The door opened. Berkeley stood in the doorway—dark, and angry, and intimidating.
“Badge. Gun.”
“Berk…”
“Shut the fuck up, Finch. Do you know what you’ve just done? You could have compromised this whole investigation. And I’d just been thinking of fucking congratulating you. You’re on leave, effective immediately.” Berk held out his hand as his nostrils flared. My heart thumped. The tension in the room heightened as he took a step toward me, and I finally cracked.
I unclipped my holster from my belt and tossed it on the table, along with my badge. Then I walked out the door and into the cold December weather. I buried my chin into my chest, glancing to the side of the building; where Gary was smoking a cigarette.
He nodded to me—a flash of understanding in his eyes. The entire team would have seen or heard about my attack on Gianni by now.
It might have cost me my job, but I wasn’t sorry. Russo had deserved it. I hopped into my car and drove myself to the hospital.
It took six hours of waiting before a doctor could see me. It turns out that broken noses aren’t exactly triage priorities. So, I just sat there in an uncomfortably small and hard chair and waited.
My whole face throbbed. I sighed painfully, closing my eyes and thinking of Hailey.
I knew why she’d left, and that’s why I hadn’t tried to stop her. How many times had Hailey talked about travelling the world? Last week, I’d thought she wanted to do it with me.
But that ship had sunk. I was here on my own—without a woman, or a job, or a hope in the world to get my life back to the way it was.
And I deserved nothing less.
I stewed in my self-pity, mopping up the blood from my nose every few minutes. I thought of Hailey’s laugh, her smell, her sex. I thought of the way her eyes lit up when she was happy, and how peaceful she looked when she slept.
I should have told her about the money. I should have stayed by Hailey’s side when her father had come into the gallery that night.
But I didn’t, and now I was alone.
“You did a number on your nose, Mr. Finch,” the doctor said as he tilted my head from side to side. “What happened?”
“I tripped.”
“Right.” He arched an eyebrow at me, slipping off his blue latex gloves and tossing them away. “I’m going to have to reset it, and you’re going to have to wear a splint on your face.”
Suddenly, I was glad Hailey wasn’t in town.
I nodded. “Fine. Whatever”
It hurt—a lot—but as the medical team worked on my nose, I embraced every bit of pain that flashed through my face. I deserved this, and so much more. The doctors and nurses patched me up and sent me on my way. I went straight home and wallowed.
I’m not proud of it. It took two, maybe three days for me to leave my house again. I thought about drinking—about getting so drunk Hailey wouldn’t continue to invade my thoughts like a swarm of angry bees—but I didn’t.
I hadn’t had a drink since my eighteenth birthday, and I wasn’t going to start now. Nothing good came of it—I’d learned that, at least.
Gary called me on the third day, and I didn’t answer. I spent Christmas alone. Berkeley came to my apartment the week after, and I told him that I quit. I didn’t want to work this job anymore. Chasing this CIA dream had only brought me pain, anguish, and made me lose the only woman that I’d ever really cared about. I didn’t want it anymore.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Berk said, staring at me with narrow eyes.
“Pretend all you want, Berk. I’m not coming back.” I stood up and turned away from him. He sighed heavily behind me. I heard him stand.
“Hey,” he said. “If you ever change your mind…”
I turned to see Berkeley offering an outstretched hand. I shook it and nodded. “I won’t, but thanks.”
Berkeley left my apartment and he was the last person I talked to for another week. I spent the rest of the holidays alone, too. I drove by Hailey’s friend’s house, by her ex-boyfriend’s house, by Gianni’s studio. I went everywhere that I could think of, but I never saw her. Those hours I spent looking for her were the only time I regretted quitting my job. If I’d still worked at the CIA, I’d have much better resources to find her.
But I was just a civilian now.
I browsed Hailey’s social media profiles so many times it was embarrassing, hoping she would post something—or give me some clue as to where she was. She didn’t.
By January, the agony inside me had dulled to just a stabbing pain that stung with every heartbeat. My nose healed. I still saw Hailey everywhere I went, even though I knew she wasn’t here. I could feel her absence like a hole in my heart.
At the end of January, I took a job at an IT company and worked a soulless, mind-numbing 9-to-5 job. Numbing was good. Soulless was good. If I didn’t think at all, I wasn’t thinking of her.
In May, she posted a picture from Paris on social media. I couldn’t breathe for a few minutes. I considered booking a flight right then and there, sweeping into her life and begging for her forgiveness at the foot of the Eiffel Tower…
But then, I scoffed at myself and put my phone away.
Instead, I jumped into my car and drove a few hours to the small town where this had all started. When I parked outside of the LaFleur’s stately home, a sense of calm settled over me. I touched my wallet, making sure it was still there.
My steps were steady as they walked up the flagstones toward the wide porch. I rang the doorbell, and Mrs. LaFleur opened it.
She looked just the same – only a little greyer.
Confusion and recognition flashed across her face as she looked me up and down.
“Hi, Mrs. LaFleur. Is John in?”
Her jaw dropped as the realization hit her.
“Freddy?”
