by Jessica Roe
* * * *
Undone
The Guardians
Copyright © 2014 Jessica Roe
Cover Art © by Stephanie Mooney.
http://www.stephaniemooney.net/
Cover photo by Subbotina Anna at Bigstock
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
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Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One – Nicky
Chapter Two – Nicky
Chapter Three – Nicky
Chapter Four – Nicky
Chapter Five – Nicky
Chapter Six – Nicky
Chapter Seven – Nicky
Chapter Eight – Nicky
Chapter Nine – Nicky
Chapter Ten – Nicky
Chapter Eleven – Nicky
Part Two
Chapter Twelve – Gable
Chapter Thirteen – Nicky
Chapter Fourteen – Nicky
Chapter Fifteen – Gable
Chapter Sixteen – Gable
Chapter Seventeen – Gable
Chapter Eighteen – Nicky
Chapter Nineteen – Gable
Chapter Twenty – Nicky
Chapter Twenty-One – Nicky
Chapter Twenty-Two – Gable
Chapter Twenty-Three – Nicky
Chapter Twenty-Four – Gable
Chapter Twenty-Five – Nicky
Chapter Twenty-Six – Gable
Chapter Twenty-Seven – Nicky
Chapter Twenty-Eight – Gable
Chapter Twenty-Nine – Nicky
Chapter Thirty – Gable
Chapter Thirty-One – Nicky
Chapter Thirty-Two – Gable
Chapter Thirty-Three – Nicky
Chapter Thirty-Four – Gable
Chapter Thirty-Five – Nicky
Epilogue – Fortune
For Eliza,
my reason for everything
FORTUNE DRAGGED HIS stub of chalk along the concrete floor in a short, thin line. There were six hundred and thirteen others just like it, one for each day he'd been trapped down in his underground prison cell.
The first two hundred and ninety two lines were in blue chalk; a blue line for every day he'd lived alone in his small cell. He'd changed colour after he'd been joined by his cell mate, and the next three hundred and twenty one were in white.
There were roughly forty cells, twenty on each side of the long aisle. They were typical metal barred cells with no privacy. Fortune could have reached through the bars and touched his neighbour if he wanted to. Which he didn't, because his neighbour had taken up a 'no shower' strike, and the smell was eye watering. One back wall lined each cell, and up against it was their individual toilets and showers, which was why Fortune had drawn his chalk lines on the floor underneath his bed.
With a little sigh, he pushed his bed – a simple metal frame with a thin mattress—back over his lines and glanced over at his cell mate. He was laying across his own bed, so tall that his feet hung off the edge, with one arm resting over his forehead as he watched Fortune.
“She'll come for me,” he said to Fortune, just like he did every day after Fortune drew his little line. “Maybe not today, but she'll come for me.” And Fortune nodded, just like he did every day. His cell mate moved his arm to cover his eyes. “She'll come for me,” he repeated quietly. “She'll come.”
IT WAS OFFICIAL. Jackson Fakhoury was the biggest ass in the whole of New York City. Maybe even the whole of America. He was a horrible, scrawny little ass, who also happened to be going bald.
Actually, that was a lie. Not the bald part—his head was starting to look ridiculously shiny, even in the dim lighting of the bar. But Jackson was actually a pretty decent guy, in a boring, friendless kind of way. He just wasn't prepared to do Nicky any favours right when Nicky was at a time in his life when he really needed someone to do him a favour. And that kind of sucked.
“Aw, come on, man! I've worked behind the bar here before, I know what I'm doing. And I could really use the money right now.” Nicky was aware that he was starting to whine—and he really hated people who whined—but he'd been sleeping on his pal's sofa for the past three weeks and Hadley was all about style instead of comfort when it came to his furniture. Nicky's back was just about ready to give up on him in total protest. Besides, he wasn't lying. He'd spent almost a year of his life working in the imaginatively named 'Jackson's Bar' before moving on to bigger and better things. And yet there he was again, having come full circle.
Jackson ran a hand through what little was left of his dark hair, looking uncomfortable to have been put on the spot. “Look, Nicky, you know I like you. We're buds, right?” Um, no. “And if it were down to me, I'd give you a job in a heartbeat. You're a great bartender. But you know most of my regulars ain't exactly on the up and up, and you freak the hell out of them these days. You were sentenced to seven years behind bars, man! And yet here you stand, one year later. People wanna know how you managed to get out of the slammer six years early. My guys think you're a grass or somethin'. That you got your time shortened by selling other guys out. No one wants to buy drinks from a grass.”
Nicky took the words like a punch to the gut. “I'm no grass, Jack! I don't know why they let me out, honest to God. They just did, okay? I guess I'm lucky or something.”
“No one's that lucky.”
There was no persuading Jackson, and Nicky left the bar ten minutes later, jobless and pissed off. It had been three weeks since he'd been let out of prison. That was three weeks of trying to get a job, trying to catch a break, only to be rejected again and again, mostly by people he'd once considered friends.
