The Messenger (Professionals Book 3)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "What?"

  "Kai making a move. I don't think it is gonna happen." Those words made a sinking feeling move through my center. "He's just too good, y'know? He will be treating you with kid gloves for a while, thinking you're too hurt - physically and emotionally - to think straight. Which is sweet. Sexist as fuck, but sweet. Then, enough time is going to pass that he is going to feel like he missed his shot. Then he will be insecure. And it will never happen. So.... I think you need to ovary-up, Jules."

  "Ovary-up?" I asked, brows drawing together.

  "If you want him - and that is an if. Because I don't mean 'I am heartbroken over my ex being a fuckhead, and I want someone to make me feel better' kind of want. I mean want. Him. The whole package. In a serious way. But if that is what you decide after some soul searching, then you are going to be the one to need to make the first move."

  "I... I don't really make first moves."

  "Well, get over that. If you want to see how Kai's devotion translates in the sheets. Okay," she said, clapping suddenly, pushing away from the wall. "So, that was some successful girl talk, right?"

  "Right," I agreed with a smile.

  "And look... not a bottle of nail polish or a face mask in sight. Go us."

  With that, she was gone, leaving me sitting there, thinking.

  "Hey you," Lincoln said from the doorway a moment later, taking up the space, watching me with knowing eyes. "I've always wanted to come into Jules' Room. I mean, he never called it that, but it is pretty obvious. How you holding up, sweetheart?" he asked, moving to sit beside me off the bed. "How you doing? And don't feed me assurances. How are you really?"

  "I'm... digesting still," I admitted. "Now that more people know, I think I will feel a bit better."

  "Shrouding it in shame was silly in the first place," he informed me, giving my knee a squeeze. "I get it, but I hope you are seeing now that it is better to share it, to bring us in. We will always be here for you, Jules. We don't just care about you because you make great coffee and keep the office running smoothly. We care about you."

  "I get that now," I agreed, nodding.

  I wasn't sure how long I had placed my worth in my usefulness, in my productivity, but I was finally starting to understand that there was more to me that people might feel drawn to, that I was more than what I brought to the table.

  "No more going off on your own chasing down scumbags. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," I promised.

  "Come on out. Kai is making breakfast," he told me.

  So I did.

  And I shared a meal and a few hours with these people who I had only ever known as coworkers before, not so much as human beings.

  And, well, it was one of the best mornings in my recent memory.

  They headed out a while later, Quin demanding I take all the time I need - but hopefully not too long. Smith and Lincoln gave me a smile. Miller, well, Miller made a circle with one fist and thrust a finger in and out of it when Kai wasn't looking, shooting me a wink before heading out.

  "Told you that you could trust them, Jules. They all care about you. Even Gunner."

  "I see that now," I agreed, feeling my heart swell up.

  "Here," he said, holding out an envelope.

  "Wow. That's everything, huh? I felt like it should be so much bigger."

  "Bellamy got you large bills."

  I nodded at that, opening the envelope, seeing my future restored to me. I was still on track. If not with the marriage and kids part, then at least with the home part. I could plant a garden - something I used to love doing with my grandmother when I would visit as a kid. I could decorate, make a life for myself. And then worry about the wife and mom part later.

  The schedule didn't seem to matter to me as much as it used to.

  "Do I want to know how much Bellamy's fee was?"

  "He gave the friends and family discount. Twenty-five grand."

  "And if I wasn't a friend?"

  "Fifty to seventy-five for someone normal. Up to one-fifty for someone high profile or extremely dangerous. And I called Bellamy. He is sending you the twenty-five k back."

  "What? No, that's..."

  "It wasn't your request. It was mine. I pay."

  "It was my case. I pay."

  "Unfortunately, the client doesn't get to choose how much or what they pay."

  His lips were turned up at that, knowing that logic was impossible to argue with.

  "Well, you got me there." I tucked the money into my purse, planning to go to the bank as soon as my face looked less frightening. It would be another three days at most, I imagined, before makeup could cover up the bruises well enough.

  "So, can I interest you in a small Criminal Intent binge?"

  "Yes!" I perked up, practically throwing myself down on the couch.

  And so went the next several days.

  Kai went into work for a few hours here and there, but spent most of his time with me, cooking, watching TV, playing games. As it would turn out, I was pretty good at the games on the Xbox, had gotten Kai to get salads or wraps three times in as many days. He'd wiped the floor with me on the arcade games though. I'd been plied with a bucket of fried chicken with a side of potato wedges and then a huge pile of pancakes and, as if those weren't bad enough, huge, greasy Philly cheesesteaks.

  But then it happened.

  My bruises faded.

  I woke up one morning looking just like myself.

  There were no more excuses.

  It was time to get back to my life.

  I stood there in the mirror after that realization with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  It didn't feel like enough time.

  I wanted to stay.

  I knew he would let me, wouldn't even make a comment if I simply kept staying for another week or two... or even months.

