by Geneva Lee
“I think that’s behind us,” I say. “We had a lot of…”
“History?” Nikolai says, flashing a knowing smile.
“Exactly.”
My cell phone, which is on the table, begins vibrating. A message flashes on the screen:
“Nikolai—”
“Yes, I read it. Time to go. ” He downs the last half of his whiskey, standing at the same time. “Yes, very good. West’s, was it?”
“That’s it.”
He nods in my direction, ducking out from beneath the umbrella above us and raising his hand. Another man stands, revealing Sutton sitting behind him. She glares at me. Standing, she saunters over. There’s not a hair out of place, but she’s not happy.
“Exactly, why did I just spend the day with an overly polite, flirtatious Russian man?” she demands.
“It’s a long story,” I say as another text comes through.
“I’m listening,” she says.
“Look, this isn’t a good time.” I’d rather she not be here when Noah shows up.
“Are you serious?”
I stand up and kiss her on the forehead. “I’m really glad you’re okay, and I’m really sorry I put you through that. Maybe it’s time for you to head back to New York?”
“Are you kidding? That was the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since the FBI showed up at my dorm room.” She crosses her arms, tilting her head defiantly. “I’m going to transfer to Valmont.”
“That is…” I trail away as a large, black SUV stops catty-corner from Cafe de Flore. Noah jumps out of it, scanning all sides of the intersection for signs of me. I wave, and when he sees me, his expression turns feral.
“You look busy,” Sutton says as he marches toward us. “I’ll catch you at home.”
“Adair’s there,” I call after her. “Try to be nice.”
She gives me a far too enthusiastic thumbs up to be genuine. Skirting past Noah, she blows him a kiss.
“I got my sister back,” I say as he approaches.
“I have eyes,” he says as he draws up next to me. “You met with Koltsov.”
“You knew I would,” I say, gesturing to the seat Nikolai just vacated. “Coffee?”
“You think I’m playing games, Sterling? You’re the subject of a federal investigation, and you’re blatantly meeting with Bratva on a street corner.”
“I wasn’t going to meet a Koltsov in a dark alley.” I drop my voice. “You knew I’d have to do this.”
“Yeah,” he matches my volume, “but that doesn’t mean you get to walk away without consequences.”
I guess our alliance is over. It’s possibly the shortest-lived one in history. I’m not surprised. Noah sees everything in black and white. He always will. I can’t expect him to understand gray.
“I’d like to report a crime,” I say, dipping a hand into my other jacket pocket and drawing out a neatly-folded manilla envelope. I slide it across the table to Noah, who makes an annoyed grimace while opening it. He removes a small, digital audio recorder.
“What’s this?”
“It seems one of the local businessmen got the wrong idea about our friend Luca. Can you believe he asked Luca to kill his wife?”
Noah looks like he can believe it. Probably since he’s privy to Luca’s FBI dossier. Still, he has to listen in order to figure out where to take the conversation. But he hates having to catch up, and he despises me watching him do it.
He clicks the play/pause button, and an audio recording of this evening’s comms starts playing. Noah glowers as he listens to our banter until the moment Randolph agrees to a price of $50,000.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he says, tossing the recorder down on the table in disgust.
“You’re always looking for bad guys. I got you one gift-wrapped,” I say, leaning back comfortably in my chair. “Consider it a thank you present for helping me get Sutton back.”
“That’s all this is? You don’t expect me to just take this and walk away, do you?”
“Not really. But you probably should.”
His whole body flexes, his massive, linebacker frame straining against the seams of his suit. I probably shouldn’t bait him so much—but I can’t help myself when he makes it so easy.
“You haven’t changed. You’d rather step in shit than back away,” he says, pocketing the recorder.
“Someone has to do the dirty work,” I say, savoring the look of outrage this produces. “We can’t all sit around polishing our idealistic attitudes.”
“You really don’t think you’re in the wrong, do you? You never have. Not then. Not now.”
