He was hanging with the wrong folks and spending time in their neighborhoods. Doing what, and with whom, she had no idea. The how and why evaded her.
“God!” Cassidy tossed her phone. “What is he up to?”
***
Cassidy’s frustration with Alex hadn’t taken long to get over because her mind was stuck on Locke, and she’d immediately messaged her friend Jennifer with an SOS text for girl chat and a cookie-dough meet-up. Jennifer’s response had been a string of emoji happy faces.
A couple of hours later, with a spoonful of cookie dough in hand, Cassidy leaned against the wall catty-corner to the Cannon office building with Jennifer as they watched the people wander out of the metro.
“I can’t believe this.” Cassidy ate her cookie dough and scowled at the score of their game. “You’re winning by ten points.”
“I am. So are we going to get into the nitty-gritty of why we’re doing this?” A spoon dangled from Jennifer’s hand. “Not that I’m complaining. I just—oh, there’s one. Three points.”
The intern-aged kid with a bowtie popped out of Capitol South’s metro station. “Damn. How did I miss that?”
Congress was in recess, and it was the weekend. Jennifer didn’t have much to cover, as most members had gone home. The ones who were hiding in DC weren’t making news.
Jennifer had been a die-hard supporter of Cassidy’s since the day they’d met, when Cassidy was released from prison for refusing to give up her source. Neither one took DC too seriously, to the extent that they had assigned point values for various Capitol Hill clichés and faux pas.
Five points for staffers who stood on the left side of the escalator—they should know better. Three points for bow ties. Three points for protesters with unintentionally misspelled signs. The rest were one-pointers: bicyclists on the sidewalk, strollers on metro escalators, taxi cabs that ignored stop signs…
But that wasn’t the point of the cookie-dough meet-up, and Jennifer knew it. Cassidy shoved another spoonful of cookie dough into her mouth, mumbling a purposefully incoherent answer as to why they were having an emergency calorie-laden get-together.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Jennifer pointed her spoon. “Not cool for leaving me in the dark.”
Cassidy choked. “I’m not.”
“Right. We’re eating cookie dough and fashion-shaming preppy intern’s regrettable casual wear choices at”—she grabbed her phone—“twenty past ten on a Saturday morning. Speaking of which, we need to upgrade the bow-tie thing. Weekend bow-tie wearers need an exponential value. But nonetheless, we’re here. With cookie dough. And you’re evasive as fuck. There’s a man. Or there was.”
Cassidy gobbled up another spoonful. “No comment.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Mm-hmm,” Cassidy agreed.
They ate in silence, and Cassidy thought over everything Locke had said and alluded to.
Jennifer tapped. “You liked him, huh?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Why?”
“No idea.” Cassidy dug into the cookie dough and made sure to get extra chocolate chips.
“Ha! Bull, honey. Bull with a capital B. You don’t do anything without a reason.”
True. “He’s nice on the eyes.”
“They always are.”
“And…” This time Cassidy pointed her spoon at Jennifer. “I want to work with him.”
Her friend’s ebony eyes widened. “He’s a reporter?”
“No.”
“So, he’s what? Cameraman? Private investigator? Sound tech? Who are you working with these days?”
“No, he’s more like… I don’t know. He’s a buddy.”
“A buddy, huh? I can think of different types of buddies you can have.”
Cassidy rolled her eyes. Locke as a fuck buddy—in her dreams. Literally. But in real life, Cassidy was sure that a casual, no-strings fling with Locke would be a disaster. “I just like how his mind works.”
“All the ones who are nice on the eyes have dirty minds, but don’t confuse the words and promises for love when they make your panties drop.”
“They haven’t dropped.” Cassidy blushed.
“Wait, really?” Jennifer tilted her head. “Tell me more.”
“It’s not like that. He hated me.” She still wasn’t clear when that had transitioned. “Except we almost kissed. But it wasn’t a kiss; he just sort of bit my lip, and maybe it was a diversion. I think the best classification is buddies. Locke and I are buddies. I think.”
