CHAPTER 11
Nick was now in the habit of keeping his movement around town private and unpredictable. Instead of calling a car service, he picked a random route leading away from the Armory and hopped on a subway. He spent the ride staring at Jane’s contact information on his cell phone. He’d replaced “Fish Sitter” with “Jane MacGregor” and was thinking about what a great voice she had. A ballsy, smoky voice that stuck in your head like a song.
Missy and Dex had done the background check on her. He trusted them completely, so he hadn’t bothered reading her resume in any detail, since there wouldn’t be anything on it that was more important than taking the measure of the woman in person. Now that he’d taken her measure, he was curious.
Curious enough to not completely forget about her once he’d hired her. Curious enough to call her more than was technically necessary. Curious enough to want to see her again in person if only to take stock of how well he’d done making snap judgments about her in the short amount of time that he’d known her.
Curious enough to investigate what about Shane getting to drive Jane home after Puppygate irked him so badly. She’d just sort of walked back into the conference room while he and Rochester were resting on the floor, reclaimed the dog, said she was leaving, and apologized profusely for thinking the worst of him.
He’d been struck by the desire to say all sorts of things that shouldn’t be occurring to him. Things like “Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
Nick got off the subway and jogged up the steps to ground level.
Maybe he wanted to see her in person again because if he’d pegged her right, he already liked her. So he wanted to know that he’d pegged her right; she didn’t seem fussy or high maintenance or unsure. She seemed comfortable with herself and wasn’t sneaking self-deprecating references about her looks or her weight into random sentences every chance she got, like the women he used to party with on Wall Street. He liked that she wasn’t being precious about his house and about his things. That she’d got down to work, found what she needed, and identified what was missing (whatever she needed a spatula for), and seemed entirely competent. And though he couldn’t believe he was actually thinking this, he also liked that she couldn’t quite hide that she didn’t take her fancy new boss too seriously.
Jane would have impressed Jemilla too. Jemilla would have loved her. He could almost see Ms. Johnson sitting next to him in the library, the tip of her pencil beating a rhythm against the desk as she reviewed his homework, her head nodding every time she saw an answer she liked. Listen to your gut, she always said. Make good choices. Be someone you’d admire. She was like a living, breathing motivational poster for getting out of a bad life and becoming a good man. Jemilla would have pegged Jane as a good choice. For whatever that was worth.
It’s worth a lot, and you know it.
Nick stared up at the night sky, looking for stars, but he didn’t see any. And all the empty sky did was remind him that heading back to the penthouse wasn’t just for fun. He really did need the safety-deposit key, because everything he needed to disappear was ready to go in the box at the bank. And he might need to do it. He hated the idea, because it meant leaving the guys, the only people who truly cared about him and made him feel like he had family. But maybe he wouldn’t have to break ties with the Hudson Kings for good. Maybe he could stay involved like those shadow figures Rothgar stationed out in foreign countries, ready to be awakened with a phone call . . . Jesus, Nick, listen to yourself. This is getting bleak. Can’t you just solve the problem? Figure out how to make Sokolov smile again?
If you did, maybe you’d finally get your life together, settle down . . . keep your word, and become the man you promised Jemilla you would be. For some crazy reason that thought U-turned his brain right back to Bianchi’s, to the table where he sat across from Jane MacGregor. Funny how the scene in his head looked more like a date than an interview.
Maybe if he hadn’t been walking down the street like some hero in a rom-com, with his suit coat slung over one shoulder and a big, dumb grin on his face because of some girl he barely knew . . .
Maybe he would have been more alert.
Because it was a total surprise to be tackled into a side street that had no light except for what was glinting off the reflective tape of a yellow DEAD END sign.
Nick’s shoulder slammed into a Dumpster, as the full weight of a body took him like a blocking shield at football practice.
Nick grunted, the only sound he could make with this guy’s palm pressing up under his chin. Then he feinted back, surprising his assailant by not resisting, and the guy stumbled into him, the broken contact giving them both a little space and revealing that this guy was not a guy at all.
In the moment before the second attack, he caught a glimpse of eyes the color of honey, wide and long lashed like a manga character. He knew those eyes. And he knew the exact shade of pink that dusted the owner’s golden-brown skin when she got pissed off, because even though they’d spoken about ten words to each other, he’d been on another freelance gig with her before Sokolov’s. Two thoughts entered his brain as his oxygen exited. First, they were going to add a few more words to the glossary. Second, oh, shit, he was about to let his ass get kicked by Krista Lawrence.
Law, freelance thief and professional distraction, was on him like a fucking spider, doing some ninja thing to his jugular, but doing it slow. This meant she didn’t want to kill him. She either had a particular message to send from Sokolov himself or she needed Nick to have enough oxygen to process a conversation about Sokolov’s money.
Nick knew exactly what to do to break her neck before she broke his, but he wasn’t about to take out a fellow merc unless there were no other options. There was also something in him, something he’d have to analyze a lot later, that felt like he deserved this. “Talk,” was all he managed to say, given the expert placement of her fingers on his neck.
“It’s bad enough,” Law said, as Nick began to see black spots in his vision. “I worked hard to get that gig. I’m still building my reputation. You have no idea. I have to work so much harder than the rest of you. I don’t know who’s talking. Maybe Tristan, that shitty little desk jockey. Maybe Maks. But someone’s talking, and now word is out about how messed up Sokolov’s mission got, and now nobody wants to hire me just when things were finally picking up. You need to fix this.”
“Would it be wrong,” Nick said, gasping, “to mention that you smell good?”
“Are you even trying?” Law’s furious voice spat. A fist circled over his face. “Take some fucking responsibility and find the money, Nick.” The black spots came together like the swirl of a lava lamp, and he was . . .
Nick came to with his face pressed against the side of a building that smelled like piss. He spat out pieces of dirt stuck to his mouth where he’d drooled or bled or whatever was happening. It wasn’t clear what sort of damage had been done. Or who had done it. Nick sorted some of his thoughts and remembered Law. He’d planned to track her; guess she got to him first. Grunting against the pain, Nick sat up, leaned against the building, and stared up at the sky. This time, between the buildings he could see a small patch of midnight blue with a single twinkling star. Try as he might, his eyes could not make out any others in the dark city sky. And staring at that star, Nick had the unpleasant sensation of being a big fucking disappointment.
Man, this was pathetic.
After the fog in his brain cleared a little, he rewound the exchange with Law. It was not okay, what he’d said, dismissing her like a sexist shit just two seconds after she’d said it was just that sort of thing that was keeping her down. Like he was laughing at her. Not even defending himself much or trying to get her to stop. Why’d you do that, Nick? Because I wanted her to hit me. I deserved it.
Jemilla Johnson would not be impressed by this. Not one bit. She’d say, “I did not spend all that time saving you from your environment only to have you undermine yourself all on your own.” She’d stand there with her hands on her hips and one eye squinting. The thought made him smile in spite of the pain it brought to his heart . . . and in spite of the pain in his head.
Nick climbed to his feet and brushed off his clothes as best he could, and then he staggered to the penthouse.