Mrs. LaFleur opened the door wide, smoothing her hands over her pants and staring me incredulously. “Have you seen Hailey?”
“Not for a couple months. I’ve got some business to settle with your husband.”
Mrs. LaFleur gestured to the hallway, and I knew she was leading me to his study. When we were kids, John LaFleur’s study was a no-go zone. The door was locked when he wasn’t in there, and when he was, we were not to bother him.
I’d peeked through the door once or twice to see a huge, mahogany desk and leather wingback chairs.
As Mrs. LaFleur knocked on the door, I felt like I was a teenager again. My heart skipped a beat and I forced myself to take a deep breath.
John’s voice called out through the door, and Mrs. LaFleur smiled at me before opening it. The room engulfed me, suffocating me with John’s presence.
And then, suddenly, I was mad.
This man had manipulated me and intimidated me, and chased me out of town because I wasn’t good enough for his daughter—and then he’d disowned her.
John hadn’t wanted me near his daughter, and he’d convinced me that it was best for me to take his money and leave—but he’d never once tried to get to know me.
He’d never considered that I might be good for Hailey.
But why would he care, when he obviously didn’t give a shit about her?
John arched an eyebrow, his sharp blue eyes drilling into me. The door closed softly behind me and I made my way to the desk. Pulling out my wallet, I slid a check across the polished wood and nodded to him.
“I accounted for inflation and interest. Every penny I owe you.”
John glanced at the check, both eyebrows rising sharply. “It wasn’t a loan.”
“No. It was payment to stay away from your daughter. I can’t promise I’ll do that, though, so I need to return the money.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“What do you care? You only reappeared in her life when she started making a name for herself – a name that wasn’t LaFleur.”
“Don’t speak to me like that, boy.”
“Don’t call me boy,
old man.”
John harrumphed and ripped the check into four, neat pieces before flicking them back to me. The scraps fluttered to the ground at my feet.
“I’m not going to take your money. Spend it on Hailey, if she’ll let you. From what I remember, though, she wasn’t too keen on seeing you again.”
Rage flashed through me. He’d always been a self-serving, taunting bastard.
For a second, I remembered how satisfying it had felt to wrap my hands around Gianni Russo’s throat…
…but, instead, I shrugged my shoulders, turning on my heel and walking out of John LaFleur’s office.
When I stepped back out into the sunshine, my lips tugged upward for the first time in six months.
The weight of that money lifted from my heavy heart. John LaFleur might not have accepted it, but at least I’d faced him. I’d tried to give it back. The power that his money had over me was finally gone, and I knew I was ready to move on.
Hailey might never forgive me. That was out of my hands. Taking that money had been the biggest mistake of my life—but giving it back was the first step toward fixing that.
And despite being such a fucking asshole, maybe John was right. If he didn’t want the money, maybe I could spend it on something Hailey would appreciate.
31
Hailey
Tanya’s birthday was July 20. I flew home to surprise her, carrying a toy astronaut with me as a present. I smiled at our inside joke.
“Happy fiftieth anniversary of the moon landing!” I said as she opened the door. I presented her with the toy astronaut. Tanya’s squeal was so high-pitched, I thought I heard glass break.
My best friend threw her arms around me and crushed me in a vice-like hug.
“Hailey!”
“Happy moon landing.” I thrust the astronaut into her hands and she laughed, smacking my shoulder.
“Not you, too. My own father was more excited about the moon landing anniversary than about the birth of his only daughter.” My face must have pinched at the mention of her father, because Tanya’s eyes widened. “Sorry, babe. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Hey, who doesn’t have daddy issues,” I grinned. “At least your father called you.”
“Come in,” Tanya said, squeezing my arm. “Tell me everything. You’re so tan! You look amazing. Have you lost weight? How many European men were dying to get with you?”
I laughed. Tanya’s two big dogs came clattering toward me and I knelt down to give them both some scratches. Another, smaller dog came up behind him.
“Hailey, meet Hudson. He showed up at my doorstep a couple months ago, starving and riddled with fleas.”
“And you just had to help him, didn’t you? You love a lost cause.” I winked, pointing to myself.
Tanya ignored me, scratching Hudson behind the ears. She scooped him up and nuzzled his face. “He didn’t have a collar or a microchip and was shivering so hard it took almost four hours to warm him up. Poor little guy—but now he’s found a home.”
“I guess there’s hope for all of us.”
Tanya looked at me sideways. “Good to hear you’re still a ray of sunshine. Come on.” She led me to her guest room.
I gasped when she opened the door. Not only had she held the other suitcase I’d dropped off here, but every single half-finished canvas from the studio was stacked up against the walls. My paints, brushes, sketchbooks… Everything was here.
“They dropped it all off after the Russos were arrested. Said it wasn’t relevant to the investigation, and you had me down as your next of kin. I thought you might show up on my doorstep at some point, so I kept it here for you.”
My eyes watered. I hadn’t touched a paintbrush in over seven months—and the sight, and smell, and feel of the canvas was already drawing me in. I glanced at Tanya, shaking my head. “It’s supposed to be your birthday, and I feel like I’m the one getting the presents.”