  But I couldn't do that.

  Keep playing house in a place that wasn't my own.

  I needed to settle back in my own place.

  I needed to get back to work.

  I felt the weight of all my untaken chances.

  To make a move.

  Like Miller had suggested.

  Each night, he brought me tea.

  I should have reached out, grabbed his wrist, pulled him down in the bed with me.

  Each morning, he stood there making my coffee.

  I should have walked up and just kissed him.

  At some point each day, we would sit in the living room and watch TV.

  I should have got up from my couch, and sat with him, cuddled up next to him.

  Should have should have should have.

  Should - as far as I was concerned - was the worst word in the English language. It represented so much potential, so much self-denial, so many chances that may have led to wonderful things.

  But I could never muster that confidence to do it. Partly because I simply never had to do so before. But also partly because I wasn't sure I could handle the rejection if it showed again.

  "I feel like you're about to tell me you are heading home," Kai guessed accurately as I walked into the kitchen after getting ready for the day, carefully packing my things away as I pretended to ignore the distinct sensation of wrongness inside me.

  "I think it is time to get back to things. Work. My life." I cringed as soon as the words were out, interpreting them the way Kai might. The way that said this was fun while it lasted, but I had no interest in this life long-term. And, judging by the almost guarded look - something wholly unnatural to him - I was right in thinking he would take it the wrong way. "Don't get me wrong," I rushed to add. "I have had such a great time here. But I will never get used to being in my apartment again if I don't at least try."

  He nodded at that, understanding, even if his eyes seemed a little less happy than they had been when I had seen him before bed the night before.

  "I get that. I know you feel weird about going back. But, hey, if you get there and decide it's not going to work after all, I'm here. The room is her
e. You don't even need to call," he told me, reaching into his junk drawer - something I cringed at existing at all given that it was really just a catch-all for every odd thing from paper clips to screwdrivers and birthday candles and tape with absolutely no organization of said contents at all - for a pad and pen, jotting something down before handing it to me.

  "What's this?" I asked, looking down at numbers.

  "The code to get in."

  I looked down at the numbers again, feeling a twinge of recognition, but unable to have the memory surface, so I took the code and tucked it into my wallet.

  And just like that, it was over.

  -

  Flashback - 35 months before -

  He had thought it was a simple case of attraction.

  That made the most sense, didn't it?

  She was beautiful after all.

  Any man would feel a pull toward her right away.

  But it had been a month.

  A month of the strange sinking feeling in his chest when he saw her. The only way he could even think to describe it was like when you were driving a little too fast on some backroad - the kind that was hilly and bumpy. And you shot up over a hill, feeling the whole car go airborne for a second. And your stomach dropped. And your heart dropped. Then you flew down the hill feeling exhilarated, alive, tingly, and happy.

  That was how he felt.

  Absolutely every single time she came into the room.

  After a month.

  Maybe he had been trying to call it simple attraction, seeing as the other option was, well, ridiculous.

  But as much as he tried to lie to himself, he knew the truth.

  Attraction was like a punch to the gut, it was a shock to the groin.

  And while he felt that too, it was more.

  So it had to be more than just wanting to get her into bed. As much as he delighted at that idea.

  It was more.

  And it was getting harder and harder to even lie to himself about it.

  The fact of the matter was, he felt it the second he laid eyes on her.

  Instantaneous.

  That was what it was.

  Uncontrollable.

  Nonsensical.

  Sure, he had always been perhaps more romantic than a lot of guys, more prone to putting women on pedestals.

  But this was different than that.

  This was something akin to something within him recognizing something within her.

  Like fate.

  Soulmates.

  All that insane, over-the-top, cheesy stuff.

  That was what it was.

  There was no way to look at it through any other lens anymore.

  He knew it the moment he saw her.

  Something in his soul said Mine.

  Every interaction since then had only reinforced the idea.

  There wasn't a thing he had seen so far that he didn't like.

  Her ambition.

  Her perfectionism.

  Her cleaning and organization compulsion.

  He even had a thing for the parts of her that maybe others would consider flaws - her detachedness, her desire to keep everyone at a distance, her stone-cold rationality.

  They weren't flaws.

  Just parts of the whole.

  And the whole, yeah, he dug it.

  He spent too many idle moments thinking about it. About her. About him. About possibilities.

  Fanciful, sure.

  But he couldn't seem to help it.

  Even though he knew how things stood.

  He knew that she didn't feel it too.

  He knew that she didn't look at him and see a future, see a house and kids and a dog and family game night.

  She didn't see that.

  Not with him.

  Jules was someone who would likely approach relationships with the same mindset she approached everything else. With thought. With careful consideration.

  Not hearts and flowers.

  But boxes of the right traits checked off.

  He wouldn't be surprised to learn she had an actual list for men. Along with a timeline for when she should meet him, date him, marry him, move into a home with him, have babies with him, give up her career for it all.

  That was how she was.