“What would you know about hard choices? You almost got Luca, Jack and I killed. You were dead fucking wrong about what was going on in Afghanistan, and a lot of people died.”
“I didn’t kill them. I didn’t steal guns. Someone has to draw the line in the sand—”
“And you expect to draw that line for everyone else?” I ask.
“You’re a piece of shit, Sterling. You were a piece of shit when I met you, and you’re a piece of shit now. All the people in your life—they’ll end up paying for your mistakes,” he says, jabbing at me with his index finger. “You know it’s true.”
I stand, forcing myself to button my suit jacket, telling myself to walk away, even as my hand curls into a fist.
“I know you want to take a swing at me, Ford,” Noah says, reading me like a book. “Go ahead and try.”
“So you can arrest me? I’m not that stupid.”
“You think I care about that?” He gets up, edging closer to me until we’re chest to chest, and makes a show of pulling his FBI badge out of the interior of his suit pocket before tossing it on the table. “I need to make sure you understand me perfectly. When I nail you—and I will—it won’t be for picking a fight. That’s too cheap for you. I’m going to crucify you. I’m going to make you regret every bad decision you ever made. One day soon, you’re going to look up from the smoking crater that is your life, and you’ll see me standing there, wearing this same smug grin.”
I can’t help myself. I shift my weight backwards as if I’m going to throw an overhand right, but tuck my forearm in at the last minute, slipping inside his guard and striking the side of his head with my elbow.
The blow does almost nothing—aside from piss him off. He just shakes his head sharply, like a bear trying to figure out who dared to throw something at him.
Noah takes two choppy steps forward, his arms raised like a boxer’s, but instead of throwing a punch, he feints. I step backward, bringing my own guard up, but Noah’s faster. He hooks a leg just behind my foot, and charges his shoulder into my chest as hard as he can. I fly backwards, crashing into the table next to us.
Every conversation around us stops, and most of the people there gasp in surprise. People stand and begin to back away, some of them even straddling the low barrier used to mark the footprint of the cafe seating, trying to get away from the melee.
“C’mon, Ford,” Noah gloats. “This is too easy!”
I flip onto my feet straight from the flat of my back, grabbing one of the wooden bistro chairs next to me and swinging it at Noah. He can’t escape—our space is too confined to get out of the way. He does the next best thing, though, which is to distribute the blow across the broad frame of his back. Still, the force of it drops him to one knee, and he has to use both hands to avoid smashing into the pavement.
“Had enough, Porter?” That blow had to hurt—but he’s a tough son of a bitch. I know he’s not done.
He answers with a vicious uppercut, a move I see so late I unbalance myself trying to avoid it. He launches forward like a sprinter exploding from the blocks, planting his shoulder in my stomach and bearing me to the ground.
I’m not a small man by any measure, but I’m not as big as Noah. He has the advantage when his weight’s on top of me. He rains down blows, most of which I deflect with my forearms. He catches me cleanly twice, though, once over my right e
ye, and once on the left cheekbone. The telltale sting of blood hitting cold air tells me I’m bleeding, but thankfully it’s not affecting my vision.
Twisting my body to the right, I roll from flat on my back to my side, allowing me to cover my head with just one arm. My free hand finds a wine bottle, and Noah doesn’t see the blow coming. The bottle smashes into his temple, and his weight slumps on top of me, almost knocking the wind out of me. I lever him off of me, noticing the groggy look in his eyes, the trickle of blood pouring out from his hairline. One good shot to the button—the spot under the ear where the jaw meets the neck—and he’ll be out cold.
I place one hand flat on his chest, holding him down, and cock my other arm.
Even through his haze of pain, Noah looks at me with perfect hatred. He’s never entertained the idea what he did in Afghanistan was wrong. He probably never will. I start to throw my punch, but someone grabs my forearm.
I look up and find Luca grinning at me. “You know I hate missing a play date.”