Of course, he didn't really blame them, even if it was frustrating. He'd been a royal ass before getting locked up, and he probably deserved every stinking bit of bad luck he was getting. Karma, his mom would call it.
But there was no way he wanted to stay on Hadley's couch forever. Hadley was one of the only good friends Nicky had left, but he hated imposing on him. He was twenty four years old, and wanted a place of his own so he could get on with sorting out his jumble of a life, get on with his fresh start. But it was so damned impossible when nobody was willing to give him a chance.
He lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, leaning against the wall and debating whether or not to give up for the day and just catch a cab back to Hadley's. A hot brunette with bright red lips passing by caught his eye and smiled, eyeing him appreciatively. He'd inherited all of his mom's dark Italian look
s; shiny black hair, olive skin and dark eyes, and his American dad's height and solid build, and he'd never been short of admirers. Unfortunately he'd also gotten his mom's short fuse and his dad's sarcasm, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
Red Lips slowed down and he was about to flash his sexiest grin at her, the suggestive smoulder that had caused many a girl to drop their panties over the years, when he caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye. He turned, slowly blowing the smoke out in a long, thin line. He frowned when he spotted her, and Red Lips was forgotten.
Her was the blonde chick—or Stalker Babe, as he and Hadley had taken to calling her—he'd been seeing almost everywhere he went for a whole week. The street, bars, inside shops, at the park. Everywhere. And there was no doubt in his mind she was following him and it wasn't just a string of random occurrences, because every time he saw her she was watching him with those big, unwavering eyes. But each time he'd tried to approach her to find out what her deal was, she'd always disappeared before he could get too close.
At first, a crazy little part of him had thought maybe she was ghost, like in one of those dumb TV shows he used to watch when he was a kid, but he'd dismissed that theory when a) he'd seen somebody accidentally knock into her at the grocery store two days before and b) Hadley had pointed out that he was being dumb and superstitious.
But Stalker Babe had caught him in a shitty mood, and enough was enough. He was going to catch up with her, no matter where she disappeared to, and tell her leave him the hell alone!
He flicked away his barely smoked cigarette and clenched his fists as he stomped in her direction. But when he grew closer and she didn't go anywhere, he began to feel pretty stupid, especially as she was watching his dramatic approach with something very close to disdain on her dainty little face.
He was less than five feet away from her and she still hadn't vanished. His heart pounded as he realized that he was actually going to be able to talk to her.
Up close, he saw that she was about his own age, maybe a year or two older. She was pretty, he decided, if a guy liked blonde, petite and pouty, which Nicky guessed he did based on his previous track record. But Stalker Babe had an ugly gleam in her eyes and she was looking down her perfect little nose at him, and he didn't like that one bit. Nothing riled him up more than somebody who acted like they were better than he was.
“You're following me.” It wasn't a question, but he still wanted answers.
Stalker Babe didn't reply, but raised one thinly arched, mocking eyebrow, and Nicky became uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
“Were you a fan of Puddle of Cat or something?” he asked.
Puddle of Cat had been the reason Nicky had left Jackson's Bar back when he'd been just nineteen years old. He'd joined Hadley and two others by the names of Ebo and Chim and together, they'd been a second rate rock band with a whole lot of punk ass attitude. They'd gigged around the city for a while before the groupies and the rock and roll lifestyle had gone straight to their heads—and not the heads that counted, either. Of course, that had been way before his jail time.
“I gotta tell you now, girl, stalkers ain't my thing. I'm not into all that freaky shit no more. Maybe go find whatever pit Chim and Ebo crawled into and have at it with them.”
The sigh she heaved was disdainful, and even the way she folded her arms across her chest somehow came across as judgemental. “You need to come with me right now.” Her voice was deep and silky smooth, and the musician in Nicky wondered whether she sang.
He scoffed as her words registered. “Exactly how stupid do you think I am?”
“We've only spoken for a moment or two but I already think you don't want me to answer that. You don't make a very good first impression.”
Well neither did she, and she obviously wasn't overly concerned about trying for one. “Yeah, see you around, you crazy bit—”
“We have a job offer for you,” she interrupted.
He stopped. “Who's 'we'?”
“I guess you'll have to come with me if you want to find out.” She'd gone from bitchy to mysterious in a matter of seconds, and Nicky was not impressed. She seemed to sense this, because she dropped the haughtiness and spread out her arms in an open gesture. “Or you could carry on getting rejected from crappy bar after crappy bar until you've worked your way around the whole city first. And then when you finally decide that you might just want to take us up on our offer after all, we may have given the job to someone else. It's your risk.”
