Faking It

by Holly Hart

  “What were you doing in here?” He asks, pressing his squat nose into my face. “Why are you here so early?”

  “Boris,” I say, trying not to gulp. My boss looks like a man possessed. “It’s 9:05…”

  Boris peers at my face. His computer chimes – so quiet even I can barely hear it. Apparently, he does. “What the hell was that?” Boris growls, while spinning to face the computer stations.

  “I was working on one of the servers,” I lie through my teeth. I seem to be getting good at it. “Must have updated…”

  Boris rubs his forehead. I think I was right about the hangover. “Fine,” he mutters. “Just…”

  He tails off, collapsing into his chair and leans forward to turn on his screen. I hold my breath. The screen is clear. My fist clenches with satisfaction.

  “Just go get me a glass of water, okay?” Boris barks. “And some aspirin, while you’re at it.”

  At any other time, I would have been outraged by Boris’s request. But right now, it’s everything I want to hear. I grin.

  Saved by the bell.

  17

  Nate

  I need to save Kim.

  That’s rule number one, two, and three through ten. Hell, you can count as high as you want, but I won’t change my mind. I got her into this mess, and it’s my job to get her out.

  The only question is – how?

  I didn’t realize how much Kim meant to me until last night. I still don’t really understand how I’ve fallen so hard for her, so fast.

  I think it’s because Kim is everything I’m not. She’s sweet, innocent, and a little naïve. She’s curves where I’m edges. She takes me and makes me better. The way she looks at me, it’s like I’m the sun, the stars, and the whole goddamn sky.

  All I’ve done for her, so far, is screw her over. That’s going to change. Right here, right now.

  I crack my knuckles. I need to get out of my head. This emotion shit, it’ll get me killed. There will be time enough for it later, but now I need my head in the game. A dead Nate is no good to anybody.

  I feel naked without a gun. I trust myself to bring down most anyone, armed or not, but the weight of a loaded forty-five by my side would be goddamn comforting right now. My right hand brushes my hip, as if searching for a phantom pistol.

  Stan’s voice buzzes in my ear. “Tango coming up on your 6 o’clock, Nate,” he murmurs, as if he thinks the bad guy might be able to hear him. “Distance: forty yards.”

  I slowly pivot on one foot, but I don’t reply. I really do have to worry about stealth. The most dangerous enemy is the one who knows you’re coming. I prefer to strike out of nowhere.

  “Thirty yards,” he says. There’s a pause, before he adds, “over.”

  I shake my head. It’s like all he does all day is watch spy movies. I take one last, deep breath, and glance around the alleyway. It’s dark, damp and filthy; basically, it’s the ideal place for an ambush.

  King’s Cross isn’t the nicest part of town. Especially not out here, amidst sixty years of rough, run-down, concrete housing estates. It’s not the kind of place where people don’t blink twice if they hear a scream, day or night, but…

  …it’s close enough.

  Like I said, it’s the perfect spot for an ambush.

  “Twenty …”

  “Fifteen …”

  I roll my head around my shoulders, loosening up my neck. I’m standing on tip toes, ready to strike. The blood is pounding in my ears, and I can feel the metallic taste of adrenaline on the back of my tongue.

  Deep breath.

  “Ten.”

  “Five.”

  The man’s footsteps echo off the nearby walls. He’s wearing heavy boots. That much is clear from the thud the soles make against the asphalt. I close my eyes one last time, picturing my target. He’s an ox of a man, with three teardrop tattoos leaking from his left eye.

  He has killed, is a killer, three times over.

  I have no intention of being the next name on his list.

  I spin out from the alleyway, only a foot from a powerfully built man in a scuffed brown leather jacket and motorcycle boots. My fist collides with his jaw before his eyes even flare with the recognition that he’s under attack.

  “You pick’de wron’guy, hombre,” he growls. He thinks I’m a mugger. That’s good. The longer he underestimates me, the better. I decide to play into his game.

  “Give me your wallet,” I growl, keeping up the charade. I’ve got more than a foot height advantage on the killer, but I’d say my chances of coming out of this fight unscathed are barely 50-50.

  The gangster drags his forefinger across his lips, checking for blood. He wipes away a smear, and spits out a glob of red-tinged saliva. “Like I say,” he barks in heavily accented English, “wron’guy.”

  “Nate, report,” Stan whimpers into my ear. His voice has gone falsetto with stress. “What’s going on?”

  I grit my teeth. Does this guy seriously not understand I’ve got more pressing concerns than his damn after-action report?

  “You want a fight, buddy?” I ask, answering both the gangster’s question and Stan’s in one neat package. “Just make this easy on yourself. Put your hands up against that wall, and we’re good. How’s that?”