“What in God's name is going on here?” a man’s voice calls from the cafe entrance. He’s short and fat, wearing an impeccable silver suit, complete with a burgundy neckerchief. He waddles over, his feet somehow never leaving contact with the ground.
“I’m very sorry,” I say, “Mister…?”
I need to smooth this over quickly. Noah wouldn’t break his word—he won’t arrest me for hitting him. The Nashville police won’t care one way or the other.
“George Laurent,” the man says, taking stock of my appearance: expensive, tailored suit, Breitling watch, thousand dollar loafers—all of which are either torn, scuffed, or slightly bloody. “I own this cafe.”
Noah sits up, shaking off the last cobwebs from being hit in the head with the bottle. He probably needs to get out of here before anyone realizes he’s an FBI agent.
“My friend and I had a little disagreement,” I say. “Fighting over which one of us is picking up the check.”
Laurent’s mouth presses into a grim, humorless line. “I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I insist. “I’d like to take care of the bill for all of your guests, and of course I’ll pay for any damages.”
The few remaining diners around us perk up at this offer, quickly changing from scowling at me to looking expectantly at Laurent.
Noah smolders, his face roiling with disgust at hearing me try to buy my way out of trouble. He doesn’t think money should change anything about life. I bet part of him even wants to be punished for fighting. But it’s not as big as the part that burns for payback, or the part that wants to be the best at everything he does. He needs me to do this—because he’s unwilling to. Same old story.
“I don’t know,” Laurent says, a faint trace of dropped consonants pointing to English being his second language. The cafe name, his style. “It’s a lot of damage.”
It’s really not. I count one table, two chairs, and an umbrella. Replacing it should cost less than a thousand dollars. I don’t care. Getting out of this cleanly is worth a lot more to me.
I switch to French, mostly so the people around us are less likely to object to my buying him off, but also because a French man prefers being spoken to in his native language. I hand him a business card. “Envoyez-moi le chèque.”
He takes the business card without hesitation, giving me one more careful look. “Et leurs dîners?”
He wants proof he’ll come out ahead before he’ll let me leave.
I slide an Amex Black out of my wallet and hand it to him. “Oui.”
“Très bien,” Laurent says, tucking the card into his pocket and shuffling back towards the interior of the cafe.
“I’m glad your French is better than mine,” Luca mutters. He offers his hand to Noah, but he refuses the help.
Standing Noah, dusts himself off. Then, he puts his hand on my chest and leans in close, knowing every person around us will be straining to hear every juicy detail. “Your luck will run out. I’ll be there when it does.”
“I doubt it.” Lately, my luck’s been turning around.
22
Adair
“Are you ever going to stop pacing?” Poppy asks.
“What am I supposed to do? He’s been gone for almost two hours. What if something went wrong?” I actually wish I could calm down—but it’s no good. The second I try to sit down I find myself back on my feet trying to outpace the weight bearing down on my chest.
We’re at Sterling’s apartment, just Poppy and me. I don’t feel safe at the Eaton anymore, for obvious reasons.
“You’re upsetting Zeus,” she says, rubbing behind his ears.
Actually, he hasn’t left her side since we arrived. I pause to consider this and realize I’m being a selfish bitch. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I’m stuck in my own head, and after what happened earlier…”
“That’s not your fault,” she says. “I’m the stupid girl who convinced myself he loved me back.”
“Loving someone is never stupid.” I lower onto the couch beside her, pushing Zeus to the ground, so I can hold her.
“It feels stupid,” she says with a sob, “in hindsight.”
I’m not sure what to say to her. I know from experience that empty platitudes like there’s plenty of fish in the sea and everything happens for a reason is like pouring rubbing alcohol on a gaping wound. It hurts and it’s unlikely to help.
“Look Cyrus is a dick, I should have told you that sooner,” I admit.
“He hit on you, didn’t he?” she asks.