Jennifer’s hands flew up, backing the conversation down. “Wait. What? A diversion? He’s biting you? What is going on?”
“See? It’s confusing.”
“What’s the diversion?” Jennifer asked, looking as confused as Cassidy felt.
“I’m investigating a person of interest, and he didn’t want to me to see something. So… he picked me up. Twirled me around.”
“You’re lying.”
“It was one of those moments where you feel your heart, as if it’s talking to you. Seesawing in your chest. When your arms feel like putty, and your legs are weightless.”
“Oh, Cassidy…” Jennifer let her words drift.
“He said don’t, and I did. So yeah.”
“Don’t what?”
She blushed again. “Bite my lip.”
“I’m having a hot flash—he just bit yours?”
Cassidy nodded, failing to hide a Locke-fueled smile. “There may’ve been a little lip-tug.”
Jennifer’s spoon-holding hand limply fell. “Huh.”
“Yeah, huh.” What else was there to say?
“If we gave points for kisses, I’d call a bite a kiss, even if there wasn’t tongue and smooch action.” Jennifer dug for more cookie dough. “The intent was there.”
“Remember, it may have been diversionary.”
Jennifer sat with that for a moment then continued to scrape more cookie dough. “You had a moment. That’s all that matters.”
“Yes. I did…” Even now, the memory of his manhandling her into the corner, his arms wrapped around her, turned her on.
“Kisses that catch fire aren’t fake.” She punctuated the sentiment with a pointed heap of cookie dough. “They might be a million things. Scared. Too soon. Never enough. But you can’t pretend a spark doesn’t shine.” Then she turned the spoon over and swallowed the cookie dough. “Damn. There’s nothing as good as cookie dough and Cassidy Noble falling for a guy.”
“I’m not falling. I’m eating cookie dough and ignoring that maybe my feelings were trounced by that guy.”
“If he trounced them, then you had them, and that’s something, considering it’s you.”
Her phone buzzed, and that moment where she hoped the text message would be from him absolutely killed her. When had Locke invaded her thoughts to the point where she hoped to hear from him when her phone buzzed?
Ugh. She shook her head, annoyed at herself. That feeling of hope should’ve been disgust, starting the moment when he accused her of sleeping with someone to get the job done. That was when he went from respecting her to questioning who she was, and that hurt, even if they did wrap the evening up with a heartfelt moment about staying safe.
Still, Cassidy held out a slice of hope that he’d texted her. She pulled the phone from her bag, and—it was him.
“Now, there’s a happy face,” Jennifer said, eyeing her phone. “Well, what’s the boy say?”
Cassidy gave her a side-eye. “Not a boy.”
“Ermehgawd. The man. Give me a break.”
She swiped the message and read it then glanced back up, biting her cookie-dough-flavored lip. She showed the phone to Jennifer.
LOCKE: So…
“That’s it?” Jennifer’s dark brows lifted incredulously, and then her mouth made an O shape as wide as her eyes as the phone buzzed again, and Cassidy pulled it back to read the message.
LOCKE: I’m a jackass.
“That’s like
killer ‘I’m sorry’ in Dude,” Jennifer reported in her most professional voice.
Cassidy squinted at her. “Do you string those words together on air?”
“Shut it, and do not downplay the significance of an apology from the man.”
She typed back and let Jennifer in on her response.
CASSIDY: I know.
“Seems appropriate.”
Her phone buzzed again, and Jennifer asked, “What’d he say?”
LOCKE: Did you look up Mikhailov?”
She had looked Mikhailov up, and she’d found more than she expected about the former KGB and FSB family with ties to Russian crime clans in the US, particularly a group that the Internet called the Baltimore Bratva.
CASSIDY: Maybe…
LOCKE: There’s an interesting meeting tonight at a local hot spot.
CASSIDY: Interesting. There’s a teacher we know with plans to hit up a club tonight.