“You’re home, and I’ve got this little guy,” she said, waving the astronaut. “Come on, get ready, and then we’re going out for some food and drinks. I’m meeting some friends in town.”
I smiled. “Okay.” Tanya closed the door, and I heard her talking to her dogs through it. I made a slow spin around the room, sighing.
I had been nervous about coming back, but I shouldn’t have been. After a few months away, I was ready to be here again. I was ready to paint—to try to get this career back off the ground. This time, without the help of a criminal fairy godfather like Gianni Russo, or his parents.
I would do it on my own—like I should have done from the beginning.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Tanya and I hopped in a cab.
“Oh,” she said, “also—apparently the sales of all your paintings that weren’t related to that whole human trafficking thing were still valid. The CIA guy told me they tried to deposit the money in your bank account, but it was closed. There’s something like sixty grand waiting for you.”
My eyes bugged. “Sixty grand?”
“After the bust, your paintings got really valuable,” she said. “I had someone track me down at home and ask me to buy your unfinished work. You’re like, really famous. That whole disappearing act was a stroke of genius. Much better than a haircut.”
I laughed, frowning. Tanya laughed too. We both shrugged, and I vowed to deal with it the next day. Right now, we were celebrating the moon landing—and Tanya’s birthday.
Tanya was right about my reputation. When I logged into my website for the first time in months, my inbox was flooded with emails. I contacted the number that she’d been given for the CIA administrator, and it only took about a week to have the funds deposited into my bank account.
It was enough to get me started. I rented a small studio space and convinced Tanya to let me pay rent. The first time I held a paintbrush in my hand again, standing in my bright new studio, nerves fluttered in my belly. The brush felt heavy—but I swirled it into a glob of paint and felt my soul sing.
The numbness inside me faded away, and I could feel again. That first day, I painted right through the night—only stopping when the sun came up. In three days, I had a new piece. I stuck it up on my website for an exorbitant price—and it sold within two hours.
I couldn’t believe it.
Tanya was the only one I trusted, so she took on some management work for me. The first six weeks I spent stateside again, I did little else except eat, sleep, and paint.
And it felt good.
Something had changed in me while I was away. I’d spent almost seven months by myself—travelling, trying new foods, and having new experiences… and it had been fine.
I’d survived.
I’d been on my own, with no plan and no future, but it had worked out. For the first time in my life, I’d really, truly believed in myself. I hadn’t needed someone else to hold my hand or support me.
And now? I felt the same. I realized I could paint and be respected as an artist all on my own—because I was good at it.
Saying those words was a revelation. I was an artist, and I was good.
I even allowed myself to think of Freddy. As cliché as it sounds, everything happens for a reason, and I could see that in my life, too.
Freddy had come back into my life and brought everything to a head. All the corruption and sickness buried deep in my heart had bubbled up to the surface, and I’d been able to get it out.
It sucked, and it hurt, but I could feel myself healing.
Standing on my own two feet, I survived.
I even spoke to my father for the first time in years, ready to try to have a relationship with him. I wasn’t the weak little girl that he’d thrown out, and he seemed to have mellowed with age.
Tentatively, I met him and my mother for coffee, and then lunch, and finally a dinner back at the family home. All at my own pace, all within my own boundaries, and all because I owed it to myself to do it on my own terms.
For the first time in my life, I wasn�
��t scrambling, or begging for scraps of someone’s attention. I didn’t need it. I had myself.
But sometimes, late at night, in the stillness of my bedroom, I thought there was something missing. I found myself thinking of Freddy—of that breathless exhilaration that he’d inspired in me. I braced myself for the pain that always appeared whenever I thought of him, but it never came. The only thing I felt was a faraway kind of longing.
When September rolled around again – a year from when Freddy had first reappeared in my life—Tanya organized a brand-new gallery opening for me.
This was the first true exhibition I’d had since I was back—I wasn’t as nervous as I had been the year before.
This was what I did. I was an artist. I painted.
And I was good.
32
Freddy
My palms were sweaty and my shirt collar strangled me. My shoes were so heavy they felt like they were made of lead. Everything in my body told me to turn around and walk away.
Everything—except my heart.
I was drawn to that gallery opening, just as I’d been drawn inside the first one, almost exactly a year ago. This time, though, I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew Hailey would be there, and I knew that if she was still mad at me, it would crush me for months.
But I’d get to see her, and that would be worth it.
I smoothed my hair down and took a deep breath before walking in. Clasping my hands behind my back, I scanned the gallery for any sign of Hailey. Not seeing her, I started walking around the room. The doors had only opened an hour earlier, but already most of the paintings had little sold stickers next to them. I smiled.
If anyone deserved success, it was her.
Then, the room got hotter and the air was pushed out of my lungs. Hailey walked in—late, as usual—wearing a deep, burgundy gown with a plunging neckline and a dazzling smile. A bolt of lightning passed through my heart and that little voice inside my head started screaming.
The Protector: The Complete C.I.A Romance Series Page 51