Nicky didn't know what to say. The thought of actually going with Stalker Babe was reckless and stupid. It was the freakin' epitome of reckless and stupid. And if he hadn't of been so absolutely desperate for a job—any job would do—so that he could prove to his parents that he really was trying to be a better person, then he probably would have just flipped her off and walked away.
But he really was desperate, and hell, he'd been called reckless and stupid on more than one occasion. Reckless and stupid enough to constantly jump head first into everything he did without ever thinking things through. It was probably why he'd always gotten into so much trouble.
“Fine,” he answered eventually, still not feeling overly great about the whole plan. “But you're crazy if you think I'm getting in a car with you, or going inside any strange buildings. And no funny business!”
She rolled her eyes. “No funny business,” she promised and, without warning, turned and walked away.
Surprised at her abruptness, Nicky paused for a moment before hurrying after her. She sure did move fast for someone with such little legs.
As he walked, he reasoned with himself that she was too small to do him any real damage if that was her intention, and he wouldn't have much trouble fending her off if she was out to steal his wallet—not that there was much inside it anyway. The 'we' she'd mentioned, however, didn't sit too well with him. In fact, it was downright troubling. But Nicky knew a few cool tricks of his own, if being quick with his fists could be called a trick, and he was sure he'd be able to take care of himself if the situation became too much of a problem.
They walked for almost twenty minutes through Brooklyn. Nicky tried to start up a conversation once or twice—more to fill up the awkward silence than because he actually wanted to talk to the snotty ice queen—but Stalker Babe shot him down each time. She walked with a determined stride, barrelling straight through crowds of busy people on the side-walk instead of darting around them like Nicky did. There was a confident, pompous air about her, and he caught her glaring at random people more than once, probably just for existing.
Finally she stopped, right in front of a tiny Italian restaurant—Valentino's—that Nicky had barely noticed before, despite having walked down the street at least a half a dozen times. The front was understated, like the owner didn't really care if people entered or not.
He followed her inside and looked around, taking note of the shabby furniture and the off white walls. Heavy red drapes hung over the windows, blocking most of the light from outside and leaving the room dark, but for a few scattered lamps. He wasn't surprised that there weren't any other customers—except for the lone man nursing a glass of something dark at the bar.
“Where would you like to sit?” Stalker Babe asked.
He was surprised she'd even given him the option; she seemed very take charge. “Uh...by the window?” At least then he could bang on it and yell for help if a bunch of her friends jumped out of the shadows and started chopping him up into human sushi and drinking his blood.
“Sure.”
They took seats at a small, rickety table, and Nicky fingered a hole in the red and white tablecloth as he waited for Stalker Babe to finally explain what the hell they were doing. “Will you at least tell me your name?” he questioned when she didn't speak. “Or is that all a big mystery too?”
“My name is Walker Wilbourn. Happy?” She didn't offer him a hand to shake. He hadn't expected her to.
“Charmed.” He waited a beat. “You
not gonna to ask mine?”
“I already know your name, Nicolas Pierce.”
Frankly, that didn't surprise him at all. If she was legitimately there to offer him a job, she must know something about him. However, it still didn't answer his questions. “It's Nicky. And how do you know my name?”
Before Stalker Babe—no, Walker—could answer, if that's what she had even been planning to do, the man sitting at the bar drained his drink and stood before heading over in their direction, a friendly smile upon his face. He sat down at their table.
“Hello, Walker,” the man said. “Was it too much trouble persuading our new friend to accompany you here?”
The man was English, and seemed so completely opposite to Walker that Nicky was surprised they even knew each other. Where she was attired for obvious comfort and ease of movement—a vest and slacks in dark green and black, and sturdy looking boots—the newcomer was impeccably outfitted in a sharp, well made suit. He seemed polished and well put together all over, from his shining shoes and his golden cuff-links to his neatly parted light brown hair. Nicky wondered if Walker and the English guy were together. He seemed like he was old enough to be her father, but Nicky had heard of weirder things.
“Actually,” Walker replied. “it was ridiculously easy getting him to come along. He's obviously a fool.”
“Hey!” Nicky protested.
“Walker, be polite.” The Englishman turned to Nicky and held out his hand—at least he was well mannered. “Charles Quinn. It's a pleasure to meet you.”
So far, Charles seemed like a nice, mild tempered kind of guy, but as Nicky leaned forward to take his hand, he spotted a dangerous glint in Charles' stormy eyes. It sent a chill through him, and he recognized instantly that he was not the kind of guy to be screwed around with.
“Nicky Pierce. But you already know that, right?”
“I do indeed.” Charles made a signal in the air with his hand, and the man who had been reading a book behind the bar—the only person who actually seemed to work in the restaurant—hurried out to take their drinks order. He introduced himself as Valentino and proudly announced to Nicky that he was the owner of the restaurant. Nicky privately thought that it wasn't all that much to be proud of, but the guy seemed so nice that he didn't have the heart to be his usual, blunt self.