****
“Home sweet home,” Dylan said, ushering her over the threshold of a sprawling, slightly messy apartment an hour’s drive from her home. “For now, at least.” He closed and locked the door behind them, and Rachel looked around, taking stock. It wasn’t dirty exactly; the huge living room had the look of a place that had seen more than one brawl, and there was a faint citrusy musk in the slowly circulating air. An old, beat up leather couch pinned down a nearly threadbare rug, looking as if it had sprouted up in that location as opposed to being moved there. Spare parts that Rachel couldn’t identify were scattered along one wall, near an outlet, and there was a laptop plugged in nearby, resting on a repurposed wooden crate.
“For now?” Rachel asked, turning to look at him.
“Well, I’ll have to move eventually; so it won’t be home for me permanently. And I should hope that the powers that be can take care of your safety at some point between now and eternity, so it won’t be your home permanently either.”
“Why would you have to move eventually?” Rachel asked, glancing around to find somewhere she could put her backpack down. She had managed to grab a few outfits, her laptop, a few toiletries and odds and ends in the time that Dylan had given her before he told her they needed to get out. Dylan brushed past her and Rachel felt an almost electric jolt crackle along her nerve endings at the brief contact; he threw himself down onto the couch, sprawling along its length.
“Hazard of the profession; protect enough people for long enough, folks tend to hold grudges. Want to get the drop on you when you’re sleeping.” He peered at her, shrugging. “Can’t have that, can we?”
“So, you’re used to protecting people,” Rachel said, letting her backpack fall lightly to the floor and walking around the behemoth of a couch. She sat down on the rug, looking around warily.
“Wouldn’t have been hired to protect you if I didn’t have experience,” Dylan pointed out. Rachel had to acknowledge that if whoever had given her the money did have her best interests in mind, they would probably hire someone who at least had some kind of reputation, some kind of history to demonstrate his ability.
Rachel nearly jumped to her feet when Dylan’s pocket started loudly playing Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole.” Dylan slipped one hand into his pocket indolently, extracting a phone. He tapped the screen and held the device to his ear. “Yeah,” he said; though his voice was still the same cool, nonchalant tone he had maintained ever since he had first intercepted her, Rachel could see the tension come over his body. “Right. Understood. No, she’s safe. Right. Yes. Got it.” He tapped the screen again, and when he looked at her, his eyes were full of something Rachel didn’t expect: pity. “You’re going to be here a few days, Love,” he said, smiling wryly. “And then you’re going to be the beneficiary of quite a bit more money. Right after that, you and I will be leaving the country.”
“What? Why?” Rachel stood, staring at Dylan in shock.
“Your apartment building has been the unfortunate victim of a random, tasteless arson attack.” Dylan pressed his lips together. “Thus far, you are one of only about a dozen residents unaccounted for. I’d wager good money that someone’s going to account for you on a list of tragic casualties.” Dylan closed his eyes and frowned, the first moment that Rachel had seen him look actually stricken. “Is there anyone who would mourn you? Miss you? Would anyone in particular have your death investigated?” Rachel sank back down onto the rug, staring at the loops and whorls of its faux-Persian pattern.
“No,” she said. “I mean—I have friends, but…” she shook her head. “Jesus.” Rachel took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her eyes stung, and one hot tear rolled down along her cheek, followed by another. She cradled her forehead in her hands, shaking. “Jesus.” Rachel dimly heard the couch groaning; she sensed Dylan’s movement in the corner of her eye, blurred by tears that began to well up more rapidly in her eyes, falling onto the rug.
A few moments later, she glanced up in time to see Dylan sink down onto the floor in front of her, a bottle of whiskey in one hand along with a couple of short, squat glasses, and a pack of cigarettes in the other. “Choose your poison,” he said, smiling slightly. Rachel swallowed, brushing the lingering tears from her eyes. She glanced at her options and laughed.
“Poison is right,” she said, reaching out for the pack of cigarettes. “I’ll have both, if you’re in such a hospitable mood.” Dylan chuckled and shifted on the floor, cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey. He poured a shot in each glass and set one down in front of Rachel, putting the bottle down and reaching nimbly for an ash tray. He produced a lighter from another pocket and flicked it to life. Rachel’s trembling fingers drew a cigarette out of the mostly-full pack, and she brought it to her lips, leaning into the flame.
She had smoked briefly in college; it had been part of her study routine, an excuse for a break and the timer for the same. She had quit after her last week of final exams and had never been tempted to pick up the practice again until that moment. Smoke swirled up and away from the tip, and Rachel took a long drag, coughing slightly and trying again.
“Bottoms up,” Dylan said, raising his glass. Rachel picked up her own glass with a trembling hand, raised it to him, and knocked back the amber liquid, feeling it burn all the way down to her stomach. Dylan poured another shot and they both downed their liquor in silence. Rachel took another drag of her cigarette and held the smoke in her lungs, exhaling in a sigh.
“Well,” she said, glancing up at Dylan’s face, “I think it’s time for you to tell me what the hell’s going on.” Dylan chuckled and poured her another shot.
“You’ll want that,” he told her. He pressed his lips together, contemplating the liquid in his own glass. He rifled in the cigarette pack and took one out, lighting it in a fluid movement that Rachel couldn’t help but envy. “Do you happen to recall any of the scholarships you received in college?” Rachel shrugged. She had applied for so many scholarships that she had barely paid attention to the details on them after she had submitted whatever they required. “There was a particular gentleman who funded one of the scholarships; you would have met him—though I don’t blame you for not remembering, and neither would he. Apparently, he was quite taken with your determination.”
“What does that have to do with giving me a couple million dollars now?” She had been out of school for more than two years.
“It was a mixture of spite and good feeling, we’ll say. He had a deal he was set to make with a company he knew little about; when he discovered more about what they do and how they conduct business, he decided that he should put the money towards something better.” Dylan shrugged, and Rachel eyed him, suspecting that she knew just how the businessman in question had come to know about the other company’s practices. “He remembered you from the scholarship ceremony and had someone look you up. When he saw that you’d hit a wall, he decided you were a much better investment than the company in question.”
“So, is that who’s after me?”
Dylan shook his head. “Some members of his own company who are keen for the deal want the money back. Hostile takeover; his personal funds aren’t affected, but he was ousted. Can’t say I blame them, but nonetheless, here we are.” Rachel pressed her lips together, holding Dylan’s gaze for a long moment. She glanced down at the shot of whiskey in her glass and snorted, following it with a low chuckle.
“You were right, I do want this,” she said, lifting it to her lips and knocking it back. Her whole life was overturned twice because a man with more wealth than sense thought she could use the money more than some company. Rachel noticed idly that the whiskey didn’t seem to burn as much going down anymore and tried to remember how many shots she had; warmth spread through her veins, tingling along her skin. She brought the cigarette to her lips again and took another long drag, ignoring the protest from her lungs.