LOCKE: Interesting…
CASSIDY: Yup…
“Let me see,” Jennifer said and snatched the phone. “Oh, this is work. Well, maybe. Look at you two and your overuse of ellipses.”
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Thank you, grammar princess.”
“Ask the man to the club.”
She balked. “No way.”
“It’s not a date. You want to work with him. Ellipsis. He’s done some legwork. Ellipsis. You two go work together. Ellipsis.”
“Why did I share with you again?” Cassidy hesitated then reached for the cookie dough—and Jennifer grabbed her phone.
“Jennifer! What are we, twelve?”
“Apparently,” she said, quickly typing as she fended Cassidy off.
The phone buzzed as Locke responded to whatever Jennifer had typed.
“Jennifer!”
She read it and grinned, handing over the phone. “Nope, but you are a reporter with a partner.”
CASSIDY: Let’s go.
LOCKE: Sounds good.
“Don’t even pretend you mind.” Jennifer dug her spoon into the cookie dough. “Everything just happened like it was supposed to.”
***
The thumping bass of Red Star vibrated outside the Russian club’s doors. This wasn’t where Alexander wanted to be. Clubs weren’t his scene. Neither were most of the Mikhailovs’ businesses. But he’d always been their errand boy. That was how he’d met Taisia in college.
The long line wrapped past the length of the velvet rope. Two bouncers Alexander knew from over the years stood by the door. If Ivan didn’t require an update on Alexander’s work, then he would rather be at home working on it, and getting closer to Taisia and Alyona, rather than talking about it. But Ivan liked to hear himself talk.
A woman in a skirt that was no longer than a tissue continued to walk by, back and forth, hoping for his attention—which she would never get. He ignored her and the heartburn that sloshed in his chest. It wasn’t so much what he was doing, it was that Taisia didn’t approve—but she never approved of his relationship with her father.
She’d had a fit the night before, promising this wasn’t the way, dancing in circles that her father was getting worse and worse as he aged, not relaxing into retirement as they had one time mused he might.
Taisia didn’t know how far up the Mikhailov organization Alexander had climbed. She couldn’t have known the type of work he’d progressed to and how Ivan needed Alexander. Growing up with a high-ranking KGB agent as a father colored her vision of how influential and manipulative the Mikhailovs were. She constantly fretted over how the KGB worked over assets: They work you. They wait until it’s right.
Maybe. But the time was right for both him and Ivan.
Taisia didn’t see that the KGB no longer existed, and she acted as though the FSB and the KGB were one and the same.
Until it’s right…
Alexander rubbed his chest, and Taisia’s angry words echoed in his ears. “You’re working with my father, aren’t you?”
He was giving Ivan Mikhailov what he wanted: information gained illegally. Stolen from influential people.
Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. Anything was for sale if it meant access to his daughter. That was why Ivan had pulled off Alexander’s kill order and opened the lines of communication. His daughter and granddaughter were for sale after years of Ivan’s fury.
One of the bouncers flagged him over, and Alexander drew near. “Yeah?”
“He’s running late. Would you like to wait on the inside?”
With the music, the alcohol, and the lust? “The fresh air works for me tonight. Thanks.”
The bouncer nodded. “He’s bringing someone for you.”
Alexander tried not to cringe at how Ivan operated. He was a bábnik. Americans would call it a pimp. Women were commodities, and of course, Taisia would know this but also that Alexander wouldn’t touch another woman.
What she didn’t understand was that Alexander would do anything for their daughter. He’d worked with both their fathers and the Bratva his entire life. There was no question that he’d take it to the next level to see his daughter and become a family.
Across the street, a man held a pregnant woman’s hand as they threaded through the late-night crowd. Alexander’s mind flew back to years before, when Taisia had said the scariest, most fantastic words he’d ever heard. “The doctor said I’m not sick. I’m pregnant with a baby. Rebenok.”
A baby. Still, the word rebenok brought him to his knees.
