Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  There was a long pause.

  “Hank?”

  “I’m staying at my club.”

  “Blackie’s? Why? Missing me too much?”

  “Yeah.” He laughed. “That’s it.”

  “What happened? The pipes burst or something?”

  He uttered a groan and I could see him dragging his hand over his face. “Wilhelm.”

  It took a moment to sink in. Hank Bannon, ex–Army Ranger, mercenary—the toughest, coolest, scariest guy I’d ever met—driven from his own home by an OCD butler. “What’s he doing?” I somehow managed to ask with a straight face.

  “Fussing.”

  “That’s—” I gave a strangled laugh-snort. “Terrib—” And then I started laughing for real. Tears, even. “I’m sorry,” I said with a shuddering breath. “Really.”

  “You through?” he said. “How about you turn up around six?”

  “Like a bad penny.”

  My hair and clothes still reeked of the skunk-weed from the morning takedown. I didn’t dare go home. The very last place I wanted to end up was at the dinner table with Cash dragging out that citizen’s arrest story. Which left only one place for Gorilla to take me.

  The penthouse.

  And because I have as much luck as a dog on the wrong side of the door, Stannis was not only home, but he called me into his bedroom.

  “How was your day?” he said from the bathroom.

  “Interesting.” I dropped onto the edge of the bed, trying to figure out how to get the night off. “Gor—eh, Ivanović has a crush on Leticia.”

  He popped his shaving cream–covered face out of the bathroom, towel around his waist. “What is crush?”

  I kissed the air. “New love.”

  He laughed and disappeared. “My day was very good. I am surprised you are back early.”

  I sat there, listening to the water run, the clink of the razor handle against the sink, and his idle talk, thinking hard. How was I going to get the night off? I have this date . . .

  Stannislav’s phone rang from the nightstand. I flopped across the bed, grabbed it, and read the caller ID. “Coles.”

  Stannis came out from the bathroom, face clean, still in the towel. He drew a line across his throat.

  I swiped the screen and answered, “Mr. Renko’s phone.”

  “Why the fuck are you answering his phone?” Coles snarled. “You’re not his goddamn secretary.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Renko is taking a shower. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Tell him I’ll see him in an hour.” He hung up before I could say, “Yessir.”

  I winced. “He said he’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Ugh.” Stannis rolled his eyes. “Talbott is needy like woman.”

  “We call that ‘clingy’ ’round these here parts,” I drawled.

  “Clingy.” Stannis rolled the word around in his mouth, savoring it. “This I like.”

  Strike while the iron is hot.

  I gave him my sweetest smile. “I was thinking I’d spend the night at—”

  “No.” Stannis said. “Home by one o’clock.”

  “But—”

  “I have meeting in the morning. And I need you, Vatra Anđeo, my luck.”

  If Kontrolyor’s spade-shaped chin juts any farther forward I might have to sock it back in place.

  Kon stomped around the penthouse like a left-winger sentenced to the penalty box.

  What he didn’t know, couldn’t know, was that Stannis chose Gorilla because of his discretion. No one knew of his relationship with Coles except Gorilla and me, so I left Kon to find solace amongst the stove and other appliances.

  I showered and dressed, taking my time and ramping it up to the nines, because Blackie’s was tony and smart and I hadn’t seen Hank in two weeks. I leaned over the sink to put on my mascara. My fingers trembled and I had to stop and take a deep breath.

  I missed Hank like the devil. And I was scared as hell to see him.

  Lies of omission had settled like a solid steel sable over my shoulders. I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. Or who I ever wanted to be.

  Shake it off, kid. “Game time.”

  I strode into the kitchen, where Kon was smearing fuchsia paste on a vile-looking mound.

  “What is that?”

  “Dinner. Seledka pod shuboy,” he said without turning. “Herring under a fur coat.”

  Wow. That actually sounds as horrific as it looks.

  “You will like.” He spread the pink shavings like frosting. “The cake is salted herring and vegetables with a ‘fur coat’ of grated beets and mayonnaise.”

