Ben
I was lying in bed for hours with my eyes wide open. I couldn’t have slept even if someone was paying me to do it. A weird brand of adrenaline was coursing through my system. I felt too tired to get up and too awake to drift off. I wasn’t even thinking. I was just staring dumbly at the ceiling.
“Aw, shit,” I grumbled to myself after a while. I forced myself to climb out of bed and stand up. The apartment was dead quiet. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw it was close to midnight. I wondered where Carmen had gone. She wasn’t in here. She must have still been in the living room.
I padded quietly to the door and eased it open, wincing as the hinges squeaked. Slipping through the crack, I walked out and looked around. There she was—asleep on the couch. Her dress was splayed across the cushions and drooped to the floor. She was curled up, deep in the middle of a dream, judging by the way her face twitched and frowned.
I felt all the tension I’d been carrying melt as I looked at her. She seemed so troubled. Shadows flitted across her face as a low murmur escaped her lips. It didn’t look to be a happy dream. Hell, none of this was happy for her. She’d been yanked out of her life and dropped without warning into mine. I couldn’t even imagine the kind of shit that must be racing through her head. Dreams were the least of her worries. Real life was the actual nightmare.
I wondered if I’d scared her too badly with my deaf and dumb routine earlier. She’d seemed like she was about to explode, she’d been so hopping mad. It was like rubbing salt in a wound to be so cold towards her, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I’d made a promise to myself to keep this girl the way she was. I knew damn well this life was capable of breaking a person. If I had any decency at all, I was going to shield her from that. And that meant shielding her from me. If I had to be rude to accomplish that goal, so be it.
Carmen’s head was kinked at a weird angle where it rested on the arm of the couch. I frowned. Sighing, I walked over to her and scooped her up in my arms. She was even lighter than I remembered. She barely weighed a thing. Nestled against my chest, she felt every bit as fragile as she looked. I was careful not to wake her as I turned to bring her to the bedroom.
I kicked open the door to the bedroom and crossed the threshold. The hinges squeaked again and a deep growl of annoyance ripped through my chest. Carmen stirred and turned to look at me with bleary eyes. I saw she was still mostly asleep.
“S’happening?” she asked.
“Shh,” I replied. “It’s okay. Go to sleep.”
She nodded and curled up again, her head against my chest. I didn’t know what this emotion I was feeling was, but it wasn’t familiar and I hated that. My life was simple before this: bikes, broads, and booze. Now, there was all this intangible shit mucking everything up. Goddamn James.
I laid Carmen down gently in the bed, then tugged the blankets up around her. I thought about easing her out of the wedding dress, but I decided against it. Let her sleep. She’d had a hell of a day. We both had.
The exhaustion hit me like a brick. Suddenly, I could barely keep my own eyes open. I slipped off my boots, wriggled out of the silly shirt I’d had on since the ceremony, and walked around to the other side of the bed. I crawled in beside her.
The heat of another person next to me was strange. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d let a woman spend the night, but suddenly this girl was two for two. Two nights together, two nights spent with skin against skin. I felt her hand brush mine and wrap softly around one of my fingers. I paused for a moment, but I didn’t move away.
For some reason, it felt right. Either way, it only took a moment before I was asleep, too.
# # #
When I woke up, the sun was piercing through the curtains and hitting me square in the face. I covered my eyes with one hand and groaned as I sat up straight in bed. It was already mid-morning. I couldn’t believe I’d slept so late. I didn’t even remember the last time I’d slept for this long straight through. Normally, I was lucky just to string a few hours together without the assistance of copious amounts of alcohol.
I felt movement next to me and looked over. I almost jumped out of bed. I’d completely forgotten about everything that had happened yesterday. Carmen was fast asleep next to me, still wearing her wedding dress. She looked less troubled than the night before, though. Her forehead had smoothed out and her mouth had relaxed.
I figured I’d let her sleep as much as she wanted. But I had to go to the clubhouse. There was work to be done. Finding a pen and scrap of an old receipt in the drawer of the bedside table, I scribbled a quick note and left it next to the alarm clock. Then I swapped out the suit pants for my black jeans and pulled a t-shirt over my head. I grabbed my leather jacket and my keys and swept out the door.
