by Nana Malone
And then I saw it in his face as it dawned on him that he'd been the one pulled into the trap.
"Just one question though; who the fuck sent you?"
"Fuck. You."
"I'm not sure you understand. I asked you a direct question, and you didn't answer. It's quite rude. Who sent you?"
He shrugged then. "Your mum."
"So, now we're trading mum jokes. Okay, I have one," I said as we turned, circling each other with our fists up. "Your mum is so ugly that all she could do was produce a baby who is the spitting image of her."
The bloke was about six feet tall, wide though. Stocky. Big meaty fists. If I got hit by one of those, it was going to hurt. A lot. His upper lip curled in a sneer. "Was that your best attempt?"
I stopped moving then and planted my feet. "No. I know it was a little weak. But I needed to distract you."
The fucker had the good sense to scope out his surroundings.
"Yeah, fucker, we're not the only ones out here."
Then he staggered toward me. The brunt of the hit on the back of his head shook him, making him crumble in front of me. Anger and irritation flashed in his eyes before he fell.
I dragged in shuddering breaths "What the fuck took you so long?”
“Well, excuse me for having faith in you to handle that.” Drew stepped out of the shadows. "I mean, I was kind of enjoying your jokes back and forth. But he was right. Your joke was weak."
I breathed a sigh of relief as we rolled the twat over on his back. "I wasn't making a joke though. It's just a statement of a fact. He is ugly. And thank you for not making me ruin this suit. It's one of my favorites."
Drew just rolled his eyes and leaned over. "Why am I the one who put him down?"
"I was playing with my food. Working out my frustrations."
"Yeah, fair enough. Do you know who he is?"
I shook my head. "No, but we're going to find out."
I quickly searched his pockets but came up empty. Then I took out my phone and the case I had for it from my back pocket. I always kept a piece of sticky film just for these situations, should I ever need to lift a print.
I peeled back the covering of one of the film sheets and took an imprint of both thumbs and then resealed it. Then I took a photo of him. "Let's find out who he is. Maybe who he works for."
Drew panted. "Yeah, anytime you want to say thanks, I'm just sitting here waiting."
"Oh, come on, all you had to do was stand in the dark and knock the guy out. I did the hard work. I actually did some fighting there. I almost tore my suit. This is a Boateng, dammit."
Drew rolled his eyes. "God, why are you such a princess?"
I blinked at him owlishly. "Because I like to look good."
He laughed. "So ugly, yet so lame."
I scoffed. "Please, we all know that I'm the prettiest of us."
Drew rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that’s Ben."
I rubbed my jaw. "I am insulted. You know what? Let's ask your mum."
Drew made a gagging sound. "You wish."
I turned to the eejit on the ground. "So, what the fuck are we going to do with him?"
“Call housekeeping. Then you get to find out who’s coming after you.”
Chapter 3
Nyla
Talk about sad.
No, screw sad, this was an intervention waiting to happen. After being humiliated at London Lords, I was dragging my sorry arse back home.
Where else was I going to go? It was bloody Sunday. And perhaps, I’d spent a concerted amount of time at the off-license searching out the best wine on my way home. Not that it really mattered what kind of wine I chose to consume.
So you're just going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself?
I tried to tell myself that wasn’t what was happening. That I was just drinking some wine after a shitty breakup where I didn't exactly know what I’d done wrong or why I was being broken up with. But this was fine. Everything was fine.
Seriously, when did you get so pathetic?
My argument with myself was not helping my mood.
In the end, I bought one bottle of red, one bottle of white, a bottle of rosé, and snacks. Several kinds of biscuits. And even American Cheetos. I’d missed American Cheetos. When I was a child, I consumed copious amounts of Cheetos, getting cheese dust smeared everywhere in the back of Mum’s car.
My father would insist that they were bad for me. And all said and done, I was inclined to agree with him. But still, that cheesy, powdery goodness, artificial all the way, was comforting. And in moments like this, when I was under stress and duress, that was what I needed.
With my double-fisted bags of shame and glory, I stepped outside the store and brought up my hood, hoping none of my neighbors saw me in my sad joggers and jumper.
This was breakup food. I already had pints of ice cream at home. This was only to tide me over until I could do real grocery shopping. But the idea of perusing Sainsbury's, even online, was too much to bear. I could make do with wine and Cheetos.
Okay, Maltesers too. Because one needed chocolate in moments like this.
How in the world was this my life? I had once been a badass with a great job and good friends.
But then I'd had the not-so-bright idea of leaving MI5 to come and work for my father at Interpol. Why had I done that? From the moment I made that painful decision three years earlier, I'd only been unhappy. Any effort to get my father to notice me was met with disdain. Because, as he said, I shouldn't be chasing approval.
But he was my bloody father.
Although, if I was being honest, I didn't so much chase his approval as want him to notice that I was fantastic at my job. All on my own. And I couldn't really give up a good fight, which, you know, was probably a detriment from his point of view.
With a sigh, I hefted my bags, wishing I'd brought my trolley along, but my townhouse was only a few short blocks, and I would survive.