  Um, yeah . . . that’s, ahhh . . . never going to happen, mmm-kay? “Let’s go, Kon.”

  “Where?” He looked up, took in my glam appearance, and shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Kon braced his hands on the quartz countertop. “No.”

  “I can either walk the eight blocks to my apartment and drive myself in an unsecure, unprotected vehicle or you can drive me in the light-armored Expedition. Gee”—I tapped a finger against my cheek—“I wonder which Mr. Renko would prefer.”

  With a grunt, Kon shoved off the countertop. He carefully wrapped the pink mound in aluminum foil and stowed it in the Sub-Zero fridge. “Let’s go.”

  Kontrolyor drove, seething in silence.

  Where Gorilla was bodyguard, Kon was Secret Service with threat identified. He jerked to a stop in front of the nondescript limestone building with a black awning and sprang out of the idling SUV, opening my door before the Blackie’s valet had even torn the ticket.

  Kon escorted me awkwardly to the door, shifting behind me from side to side. The doorman stopped us.

  “Maisie McGrane for Hank Bannon.”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Ms. McGrane.” The doorman turned to Kon. “And you are?”

  “Not on the list,” I said as Kon answered, “Her bodyguard.”

  The doorman stepped between us. “I’m sorry, sir. I can call Mr. Bannon to see if he’ll allow entrance.”

  “No,” I said, “you will not.” I put my hand on Kon’s chest and backed him up. “This is a private club. A safe and secure building. No one knows I’m here except you, the doorman, and Mr. Bannon.”

  Outmaneuvered, he nodded. “Twelve forty-five. I come in.”

  “Deal.”

  Kon gave the doorman a look so cold he shivered. “I will stay with car, right here.”

  “Certainly, sir,” he said, opening the door and ushering me in.

  I took an elevator to an upper floor of the private club. “Tall Dark and Dangerous” was waiting for me in the bar.

  Hank whistled. “Hell-o, Firebrand.”

  My hand flew to my hair. “Better as a blonde?”

  “There’s no right answer to that question.” He closed in and kissed me. Hard and possessive, the way that melted my insides.

  Leaving me, as always, behind the count.

  We followed a tuxedoed waiter into the mahogany and leather Club Room, Hank’s hand at my lower back. The waiter seated us at a quiet table with a panoramic view of the city lights.

  Japanese Gin martinis, shrimp cocktails on ice, and Hank Bannon across the table. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I was doing anything other than being with him.

  I have so much to confess, I don’t know where to start or stop.

  “What’s the grief, Chief?” Hank said.

  First things first. “Flynn and Rory got the Mant case.”

  Not a whisper of worry crossed his face. “Tough hop.”

  For who?

  “They’re damn good detectives, Hank. I saw the file. Mant’s upper torso survived the shipyard. No hands, but his face is rec-ognizeable. My brothers could—”

  “They can’t.” A comma of iron-dark hair fell across his forehead. “Unless you plan on helping them?”

  Mant would have killed me or died trying.

  “How can
you think that?” My voice cracked. “I would never!”

  “Ultimately, I’m to blame. Do what you need to do.”

  “Hank, I’m serious.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Maisie. I’m serious-er.”

  He was actually laughing at me.

  “This isn’t funny!”

  “Even with an ID and solid evidence against me, the state attorney’s office will never file.”

  “Don Constantino,” I said softly.

  Duh.

  “It’s the Chicago way, Angel Face.” The curve of his superhero mouth was so seductively smug, I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “I need to be home by one.”

  “Curfew?” His big hand covered mine. “Square things with your father?”

  I shook my head. “A non-starter.”

  The closest I’ve ever told to a flat-out lie to Hank. I hadn’t even tried to make things right with my dad. How could I?

  Hey, Da, guess what? I’m an undercover cop for the BOC’s Special Unit and in more trouble minute to minute than I’d have ever been in if you’d have just let me make my own way on the force?

  Talk about arguing Sartrean Existentialism with a twelfth-century Crusader.

