Power Play

by Landish, Lauren

  She blushes. “No, none of that. Just a rough start.”

  “Are you figuring shit out though? I mean, he’s here. And not many guys would volunteer to do an airport run unless there was a promise of sex later.”

  She giggles, but when she glances toward Nathan’s back, she sobers. “It’s complicated.”

  I can tell there’s so much she’s not saying, but this isn’t the time or the place. I know we’ll get into the deeper stuff later, so for now, I help her play it off. I hold my bent pinkie finger up and pout exaggeratedly. “Soooo complicated.”

  She laughs loudly at that, moving quickly to push my hand down and hush me. “That’s definitely not the issue.”

  “You two okay back there?” Nathan calls over his shoulder.

  “Yep, all good,” I reply, winking at a wide-eyed Emma.

  Nathan drops us off at Emma’s apartment and disappears, saying work is calling. Though it was nice to meet him, I can feel what Emma’s not talking about. When she’s not paying attention, he watches her.

  But sometimes his looks seem affectionate and warm, other times almost wary and suspicious. It’s like there’s a running monologue in his head about her, and he can’t decide what to listen to or what to feel.

  But when their eyes meet, there’s no question something’s happening between them and that their connection is powerful.

  I’m just not sure he knows it. Emma, on the other hand, is an open book to me. She loves him.

  The heart wants what the heart wants.

  We pile into her place and spend the next twenty-four hours lost in chatter, in the past, in Europe, and Emma’s work, both with Professor Ford and with the play.

  Every time I try to steer the conversation around toward her relationship with Nathan, she deflects or waves my comments off. I let it go. Somehow, with everything else we’ve missed, it’s easy to talk about everything under the sun but our love lives. Especially since I don’t really want to talk about mine either.

  * * *

  The next day, and I feel a bit . . . out of sorts. It’s been a very long time since I’ve really laid on the glam and dressed to the nines. I don’t even recognize the woman looking back at me in the mirror.

  Emma, of course, looks stunning in a pale grey dress that makes her look like a walking fairy princess as it floats around her, and she lets me borrow a black sheath dress that looks simple from the front but plunges dangerously low in the back.

  “How do you have a dress that fits me, anyway?” I ask, looking at her lean, willowy form contrasting with my short, curvy one in the mirror. “You can’t hold one of my boobs in both of your cups.”

  She bites her lip, finally grinning. “I knew you wouldn’t have one in your bag from Europe, so I got it for you, secondhand. I had it cleaned and everything. It wasn’t expensive, I promise.”

  I look down at the dress, warmed beyond measure that she’d do this for me. Once upon a time, I wore dresses like this damn near every weekend, and I left a closetful of them when I ran away from home. But I haven’t worn something like this in ages. Or more accurately, in a lifetime, because that’s what my time under my parents’ thumb feels like, a lifetime ago.

  Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever worn a dress like this, one that someone bought with love because they wanted to spend time with me. To me, it means more than any Vera Wang or Oscar De La Renta, regardless of the label.

  Tears burn in my eyes, and Emma fans my face with her hands. “No, don’t do that, bitch. You just got your makeup finished.” She makes a silly face, and I laugh, just as she intended. “There, that’s better. Come on, we need to go.”

  The cab pulls up to the Four Seasons in Tribeca and Emma pulls out an envelope, showing me the invitation as we wait our turn to enter. The thick ivory paper has tonight’s invitation to the festivities honoring the ‘Bastions of Broadway’.

  “What’s that mean?” I ask Emma, barely holding back a joke about the Bastards of Broadway. Tonight is important to her, and I’m slipping back into my previous persona, a lady who doesn’t make inappropriate jokes at inconvenient times. Like when I can see the photographers preparing to snap pictures of my best friend.

  She gushes in excitement. “They’re celebrating all the past shows on Broadway. Theater people love kissing their own asses. But some of the people currently on Broadway, or just off-Broadway, got invites too. Tonight is like a who’s-who of Broadway actors, actresses, directors, and investors, past, present, and future. All the big players will be here. Plus the upper crust, of course, because you know they’re always the ones who pay the bills.”