Taisia had been his girlfriend. The baby was nothing that they had planned but everything that they could handle. There was no question it’d be hard in college, but their love made them stupid and blind and able to dream the impossible. A family that wouldn’t be like the one he was born into. It would be a real family. A warm one. People who loved each other and did nice things. Who had nice things. Where kids were tucked in bed at night and food was served at meals.
He couldn’t wait to have a family. One second, Alexander was walking around, waiting for the day that he could shout that he would be a daddy as Taisia smiled and giggled, patiently waiting until they passed a random day circled on their calendar. Because it would be “safer.” Because things “happened.”
What seemed like the next second, his dreams died. Things happened—no. Her father happened. Ivan couldn’t stomach a grandchild born on American soil.
Alexander had never said goodbye. He came back from class, and the apartment was empty. Her clothes were gone. Their patchwork home of mismatched furniture, pictures in frames, and decorations pulled together by broke college students on a budget left no sign of her.
Ivan sent a low-level Bratva lieutenant to deliver a simple message. “Don’t chase her.”
Their apartment didn’t even smell like her anymore. Everything had been bleached and wiped down from top to bottom. All traces of the woman he loved were gone, and Alexander was destroyed. He’d collapsed on the floor, weeping for his woman pregnant with his child. There had been nothing he could do over the years other than attempted and shared Internet messages.
Eight years later, he still hadn’t held Alyona. Alexander respected Taisia’s concerns, but to hell with her worry. They had an offer she was unaware of. Ivan had put his daughter and grandchild up for sale.
A Suburban with tinted windows pulled to the front of the club. Without a doubt, Alexander knew it would be the Russians. A moment later, the front passenger door opened, and Ivan appeared with a woman in his lap. She fell off, giggling and sloshed. Scantily dressed and ready to party, the model lookalike matched the stereotypical cliché of Russian FSB arm candy.
The back doors opened to reveal Mikhailov associates he knew. They followed the same routine as they exited the Suburban with women on their arms who were wearing what he would consider loincloths and sequin pasties. They had long legs and high heels, beautiful hair and bright eyes, and were marred by the mask of alcohol.
Maybe it had something to do with how Alexander had grown up, but he hated drunk
enness to the point of oblivion. He didn’t mind a good vodka and appreciated a good liquor. But getting drunk to forget, as these women were doing? He had no respect for that. They were the entertainment for the evening. And one of those beauties had been assigned to Alexander. Ivan was disgusting.
Speaking of disgusting, Ivan greeted him as they walked toward the entrance. The bouncers said nothing. Only a short nod, and the door was theirs to go through. One or two people who waited in line were stupid enough to complain, and the bouncers moved to throw them out. Alexander knew what would happen without even seeing the next steps as they disappeared into the dark cloak of the club.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cassidy was too old to be in a club. The dress was too small. Too tight. Too everything that made it perfect for where she was going. The point was to blend in, and this dress did that. But that didn’t mean Cassidy liked the ensemble. She wore a jet-black wig—not one that made her look like a Halloween freak, but a sexy one with a stylish bob—and it totally worked. She had a couple of them just for such occasions—undercover work. And she loved the shoes. Honestly, she loved the dress. Why lie to herself? But it was a date-ish dress that showed a lot of skin, and she worried it was too much as she waited for Locke.
Cassidy turned, and—the awe hit. There he was, ambling down the sidewalk like it was just another night where the sea of people parted for him. His clothes stood out but weren’t flashy, his blond hair was brushed back but still had a bad-boy wildness that matched the sharp cut of his chin and jaw bones. She’d never noticed how gentle his eyes were and how his lips could turn up in an almost lazy smile.
“You’re early,” he said, closing the distance, his gaze tracking from her heels to her hair.
Cassidy enjoyed every second he took to appreciate her. It didn’t feel as if he was ogling but rather as if he was memorizing her. “I am?”
“Well, I was, which means you are.”
“Oh, well, maybe a minute.”
“You’re not a redhead tonight.” Locke seemed as if he couldn’t hide his smile—and was that a little color on his cheeks?
Locke and Key (Titan Book 12) Page 12