  The gangster cracks his knuckles and smiles. His lips peel back over his teeth, and I can’t help but recoil. His mouth is a dentist’s worst nightmare; or maybe their real-life pipe dream, if they charge by the tooth. His teeth are yellowed by nicotine and not enough brushing, and his gums are red and infected.

  “I don’ tink so,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I need a fight all day, homes. Hell, ever since I got to dis two-bit, freesing cole contree.”

  He starts to reach underneath his jacket, and my mind screams a warning. Gun!

  I react without waiting to find out if I was right. If I am, then I don’t have time to waste. I dive forward, pulling my fist back and landing a heavy blow on the Mexican killer’s stomach.

  I almost break my knuckles.

  He doesn’t even react.

  “Nice trry,” he grins, grabbing me by the front of my jacket and lifting. He’s strong: unbelievably strong. I try and push myself away, but it’s no use. He picks me clear up off the ground, until my toes are left scrabbling for support.

  Fuck.

  “Nate, come in. Nate, are you okay?”

  I don’t know what’s worse: the predicament I’m in now; or the fact this idiot is babbling in my ear. I scan my brain for options. This isn’t going the way I expected: not even close.

  “’U are ju?” The Mexican grunts, narrowing his eyes and staring at my face as if for the first time. “you’re no thug. Too clean. I seen your type before, homie. Ju’ a cop?”

  His grip tightens on my chest. I feel his knuckles digging into my skin. My eyes dart left and right. I need a way out of this mess.

  “No cop,” I protest, toes still wriggling to support my weight. “I’m here to help.”

  I don’t know why this lie fell out of my mouth. What I do know is that it’s enough to throw the gangster off his game – buying me just enough time to go with plan B. His smashed, scarred, ugly face wrinkles with confusion as he tries to figure out what I’m talking about.

  I take the opportunity to kick him, as hard as I can, between his legs.

  Sorry buddy.

  My toe connects, and even I wince. I know exactly how much pain he’s about to feel. I don’t envy him. Not one little bit.

  The gangster’s eyes pop, and for a second he looks like he’s seen a ghost. His face starts to color: going red; then darker; and darker; until it’s a grotesque shade of purple.

  “Take that, asshole,” I grunt, shaking my torso from side to side in an effort to free myself. It almost doesn’t work. I start to think that maybe this guy is too stupid to feel pain…

  When, suddenly, he drops me.

  He lets out an almighty groan, and staggers back, colliding with the huge metal dumpster.
I can see an angry fire burning inside his black eyes, and I know that I need to act fast. The second this guy can stand again, my goose is cooked.

  I kick him again, this time right in the stomach. He tries to reach out and grab my foot, but his reactions are far too dulled by the pain. I kick him again, and he drops to his knees. I kick him one last time, muttering a silent apology to the man in the sky for my unsporting behavior.

  I’m pretty sure he’ll let me off.

  The gangster collapses onto the asphalt with a heavy, pained grunt. I move quickly, grabbing a pair of zip ties from inside my jacket, and lash his wrists and ankles tight. I do it twice – just to be safe.

  I slump down next to the gangster’s trussed up bulk, and pat him on the back.

  “That’s better,” I grunt, tapping my microphone to kill the sound. Stan seems like he’s been stunned into silence, but I don’t want him to hear this – just in case.

  “I’ve got a few questions for you, jefe,” I smile.

  I roll my neck, wincing at the pain. I got lucky. Next time I come up against these guys, I’m going to have to be more careful. They know how to fight.

  The defeated gangster is straining to look at me out of the corner of his eye. His chest is flush with the ground, and he’s rocking side to side. I can’t tell if it’s with anger, or whether he still feeling the aftereffects of what I did to his crotch. Maybe it’s a combination of both.

  “Ju smell like a cop’ig,” the Mexican howls. His voice is high-pitched. Pain it is.

  I push myself to my feet, and hoist his body over. He’s a dead weight. He wriggles as I do this, but gets nowhere.

  “No cop,” I grin, giving him a three finger salute, “Scout’s honor.”

  “Den waat are jou, pig?” He grunts.

  “I’m just a man, trying to make a living.” I crouch down beside him. “Tell me what you know about the girl.”

  The gangster’s dumb face wrinkles even more; this time with confusion, not pain. I get the distinct sense he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  Crap. I was hoping for something more. But then, this guy is clearly brawn, not brains.

  I glance down at his crotch – making sure to do it slowly, so he knows what I’m thinking about doing. “Don’t lie to me, homie. I don’t want to hit you while you can’t hit back… But I will.”

  The Mexican’s eyes bulge with terror. “Jou woodent. Dat’s playin’ dirty, man.”

  I shrug, and let out a heavy sigh. “Man’s gotta do what a… You get the idea.” I clench my fist. “Start talking.”