  I smile, knowing as well as she does that that’s true. The arts have almost always been dependent on one-percenter patrons, and I thank my lucky stars again that though my parents are part of that upper crust, they find the theater foolish.

  The party is in full swing when we arrive, and I indulge in the old fantasy of playing royalty. They’ve rolled out a red carpet, though it’s not an overdone Hollywood-style one, thankfully. This feels classy and fancy but different from most galas I’ve attended.

  For one, they’ve created an entire walkway of posters from plays over the years. There must be over one hundred of them on easel stands, ushers inviting people to walk through and see them almost like it’s a museum. I guess in a way, it is. While I’m busy trying not to look like I’m checking out the ballroom decorations too blatantly, Emma squeals.

  “Oh, my gosh! Some of the posters are signed! That’s why there are security guards not letting anyone touch them. But look, you can take pictures. You wanna walk it with me?”

  I know that this so right up Emma’s alley, she’s going to spend at least the next two hours geeking her ass off about it all. “I think I’m going to mingle my way to the ladies’ room, and then I’ll join you, okay?”

  Emma looks around, knowing what’s on my mind. “You okay?”

  I check too, but I’m feeling more relaxed with every minute. “You’re right, this isn’t my parents’ scene. I’m fine. I’ll meet you in a bit. Go get your fandom kicks off. But remember to be professional, girl. No squealing ‘Oh, my God!’ in your out loud voice when you see Lin-Manuel Miranda.”

  She freezes, her eyes going wide as she grabs my arm in a death-grip. “What, is he here? Do you see him for real? Where, where?”

  I grin and point, and she exhales loudly when she sees the bearded superstar across the room. “Okay, I can do this. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just a nobody actress in her first almost-Broadway play, hobnobbing with the greats. It’s fine. No big deal.”

  As far as pep talks go, hers sucks. I can think of a half-dozen movie speeches a lot better.

  “You good?” I ask, the tables turned.

  She nods and with a grin, she heads for the poster walkway. I watch her walk away, smiling to myself. Fuck, I’ve missed her so much. It’s so good to see her getting what she wants with her career.

  Finally.

  She deserves to be happy.

  I wonder about Nathan though. She’s studiously avoided saying anything about him other than that he’s probably going to meet us here later tonight. But she hadn’t sounded sure, even though she brushed it off as a work thing.

  I wander through the crowd, taking my time as I work toward the bar and get a glass of red wine. I sip and mingle some more, polite conversation here, a smile and nod there. I could do this type of thing in my sleep.

  In fact, I have more than once over the years at my parents’ events.

  But with it being a theater gala, there are artistic types sprinkled throughout the room, so I stop periodically and watch their off-the-cuff conversations, their almost unconscious performances. It’s hard to turn off my analysis as a fellow performer, seeing how they work the crowd.

  Finally, I’ve drunk my wine and made my way toward the back of the room.

  Setting my empty glass on a service tray, I head for the restroom to powder my nose.

  “Hey there, Carly,” a de
ep voice calls out behind me. I’d know it anywhere and gooseflesh pops out all over my skin.

  Robert.

  The abusive bastard.

  I turn, terror and horror warring to rise along with the bile in my stomach. No. He’s not here, he can’t be standing three feet away from me, looking at me like I’m his.

  But by some strange joke of fate, he’s not three feet away. He’s three inches away as he shoves me up against the wall and presses the length of his body to mine. I freeze and realize I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach.

  I cringe, mentally going back in time to his words, his threats, his abuse. I want to scream, want to claw his eyes out, want to knee him in the nuts. But years of debutante training tell me to not make a scene.

  Even knowing it’s utter bullshit that I don’t believe in the least, it’s hard to fight it, but I do.

  I squirm, looking for an opening and using the wall as leverage to push at his chest. But he’s just bigger than I am, an immovable force that’s grinning down at me obscenely.