  “Make it liveable,” Hank said. “Time’s almost up.”

  I winced inwardly. I had two weeks left of the month he’d given me to square things. “Putting the hammer down?”

  “I am the hammer, Sport Shake.”

  I put my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand and gazed at him dreamily. “God, I love it when you talk like that.”

  “I’m out of country again this week,” Hank said.

  “Where?”

  “Central America. Anything you want to tell me?”

  Yeah. Everything. I gave him my flirtiest, most innocent look. “Can’t think of a thing.”

  It didn’t work.

  His eyes went flat. He stood up. “Let’s go.”

  My martini was almost full, shrimp cocktail uneaten. I got to my feet and he took me by the arm and hustled me to the elevator.

  He was angry. But I wasn’t sure why, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to start suggesting reasons.

  He waited for me to get in the elevator and stepped in behind me. He hit the button to the thirty-second floor. We stood next to each other, not touching. The elevator doors closed.

  “Christ, you piss me off,” he said in a low voice.

  I have a really bad feeling about this.

  The doors opened. He exited behind me and turned right. I followed him to the room. He unlocked the door with the key card and pushed it open.

  Dark as pitch, I got two steps into the room. He caught my arm and jerked me against the length of him, kicking the door shut. He backed me up hard against the wall, his size and strength dwarfing me, waiting, letting it sink in.

  He caught my face and forced it up. I strained on tiptoe to meet his mouth, but all I could reach was the base of his throat. He kept me like that, uncomfortable and fluttery and a little bit scared.

  I shivered.

  He let go.

  Time seemed to stretch. I wasn’t scared he would hurt me. I was scared he wouldn’t. “Hank?”

  “Quiet.”

  I heard him yank his dress shirt off over his head. A button hit the wall next to me. He stepped in so tight, I could feel the heat of his bare chest through my dress.

  His mouth slammed down on mine, fierce and hot. His tongue slicked between my lips, devouring me, sucking the breath from me.

  His hands were everywhere, hiking my dress up around my waist, as my underpants hit the floor, the heat between us red-hot. A black haze of love and lust buzzed in my head. My fingers shook as I unfastened his pants and unzipped his fly.

  He picked me up. “Leave your shoes on.”

  I wrapped my legs around his waist, hands sliding over the hard muscled shoulders and ridges of scars across his back.

  He carried me to the bed, his mouth never leaving mine. His shins knocked against it. He turned, landing heavily on his back, pulling me down on top of him.

  I sat up, straddling him and slowly eased the dress off over my head. He reached up, grabbed the nape of my neck and dragged me down to him.

  With an impatient grunt he flipped us over.

  He pinned my wrists over my head with one hand, his mouth tight on my throat, jaw rasping against my collarbone, other hand sliding up between my legs. “Maisie . . .”

  There is nothing quite as glorious as the ecstasy of pure surrender.

  I was a zebra in the maw of a lion. And I loved it.

  Faint city lights glowed and blinked from a crack in the curtains. I sat up, hugging my knees to my chest, Hank’s warm hand gliding across my skin.

  I shivered.

  He switched on the lamp.

  “Good God.” The room looked like a crew of homeless raccoons had had the run of the place for a month. Clothes, books, papers, dirty glasses, empty cans and bottles, capped off by wadded-up towels. Gun oil and brushes and rags covered the small table. “How long have you been here?”

  “Three days.”

  “Gee.” I crawled over him and leaned off the bed to pick up a shirt.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I like it this way.”

  “Only one,” I promised, snagging the shirt he’d had on less than an hour ago. I slipped my arms into the sleeves and a goofy grin spread across my face. One of life’s most perfect pleasures was wearing a shirt he’d just worn. “Your room is a disaster.”

  “Exactly.” He stared at me for a long while, his eyes the color of shadows on silver.

  I got it then. Finally. This room was me.

  Hank’s Law Number One: You are defined by your disasters.

  He poured a large whiskey into a glass. He offered it to me. I shook my head. He took a swallow.