  And he didn't fit into that picture.

  There was no denying that bothered him, maybe even hurt him - even though he really had no right to hurt given that she hadn't led him on, he'd been alone in his feelings.

  And he hadn't made a move.

  He hadn't even suggested his interest.

  He hadn't opened that door.

  But he figured he had time.

  After he knew her better.

  After she knew him better.

  There would always be time.

  Until, of course, there wasn't.

  But he wasn't thinking of that.

  He was thinking of how well her navy blue slacks and white camisole brought out her eyes and hair and figure. About how she had four different smiles that he knew of.

  Her customer service smile, the one that got tense at the ends, that made her eyes squint a bit. The fake one.

  Her 'you're an idiot' smile. She gave that one to Kai a lot when he was being silly. And Lincoln when he was having more girl trouble.

  Her 'everything is as it should be' smile. She got that one when the finished her files, her transcription, the cleaning and organizing. When everything was perfect. That was her smile of relief.

  And then the big one.

  The best one.

  The one that made lines etch in her cheeks and her eyes dance. Her genuine happy smile. He liked that one best, of course, and saw the least. She seemed to save it for her little sister when she stopped in, or her mother when she sent her lunch without asking. That was her least prominent smile. But it was the one he loved the most, the one he secretly hoped she would flash in his direction at some point.

  But he was starting to think maybe she never would.

  Maybe he would never get up the nerve to tell her, to make a move, to make things happen.

  And that thought was enough to make his heart feel deflated in his chest.

  NINE

  Kai

  "Chickenshit," Lincoln's voice broke into my office, making me snap out of my own swirling thoughts, finding he had already opened my door without me noticing.

  "Sorry?"

  "You heard me," he said, moving in a foot to kick his door closed. "You're a chickenshit. And I'd forgive it if I thought you were just some poor sucker without any game. But I've been on jobs with you, man. I've seen you charm life back into old, dusty panties. You can turn it on and use it to your advantage. It's not that you don't know how to get what you want. You can sweet talk anyone into anything. So I can't forgive it that you are sitting your ass in here being a fucking pussy. What? Daydreaming about her. When she is fifteen feet away. And you could finally stop daydreaming about her. Because you could have the real thing. So, in conclusion, you're a chickenshit." He finished as he dropped down in the seat across from me, propping his legs up on my desk, interlocking his fingers and using them to hold onto the back of his neck, making his chest broaden.

  Lincoln didn't get the Jules thing.

  Not my feelings for her per se, but my lack of action regarding them.

  Lincoln was an action person. Especially when it came to women. You would never find him nervously peeling the label off his beer while he tried to get up his nerve to talk to some girl at the bar.

  And, sure, maybe it helped that he looked like he could star as the leading man in some primetime dramatic romance.

  But Lincoln was a firm believer that it had nothing to do with looks on our part, that it had everything to do with how we presented ourselves, how we approached the women we were attracted to. I'd seen him give lessons to some sad little milksop we had been on a job for a while back, taking him to the bar, telling him what to wear, what to say, how to approach women.

  And it worked.


  If he ever needed to give up his job as Quin's negotiator, he could charge good money to host pick-up artist courses for men who had no game.

  And Lincoln used his own personal game constantly, picking up women in bars, in supermarkets, in the line at the coffee shop. Sometimes just for fun, just because he could. Other times, because he wanted to hook up. And, oddly, just as often, because he wanted to start something up. Something more serious. Well, as serious as he ever got with women. They almost always petered out around the three-month point. Whether that had to do with the women he chose or his own lack of commitment to long term was anybody's guess.

  But as such, he didn't get it.

  My interest in Jules.

  And my acceptance of there never being anything more than what there already was.

  "She just got her heart broken, Lincoln," I insisted, already knowing how lame an excuse that was.

  Even if it was true.

  Which, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure about.

  She'd cried, sure, right at first. On my chest Through my shirt.

  But since then - aside from getting teary about hurting me - she hadn't seemed to be mourning.

  Maybe it was hard to mourn someone who had been ready to kill you. Or maybe her feelings for him weren't as you might have expected them to be.

  Maybe she hadn't loved him.

  Maybe she had been in love with the idea of him.

  Or maybe if there had been love, it had been the kind that grew from shared experiences in life, in learning to live with one another. The way people with arranged marriages learned to love one another. Maybe it hadn't been a mad love affair like it had looked like from the outside with how quickly things had progressed.

  "Don't give me that," Lincoln insisted, shaking his head. "That girl has a good head on her shoulders. So good, in fact, she let herself think she loved that bastard when it was clear she just thought she should love him. She's not heartbroken. Maybe her pride took a bit of a battering, but all the more reason for you to get your head out of your ass, and help her build it back up again. And not as her friend, Kai. She's got enough of friends. She needs a man who sees her for who she is, who digs everything she has to offer. That is what she needs after all this. And you and I both know you are the man for the job."