I turned a corner and started to get that prickly heat sensation along my neck. The same kind of heat I’d listened to on more than one occasion. The same kind of instinct that said, ‘even though the man approaching you walking his dog is smiling and looks friendly, like somebody you might meet in a pub, doesn't mean you can trust him.’
That heat slithered along the back of my neck. I switched my bags to my left hand and reached inside my pocket for my set of keys.
We weren't even supposed to have Mace. It was illegal in Britain. But there was a little puffer tab that was created by MI5. It looked like a key fob. But one press in the direction of whoever was trying to attack you, and it would puff out a fine mist and powder. One that would act like Mace, stinging the attacker's eyes and giving them boils. It was temporary of course, nothing permanent. But it was enough to allow time to get away.
In the name of safety, every single MI5 agent had one. Sadly, it was a one-time use situation.
I'd never had to use mine, and didn’t turn it in when I left the organization. It was on my key chain. And unfortunately, it seemed like I might have to use it.
Up ahead, the guy was turning onto my street. Unfortunately, I had to pass a darkened alley to get to my home. I scowled. Why the hell wasn't the off-license on a better marked road?
Also, why did you have to stop at the off-license? That's pathetic.
It wasn't pathetic. I got dumped. I had a right to wine. At least it wasn't bourbon.
I’d had a bourbon stint once while in uni. That had ended poorly, and I'd never done it again. I tried to assess if there was a possibility of me making it around the alley, but that would involve having to turn around and go back.
No. I could do this. All I had to do was make sure my hands were free. I could make this happen.
When I passed the alley, it was a feat to ignore the screaming whine of my instincts beckoning me to do something. To fight. Or run. Do something other than walk steadily forward. My instincts begged me to pull out a bottle of wine and be ready to use it as a weapon. B
ut I was rational and stayed calm. I knew that my puffer tab was the best defense I had. And home was close. Home was so close.
And then I had a wayward thought. Who are you going to call if this goes south?
I wasn't calling East. That was for damn sure. I wasn't calling Denning. I supposed I could call my father. That's if he would answer.
I settled on Amelia. But how had I gone from having a whole crew, a whole team of people behind me who would come at a moment’s notice if needed, to having only one person I could rely on? There was no one to call except Amelia. I would absolutely rely on her if I had to, but, God, my life had certainly gone tits-up in the last few weeks.
Once in the alleyway, I marched with purpose. Slapping forward, head up, eyes alert. Ready for anything. But sadly, nothing happened. All that anticipation, all that tension for nothing. What the hell was wrong with me?
Maybe this whole East thing had messed me up more than I thought.
I stepped one foot in front of the other, step after step, and managed it through the darkness, the broken streetlamp up ahead flickering dimly. Once I passed it, knowing that I was halfway through made me breathe slightly easier. It also made me even more aware of my surroundings, the rustling of footsteps behind me, the voices and laughs from a club or a bar up ahead.
All somewhat familiar.
At the end of the alley, just when I was breathing a sigh of relief, someone called my name. "Nyla."
I coughed and jumped. "Jesus fucking Christ."
It was Hazel, Denning's girlfriend, and I walked right into her.
"Hey. Are you okay?"
"Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?"
She held up two bottles of wine. "I have a party on the next block over. I just walked from the tube." She pointed back at the brightly lit tube station.
"Oh, right."
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
I held up my packages, and because I had no excuse save to admit that I might now have a drinking problem, I said, “Uh, yeah. I also have a party.”
She laughed. " We should have you over again."
"Oh yeah, like it went so swimmingly last time?"
She laughed. "Well, okay, it could have gone better, true. But, you know, I think you had a point. Denning can be an arsehole."
My eyes went wide. "What?"
"Look, I know who I’m marrying. I do. There's nothing you could tell me about him that I don't know. He can be the worst, but when he has moments of kindness and vulnerability, it's amazing. And that is the Denning I know. I'm sorry you had a different experience."
"Yeah, if he makes you happy, it’s none of my business."
"Right. But are you okay? You looked a little scared."
The furrow of her brow, her wide blinking eyes, did say concern. But there was something just, I don't know, off about her being there.
“Why would say that?” I didn't know her that well. It was entirely possible she knew someone over here. After all, the flats in this neighborhood were high-end, fancy. All kinds of people lived in them. People who might even buy her art, after all.
"You're sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
She hesitated. "Do you want me to walk you to your party?"
What, and discover that it was a party of one? A pity party for myself? Hell no. "No, it's all good. I’m just going to head upstairs."
"Well, great. I'm glad to see you, Nyla. You have a good night, okay?"
I nodded and gave her a wan smile. Honestly, she was very nice, but her choice of Denning made her suspect, so I knew I couldn't trust her and would never be able to.
But, poor thing, she was definitely too good for him. And she had no idea.
Nyla
My glass bottles clinked as I placed my bags on the counter. I pulled out the white and the rosé, placing them in my refrigerator. The red I uncorked and let sit for a moment.