  His eyes follow my fist. I pull it back, until my elbow is at a right angle. I get the sense that he either doesn’t know anything, or isn’t going to tell me anything. I figure the first. Either way, this is a waste of time.

  I drive my fist forward as fast as I can towards his crotch. The gangster tries to squeeze his body into the fetal position and cries: “Stop! I prromise, jefe, I don’ no sheet.”

  I stop my fist an inch from his cock, and slump back. “I know,” I groan. “You’re too thick. I wouldn’t tell you a damn thing, either.”

  God Dammit! I was hoping for more: much more, but this turned out to be a wild goose chase. I lean over, tear a chunk of cotton from his T-shirt, and gag him with it.

  I reach up and tap my ear mic, grabbing one of the gangster’s legs and dragging him behind the dumpster.

  “Stan,” I grunt. “I have a package for you. You better get your ass into high gear and come pick him up, because I ain’t waiting.”

  I need to get cleaned up before Kim sees me like this.

  18

  Kim

  I slump against the inside of my front door. I’m still in my work skirt, heels still on. The first thing I did after getting back was call Frankie. It’s been a horrible day, and I needed to vent.

  “What do you mean, he left?” Frankie says.

  “I don’t know how else to put it,” I say. “He got a phone call and just up and ran off.”

  “Hmmm,” Frankie says, sounding flummoxed. “I don’t know what to say. What were you doing?”

  I go crimson red. I’m glad there’s no one around to see. When I speak, the words barely have the legs to escape my lips. “I had my –.”

  “Kim, you still there?” Frankie says, “I can barely hear you. Maybe it’s the line?”

  “It’s not,” I croak. I need to man up. I mean woman up. This is so weak. “I had, oh my God, I can’t believe I’m about to say this –.”

  “You’ve got to, now,” Frankie laughs. “You can’t leave me in this suspense.”

  “I had my lips around his cock,” I whisper, closing my eyes. That’s a bad idea, too. Every time I do, I relive the embarrassment of Nate running off. Not just running off, but disappearing like someone lit a fire underneath him. Worse, it was the first time I’ve ever got a man naked.

  “Jesus, Kim,” Frankie sighs, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything,” I reply. “Truth is, I don’t want –.”

  “Maybe,” Frankie says in that tone of voice she always gets when she has an idea, “he’s got a wife, and kids. Maybe he’s got a whole secret life –.”

  “Frankie!” I say in a strangled scream. “You’re not making things better!”

  Frankie stops, mid-sentence. “Crap, I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry, Kim. My mind ran away with me.”

  “It always does,” I say wryly. I can’t hide the grin on my face. I may as well smile about it. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.

  “So what are you going to do?” Frankie asks.

  I pause. The truth is I haven’t got the faintest idea. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I’m still wallowing in the embarrassment of being left like a bride at the altar.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’re still going to screw him, right?” Frankie giggles. “Because if you don’t, I call dibs…”

  “Yeah, right: I can see that you’re going to fly six thousand miles for that. But, let’s talk real here – how am I going to look him in the eye after what he did? Let alone sleep with him!”

  “I’d consider it!” Frankie says indignantly. “That man is all kinds of beautiful. I could live in London. Or,” she pauses, and I can just imagine the wicked smile on her face, “do you think he’d move back to America to live with me?”

  “Frankie,” I say, with a hint of warning in my voice. I might be happy to joke about what Nate did, but I’m not over it.

  “You still like him?” Frankie replies, her voice lower, and more serious. Now, there is the Frankie I called: the one who’s always there for me; the one who’s my shoulder to cry on.

  That same darn question (“you still like him?”) has been killing me all day.

  I needed to talk to my best friend, and the time zone wasn’t working in my favor. Eight hours later, I’m no closer to working things out.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know,” I say all at once, the words tumbling into one another.

  “Do you like him?” Frankie asks – the important question, as always.

  “I do,” I say, surprising myself by nodding. “I really do. He makes me –.”

  Something interrupts me. I’m not quite sure what it is at first. Then it becomes clear. It’s the rumble of the elevator in its shaft.

  “– Smile,” I finish quietly, tailing off.

  “What’s up?” Frankie asks. “You stopped.”

  I stand up, thankful that I wore heels today. What I’m doing is crazy. It’s full-on, jilted-lover kind of stuff. “Shush,” I whisper.

  I stand on tiptoes a little, and put my eye against the peephole in my front door.

  The elevator pings. It’s too far down the corridor to see who’s climbing out. The phone is still pressed against my ear.

  “Hey, Kim,” Frankie says in a stern tone, “Don’t shut me out. I know how highly you value trust, believe me – and I know why…”

  I barely h
ear what she’s saying. I’m holding my breath, desperate to see if it’s him.

  “… And I get that this guy broke that trust. Just keep me in the loop, okay? Tell me what you’re going to do.”