t actually hear her or if he was tuning her out, but he appeared oblivious to her current irritated state. My guess was the latter. Lord knew, I was trying my damnedest to ignore her.