For several long beats I forced myself to take soothing deep breaths to try to calm my racing heart. I was fucking losing it. Three years ago, I'd had an ideal life. Why the fuck had I ever left MI5? I’d been happy. Rising. Doing well. My father respected me. I’d had friends, so many friends.
But now? God. My life had shrunk to this Interpol job, which I’d recently lost when I was suspended by my own father, an ex I hated who had ruined my soul, my one friend I saw regularly whom I’d also worked with, and a man who no longer wanted me.
To make matters worse, I was actually pining for it all. I wasn’t used to being a loser. I was a badass who took charge of things.
Oh yeah... You’re such a badass that you’re going to drink that entire bottle of wine without a glass, aren’t you?
I eyed the bottle curiously. Wasn’t I doing the environment a favor if I drank it straight from the bottle? For the first time in my life, I had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no case to follow up on, nothing. I should be relieved. I hadn't had a vacation in, God, how long? An honest to God vacation, relaxing and shit. At a beach. I should go to the beach, not in the UK, but somewhere sunny.
Some time away would certainly do me good. Everything was upside down, and I needed to figure out how to get back on equal footing. But how? I didn’t even know how I'd gotten off the right footing in the first place.
You know how. You trusted East Hale.
I grabbed the bottle, sans glass might I add, and headed for the living room. But before I passed the threshold, I tripped on something pink and frilly. Upon further inspection, said pink and frilly thing appeared to be my panties.
What. The. Hell?
We’d made love all over the flat the night before, but he’d gotten me naked in the living room, not the kitchen. So where had these come from?
Frowning I held them up. It was a fresh pair. They still had the faint scent of my detergent.
Maybe, they’d stuck to me when I’d gotten dressed this morning?
Or he knew he was leaving and tried to take a souvenir.
No. That was creep city.
But just the kind of shit he would do.
Unable to help myself, with bottle in hand, I searched my flat. If he’d been there, he had to have left some evidence.
I knew I wasn’t being rational. But with every sip of wine, logic flew out the window. Who needed rationality when I had wine?
I told myself I was being crazy, that I'd find no evidence. But in my bedroom, the hint of musky aftershave lingered in the air. And there was a divot on my duvet. I could see the faintest hint of an impression.
You're grasping at straws.
No. I wasn’t. He’d been there. But the question was, why?
I might’ve been angry with him. I might’ve thought that he was being a juvenile prick. And he might’ve even scared me just a little, but I still trusted him. I knew he'd been telling the truth about the London Lords. If I was being honest with myself, I'd known before I even started chasing them. What had irritated me the most about the Lords was that I didn't like to lose.
I fell back onto my bed, careful of my half-empty bottle of wine. How had my life gone from what I'd always wanted to this? Running around my flat, swearing I could smell the man who dumped me. If I hadn't started talking to East, started falling for him, my life would have been normal. Sure, I might have hated being under the constant torture of Denning Sinclair, but at least it would be mine. At least I'd have cases, a purpose.
You'd be making your father proud.
Instead, this was my life. Lying about on my duvet with a half-empty bottle of wine.
I wasn’t pathetic. I just needed my job.
Ever since I could remember, I'd wanted to be an Interpol agent just like my Dad. I thought it was so cool when he went skipping off to different countries, working with law enforcement. I’d thought there was a whole lot more of chasing the bad guys, but it was mostly bureaucratic except for the occasional case where I was tracking down jewel thieves. But even then, tracking them down was mostly following paper trails, investigatory
stuff. There was very little actual chasing of the bad guys. When the time for that came, I called in local law enforcement. But still, I needed that chase. My brain needed to work. Without it, who was I? That was the problem when your job was your whole life.
It had given me meaning. A purpose. A way to connect with my father even after years of not being able to really communicate with him. Oh, I knew my father loved me. I didn't have the usual daddy complex that most girls did, but I felt like I was always disappointing him. I knew, that in so many ways, I wasn't exactly what he wanted in a child. The worst part was, Denning the Dick had exploited that. And now I was paying the price.
No more thinking about Denning.
My brain gave me a replacement. East.
The way he’d hovered over me last night, one arm braced, his hips bracketing mine. His other hand cupping my cheek as he held my gaze.
My bed smelled of him… of something woody and expensive. He’d come back today. For what though? His things? I was unable to find any evidence that he had been there, but everything in my cells told me he had been. Like his presence had cast a shadow in my flat on everything he’d touched.
And don't forget the knickers. They hadn’t been there this morning. I’d done a mental sweep of the place as we’d left. I hadn't seen them. He’d been back.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
It was. Wishful. I wanted him back so I could rail at him for doing this to me, for turning me into this weak, needy person.
You’re not needy. You're heartbroken. It’s different.
My mind wouldn’t let it go. The possibility that he’d been there. But why?
Did he want something from me?
Was he… watching me?
My skin flushed hot at the thought, and I throbbed between my thighs. Missing him. I was so fucked. I’d been had and discarded by the billionaire. I needed to get over it as quickly as possible.
But the idea that he couldn’t let go stuck with me. He’d watched me before from cameras across the street at the parking tower. I’d kept my blinds lowered after that. But if he was going to torture me, then maybe a little payback was in order.