The ride to the clubhouse was quick. I’d picked an apartment just a few blocks away since I knew I’d be shuttling back and forth a lot. I hadn’t wanted to give up my room at the Dark Knights’ headquarters, but it wasn’t a good idea to have an old lady hanging around while I was trying to conduct business. Better to have her stashed away nearby. Close enough to keep an eye on but far enough away to keep her removed from some of the nastier things that on occasion happened under this roof.
Jay was smoking out front as I approached. I parked my bike just inside the gate and walked up to him.
“Morning, Jay. How’s it hangin’?”
“Low and to the left,” he replied without smiling.
“You should take that comedy act of yours on the road. People pay big money to see a light-hearted guy like you.”
“That’s what they tell me, boss.” He took a drag and hooked a thumb behind him. “Someone’s waiting for you inside,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Wouldn’t say. He’s Russian, though.”
“Hmm. Guess I’d better go see what the commie bastard wants.”
“Vodka and a rifle, just like the rest of ’em.”
“Politically correct as always, Jay,” I said. He grunted in response as I walked inside.
The transition from the bright outdoors to the dark interior of the clubhouse took me a second to adjust to. When my eyes refocused, I saw the broad back and bald head of the man Jay had mentioned. It was only ten in the morning, and yet he had a murderer’s row of drained shot glasses in front of him. I saw Slick behind the bar give me a shoulder shrug as I took the seat next to the man.
“I’m Ben,” I said as I settled down in the stool.
“I know who you are,” the man replied in a light Eastern European accent.
“My men said you were looking for me.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Ivan sent me.”
“What for?”
“He tells me to say to you that he was very sorry that he could not help you with your problems. Truly. He considers you a friend and ally.”
“Nice to know.”
“Ivan has many friends.”
“He’s a real social butterfly, that one, ain’t he?”
The man did not laugh. “Many friends,” he repeated. “He likes to help his friends.”
“Get to the point, buddy.”
He ignored me. “Ivan especially liked your man Olaf. He did not like to hear about what happened to him.”
“None of us liked what happened to him.”
“It is the kind of thing for which there should be revenge, no?”
My fists tightened on the bar top. “There would be. But we don’t know a damn thing about who did it or why. Don’t you think I’d like to get back at the bastard who killed one of my men?”
He nodded soberly, then continued, “That is the right thing, yes. And that is why I am here.”
“You know something? Tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me what you know.”
As I glowered at him, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Here,” he said. “Go find this man. He knows something about Olaf.”
I took the paper from him and looked at it. It was a photograph of a thin white man, balding, with a wispy mustache. He had on a checkered, open-necked shirt and khakis. The photo looked like it had been taken without the man’s knowledge. Scrawled in messy handwriting across the bottom was a name: John Robinson.
“Who is this?”
“We do not know. But Ivan’s friends say that he knows something that will be of interest to you. I suggest you find him and ask him what it is he has seen or heard.” The man stood up from the stool and shrugged his jacket into place on his shoulders. “Ivan would like very much for you to mourn Olaf properly. As I said, he was very fond of him.”
I stared at the photo as he turned to leave. The man had ratty eyes, but he seemed normal enough. He certainly didn’t have that squinty gaze that most of the Bratva had, the kind of shifty, looking-over-my-shoulder-to-see-who’s-trying-to-kill-me expression that they all picked up sooner or later. They were a bloodthirsty crew, those Russians. But they had honor. I liked that about them. Ivan had done me a solid by finding this tip. He was a man worthy of respect, in spite of his proclivities for drugs and whores.
“Oh, and one more thing,” the man said, pivoting back around for a moment. “Ivan also says congratulations on your new wife. He is happy you have found a woman, although he would have suggested that you stay far away from the married life.”
I laughed and thought of Ivan berating his poor son. “Tell him I said thanks,” I replied. “And that I appreciate his friendship.”
The man nodded. “I will tell him.” Then he walked out the door, whistling.
I looked back at the photograph after he had gone. “I’m gonna find you, John Robinson,” I whispered. “And you’re going to tell me what happened to my friend.”