“He was drunk. It didn’t mean anything,” I say.
“Don’t make excuses for him,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Everyone makes excuses for him, even me. No more.”
“Something tells me, he’s not going to get off so easily this time,” I say.
“I just...he made that sex tape of you. I keep thinking I’m going to throw up.” She reaches up and locks her hand over mine.
That’s a sentiment we share, and I’m more than a little put out that Sterling didn’t warn me about what he’d discovered.
“He deserves whatever he gets,” she says fiercely.
“They usually do,” Sutton says, coming through the front door and tossing keys on the counter.
“Sutton!” I jump up. “Are you okay? Did—”
She cuts me off with a withering glare. “Don’t pretend to care.”
I start to tell her that I do care, but I don’t have the energy. Instead, I shrug.
“So, what did he do?” Sutton drops onto the floor, crossing her legs under her.
“You don’t want to know,” I say when Poppy’s lower lip trembles.
“You were way too hot for him anyway,” Sutton says matter-of-factly.
This actually manages to perk her up. “Thank you.” Poppy gathers herself a little, sitting up straight like she’s determined to be sociable. “You’re going to school in New York, right? What are you studying?”
“I haven’t decided.” Sutton flashes me a blinding grin. “But I’m looking into transferring to Valmont in August.”
“Oh, I can help you with that! I know everyone in admissions.” Poppy begins peppering her with questions, momentarily distracted by a mission to help someone.
I’m trying to see this as a positive and not obsess over how much she hates me when the door flies open to reveal Luca and Jack, laughing and joking, holding Sterling up.
“See? They’re fine,” Poppy says from the living room.
“You call this fine?”
I back up enough for Luca and Jack to help an unsteady Sterling through the door. His face is a mess. The cut over his eyebrow is slowly leaking blood into the corner of his eye, forcing him to keep it squeezed shut. Another cut on his cheek has fully clotted, but it’s still a nasty gash.
Sterling shuffles into the room, brushing off Luca and Jack—it’s obvious he wants to look like he’s in better shape than he is. He flashes me a wolfish grin. “I’m fine, Lucky.
Never better.”
“Did Nikolai do this?”
“Nope,” Luca says, fighting to get the words out between laughs.
“This is courtesy of Uncle Sam, actually,” Jack clarifies unhelpfully, enjoying the look of horror on my face for a moment before continuing. “Only Ford could get in a fight with an FBI agent and not get arrested.”
“I’ve never understood why my reputation is worse than his,” Luca says. “Sterling gets into at least as much trouble as I do.”
What the fuck am I hearing?
“You fought with Noah?” I guess, not finding this nearly as funny as everyone else.
“He made it clear he wasn’t being an FBI agent at the moment I hit him. Noah and I have history, remember?” Sterling slumps into one of the stools facing the kitchen, a strange, satisfied grin spreading on his face. “It was a long time coming.”
I try to calm myself down by remembering that thirty seconds ago I was worried he would die. “As far as I remember, your plans didn’t involve meeting Noah…”
“He figured out where I was somehow. That’s why Luca was following him. He was never a danger to me, though,” Sterling adds quickly.
“Says the man in need of a hospital. Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Maybe Jack should do it,” Sterling suggests.
“Jack needs a drink, and this place is a desert,” Jack says. “Let her do it. She’s going to need to learn how.”
“Where is it?” I say, using my best don’t-fuck-with-me voice.
“In the cabinet next to the trash can,” Sterling relents.
I open the cabinet door, surprised to find there’s nothing else inside, just an olive green rucksack full of tiny compartments. I heave it free of the cabinet, surprised at the weight. “This has to weigh thirty pounds.”
“More like forty,” Sterling says, grimacing as he flexes his back.
“I need a drink, too,” Luca declares. “You in, Sutton?”
“She’s under-aged,” Sterling barks.
“I don’t think you get to pick and choose which rules to follow,” I tell him.