  My guts writhed like a snake in hot ashes.

  I didn’t know where to start. Only that whatever I ended with couldn’t be losing him.

  Begin at the beginning. Walt Sawyer and the Bureau of Organized Crime.

  Instead, I said, “I think my mom’s having an affair.”

  “Oh?” he said blandly.

  “She and this guy were holding hands at Tru.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Old boyfriend. Well-heeled. Cop.” And my boss.

  “Trust.”

  “What?”

  “You either trust your mom or you don’t. Which is it?” His face was clear and resolute and it absolutely infuriated me. Galling, really, his talent for simplifying a situation into a single word.

  “It’s the guy I don’t trust.”

  “Off point.” He leaned back against the pillows. “Either she is or she isn’t. There’s no halfway affair.”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “Trust.”

  Heat crept up my neck. “How can you be so cavalier?”

  “I’m not.” He set the drink down, pushed a stack of newspapers on the nightstand to the ground, and picked up his iPad. He turned it on, tapped the screen, and turned it to me. Big as life, there I was kissing Stannislav Renko at Tru.

  All the blood from my head drained into my stomach. I’m going to be sick.

  Fecking Facebook.

  Hank swiped through a picture of Stannis and I at the Ritz-Carlton to one at The Storkling with Stannis coiled around me like a boa constrictor.

  “Do I trust you with a wealthy Serbian exporter with shady connections?” He set the iPad aside.

  I wobbled, stunned.

  “Yes, Maisie. I trust you.”

  And like some punch-drunk idiot the words that came out of my mouth were not connected to any rational thought. “Where did you get those?”

  “Flynn sent them my way. Thought I might be interested. I wasn’t.”

  WTH, Flynn? “But that’s—it’s none of his busine . . .” The words died in my mouth.

  Hank picked up the whiskey and handed it to me.

  I tossed back a slug
.

  Why, oh why, hadn’t I said yes at the batting cage?

  “C’mere, flirt.” He put his hand on the nape of my neck and pulled me toward him. “Wanna play rough?”

  “Thrill me,” I said.

  And he did.

  “Up and at ’em, Firebrand.” Hank yanked back the covers and landed a playful smack on my bare butt. “Trouble’s not going to make itself.”

  Twelve thirty-five. I felt like I’d been with him for five minutes, not five hours.

  We took the elevator. Hank kissed me good-bye all the way down to the lobby. “I got your six, Sugar Pop.”

  I didn’t dare answer. I might’ve started bawling.

  I found Kontrolyor outside cooling his heels next to the doorman, who looked extremely uncomfortable.

  Kon waited until we were halfway home. He caught my eye in the rearview. “I must tell Mr. Renko where I drove you.”

  “Yes.” A small sigh escaped me.

  “But I will not speculate.”

  I smiled. Awfully sweet, considering I ruined his dinner. “Thank you.”

  “It is difficult to have relationship with powerful and deadly man, Maisie.”

  You said a mouthful, pal.

  Chapter 37

  Hank’s Law Number Ten: Keep your mouth shut.

  Some of Hank’s Laws were tougher to follow than others. This morning, a deep ache had set into my teeth from clenching them shut. A needle and fishing line to sew my lips together would have been less painful.

  Raw Chicken drove us down I-290 west.

  Stannislav’s blue eyes glowed brighter than radioactive polonium. “This is fun, yes? To feel alive.”

  The heist was happening today. And I had no way of letting the BOC know.

  “Adrenaline rush,” I said. “You’re like a racecar driver.” Or Evel Knievel.

  Stannis chuckled. “Crime is far better than driving fast.”

  The driver hit the Reagan Memorial Tollway, and exited into the suburb of Downer’s Grove. Ten minutes later we turned into the driveway of what looked like an airplane hangar with no runway.

  A giant half-barrel building sat atop twelve-foot-high cement walls. Surrounded by chain-link fence, one of Stannislav’s men waited where the fence came together, secured with chain and a bolt lock. As we neared, he unfastened the lock and opened the gate.