  “I’ve missed you, wife,” he says, like this is all foreplay.

  To him, it probably is. He leans forward, and I can see his intent to kiss me, so I swivel my head to get away. My karate teacher tsks in my head, ‘knee to groin, grasshopper’.

  I struggle more aggressively, but my sheath dress and heels make it hard to get any sort of stability, let alone a fighting stance.

  Seeing how off balance I am, he grabs my arm, dragging me further down the hallway. I’m stumbling, and I turn my ankle a bit in the heels as I reach out for a vase, a lamp, anything to bash over his head.

  Nope, I’m not fighting to get free anymore. I’m going to kill him, right here in the hallway of the hotel. And I will do it with a clean conscience. The ladylike training has left the building, so to speak, and the only training in my head right now is my black belt counter-aggression maneuvers.

  But he still has over a foot and more than a hundred pounds on me, so he manhandles me around, shoving me up against another wall.

  I gouge for his eye but only manage to claw down his cheek. I feel the skin give way as I prove the best reason in the world to have a manicure. Blood starts to flow, and Robert explodes in fury.

  He backhands me hard enough to make me see stars. “Fucking bitch, gonna have to train you all over again, I guess.”

  He presses his body to mine, grinding himself against me, and I squirm as much as I can, looking for any opening to get in a punch or kick, crying out and hoping someone hears me. We’re not far from the party, but no one seems to hear.

  “Fight me,” Robert hisses, lips spread, but I wouldn’t call it a smile. More like a sneer. “I like it when you fight me, Carly, because I know in the end, you’ll be spreading those legs for me anyway . . . like a good wife.”

  “Fuck you, Robert.” I spit in his face, the last vestige of defense I have with the way he has me pinned. He backhands me again, even harder.

  The impact to the same spot sends me whirling, and I fall to the floor. Soft carpet is under my hands, but I can’t see from the black tunnel vision. My ears ring and everything’s foggy, though I don’t think I pass out.

  When it all clears, I look back, expecting to see Robert looming over me. But that’s not who’s there.

  “Carly?” a deep voice rumbles.

  Kyle

  I keep my head down, obsessively going over every last detail of the intel I’ve received. Looking at my burner smartphone, I flip through Stone’s personal file again.

  Home plans, including security, make it difficult. The man knows he’s a target, and his house is equipped with plenty of security, including electronics and a panic room . . . never mind whatever personal arsenal he might have as a former merc.

  His office structure, with even greater security, makes it a negative. That office building would put the Pentagon to shame.

  Every speck of dirt I can find on this guy says he’s clean, but I’m good at reading between the lines. And what’s between the lines is as black as the inside of a coal mine.

  So my only chance is a public takedown.

  That’s why I’m here, dressed up in a monkey suit. It could be worse. At least it’s not a tux. But the black slacks, button-up, and tie are not my usual work gear, though they’re the same color.

  I school my face into passive enjoyment, like most of the sheeple around me, and find my place on the second floor, overlooking the party below. There’s no way I can blend into that crowd. The money virtually drips off them as they prance around.

  My cover is that I’m security. It’s a good cover, and I look the part easily with my size and threatening aura.

  From my perch, I disappear into the shadows and scan the people below. Some faces I know, not because I know the theater world in the least but because they’re on television, the news, movie screens.

  But most of them I don’t know at all. It makes it easy to search for the face I have memorized. Nathan Stone.

  I see him come in, right at home in the sea of wealthy scene-makers.

  My mask falls slightly, my lip curling as I grind my teeth. I watch him for a moment, let him come closer into the trap I’ve set. He walks the room, my eyes following his every move with laser focus.

  But just before I go to make my move, a flash of black catches my eye. It’s not an attention-grabbing color in the least, but something draws me and I let my eyes tick to chase it in the crowd. And then I see . . .

  Carly? What the fuck is she doing here?

  In the US? At this party?

  I left her in Italy, planning to never see her again, to walk away from whatever storm she stirred up inside me, unwilling to betray Anna with the things Carly teases from me.

  But now she’s here, like a demon in the night, telling me I can’t get away that easily.

  I shake my head, not able to look too deeply into that right now. I need to focus. One thing at a time.

  Nathan Stone.

  Anna.

  Our baby.

  Revenge.

  I reacquire my target and find that he’s strayed a little. I adjust, checking Nathan’s progress around the room, judging his likely trajectory through the crowd, and take a quick glance around me on the second floor to ensure I’m out of sight.

  The stage is set perfectly.

  I pull the Glock 43 I’ve purchased for just this mission from my inner jacket pocket, the six-inch-long pistol the smallest I could trust with this job. I wish I had something with a little more pop, but this is real life and I need practical.

  On the other hand, I do have a laser sight, not perfect on a twenty-yard shot, but good enough that I can put a hollow point through his brain case. And a silencer that will hopefully ensure I can get out clean before anyone realizes where the shot came from.

  I watch carefully, waiting for Nathan to freeze, knowing that I’ll have a precious moment where he stands still to small-talk with each group he passes.

  He approaches a small group of two men and a slender woman, his steps slowing, but in the small bit of viewing space I have that isn’t Nathan, I see that black flash again.

  Whispering a curse, I look up and see Carly.

  I’m shocked to see she’s pressed up against the wall, a slick-looking guy holding her there. I can see the paleness of her face, the fear and anger mixing, but she’s frozen. He leans forward to kiss her and an ugly thought races through my mind . . . See?

  She’s already forgotten about you.

  But I see her struggling to get away, biting her lip to keep from crying out as she fights uselessly against him. She might be able to do backflip spin kicks, but at half an inch, her skills mean jack and shit.

  The guy’s grin is pure malice when he grabs her by the arm, dragging her down the hallway as she stumbles and tries to yank free.

  What the fuck?

  Time freezes.

  The gun in my hand, aimed at the man who killed Anna. My body, already trying to follow Carly
.

  Revenge for the past.

  Hope for my future.

  I don’t know when Carly began to represent that, but I know with certainty in my gut that she is my only shot at any happiness.

  I don’t want to want it. I want to stay in the darkness, the void left without Anna, but I’m dying here, pouring salt on my own wounds to keep them fresh and unhealed. And Carly makes me want to heal.

  My gun lowers without my awareness, but the choice is made.

  It’s funny. Just moments ago, I was ready to fire into a crowd, and while I wouldn’t take the shot if there was a chance I’d hit any bystanders, I would most likely catch a hail of return fire that would make Tony Montana look like a pussy.

  But here I am, shoving my Glock back in my jacket pocket, on auto-pilot as I run for the stairs. Luckily, people get out of my way, though I notice a couple of other black-clad guys scanning the crowd with renewed vigor, wondering if they missed something on their security assignments.

  They did. Me.

  But it’s their target’s lucky day. It’s damn sure Nathan Stone’s.

  I get downstairs and quickly skirt the crowd, heading for the hallway Carly disappeared down. I turn a corner and my eyes take in the scene in an instant.

  He’s got her forced up against the wall. Grinding on her as she fights back.

  I hear her. “Fuck you, Robert.”

  In my brain, that registers as her ex, the one who screwed her up in the past.

  Her past. My past. I need to get us away, out of this pit. She tried to save me and I wouldn’t let her, but maybe I can save her.

  But as the thought skitters through my mind, my girl spits in Robert’s face like the fucking badass she is.

  It’s in an instant that I feel a veil drop into place, dividing me in half. One part of me, the hurting side that’s screamed his emotional pain into pillows, laughed, and the man Carly knows steps aside.

  What slides into place in the forefront is the other side of me, not emotionless but emotionally distant. A certain coldness falls over my body, a chill that has nothing to do with the air conditioning but with my mind knowing that I’m going to do whatever I have to do and I’ll deal with the fallout when it’s all over.