The Boss

by J. Calamy

  Damn it all. It’s merely because he has those curls and that freckled little—

  “Oh shit, there’s trouble,” Russ said. Graves leaned over to see, his senses on alert. A huge drunk in a wrinkled suit was leaning over Lena, practically slobbering down her blouse. Morris was trying to reason the drunk away but Nick was pushing to his feet, his face closing in anger.

  “Again?” Graves muttered. “This boy would fight a traffic sign.”

  “Hard out,” Bishop agreed. “Do you think we should—?”

  The crowd parted suddenly, enough to give the men at the table a crystal-clear view as Nick Erickson grabbed the offending drunk’s tie and jerked his face down against the table with a brisk crack.

  “Bloody hell!”

  The man crumbled to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut, blood fountaining from a broken nose. Then complete mayhem broke out. Graves slapped a hand over his eyes, shaking his head.

  The drunk’s friends waded in, but Nick wasn’t the slightest bit deterred. Graves shot to his feet with Bishop and Russ, ready to end the whole thing.

  But instead of going to Nick’s defense, he watched with his jaw hanging as Nick cracked a bottle between one man’s legs and punched another so hard he spun sideways, assisted to the floor by a kick from Morris. People were shouting and pushing and trying to move out of the way.

  “Jesus, look at him!” Russ said as the bouncer waded in and dragged a red-faced and still swinging Nick off the poor slob he was beating. Morris and Lena were arguing loudly with the bartender.

  Graves gave an inadvertent bark of laughter as Nick slipped free and ran in again, taking a few last swings before he was lifted bodily into the air by the bouncer and carried out.

  Graves spun and signaled the waitress. When she came, he pulled her close and handed her a thick wad of bills.

  “No one c-call the police. I will pay for everything,” he said. It didn’t look like there was much damage, but she seemed to understand his real message which was: I’ll pay whatever you need not to call the police.

  *

  By the time payment was sorted, Nick and his friends were long gone. A quick call to Tony found them at a hawker pavilion around the way, devouring a pile of chicken rice and toasting their victory. They had been joined by a couple of Marines and the laughter from their table made it clear no one was hurt or needed any help.

  Graves hesitated, hanging back. If Nick was all right, they could go. The urge to see him, to sit down and join was warring with a dull shame over the last time they were together. Bishop shoved him forward and the movement caught Nick’s eye.

  “Graves! Bishop! Come sit! Hey, Russ,” Nick called. Under the dangling colored lights they could see his left eye was swelling shut, and his bright red hair was sticking in every direction. The look was so endearing Graves stumbled, the servo in his left knee giving a whirr of protest. He forced his fists to unclench and stuffed them in his pockets.

  Russ trotted ahead and dropped into a chair between Nick and Morris, which gave a plastic shriek of protest against the damp floor.

  “We saw the whole thing! Sweet as!” he crowed. “Our Nick. Who knew you were such a hardcase?”

  When the Marines saw Graves, they jumped to their feet in a loud rattle of chairs, and one almost saluted before Graves waved them all down. He cringed and glanced around. No one else had seen.

  Of course, the Marines happened to be the three who walked me into the bloody gala.

  Lena was staring, not even pretending to hide. Her dark eyes were wide.

  “You’re Nelson fucking Graves,” she said, digging an elbow into Nick’s side. Nick batted her hand away. He grabbed the nearest Marine and pulled him down as well.

  “Stop! All of you! Jesus! He’s not important!” Nick laughed. “He’s just some asshole who almost ran me over, then got me fired! Ignore him—he slurps ramen like everyone else.”

  Graves wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Then Nick winked at him, and his heart sped up. He cleared his throat and sat, letting Bishop and Russ carry the conversation for him. If he had a goal, it was not to stare. And he was failing at it.

  “Where’d you learn to fight like that, our Nick?” Bishop asked. Graves caught the shadow that passed over Nick’s face. Interesting. What is that about then?

  Bishop didn’t catch it—was too drunk and too happy to focus. Instead, he told Morris their complete amazement at the whole scene. Morris tapped his beer in agreement.

  “When he snapped that bloke’s face against the table!”

  Graves tried to follow, but he kept glancing at Nick, seeing his discomfort and losing the thread of the talk.

  “You’re being awful quiet,” Russ said in Malay.

  “J-j-just wuh—damn! Only wardrobe—no. Only w-watching,” Graves said. He closed his eyes. The stammering had been the start. But now words were switching in his mouth. Don’t talk.

  “Watching the freckles,” Russ countered.

  “He sure is,” Bishop said, catching on. “Look at him. Like an ox with a bee on his nose.”

  “You two dogs can shut up n-n-now,” Graves snarled.

  “I’m not sure Nick is interested in men,” Lena said in perfect Malay, pretending to blow on her chicken before taking a bite. Graves froze for a moment before dropping his face in his hands.

  “I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars in cash to ignore my friends,” he said, wishing they had never come. They should have gone home.

  “I’m an official of the United States government and completely above bribes,” Lena said, chin in the air. Then she winked. “But if you hurt him I’ll have every ship you dock seized and the contents tossed in the Straits. Do not doubt for a moment I would.”

  Her smile twinkled. A dimple appeared in her cheek. But her eyes were rock-hard. Graves sighed. She would do it too. He had a feeling Lena Jarrett knew more than she let on. Had Mac spoken with her?

  Graves pushed to his feet. The movement was too abrupt and his chair fell over sideways, knocking over another table. He righted it, his face burning. He wanted to talk to Nick. He wanted to be alone with him again. He wanted…what, exactly?

  I want the way he looked up at me after the race. I want him in my arms like after Leon’s. I want to have a normal life where I can ask a pretty boy out for a drink and maybe try to talk him into my bed without it costing anyone their lives.

  “Well, early d-d-d-day,” he said, texting the driver. “Good n-n-” He gave up; the letter n was too much.

  Bishop and Russ were squinting at him in confusion. It wasn’t even nine. There was absolutely nothing planned for tomorrow and they knew it. Graves ignored them. They weren’t the problem. Nick’s eyes were boring into his, seeing right through his excuses. Graves felt a twist of anger somewhere in his chest. He rubbed it. I can’t. I can’t. Please understand. I simply can’t.

  The silence had lasted a heartbeat too long. He had been staring. Bishop and Russ were rolling their eyes at each other, and Lena looked ready to skewer him. Nick stood as well, cocking his head sideways to look out of his good eye.

  “Hey, mind giving me a ride back to the bungalow?” he said. Graves opened his mouth, but absolutely no plausible excuse came to him. None. He nodded, turning to where the car was pulling up. Bishop and Russ got up, sharing worried looks. Graves spun on his heels with no more than a nod to the others. He didn’t trust his own voice.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the Range Rover, they rode in silence for a time. Nick wasn’t sure what was happening with his friend. Graves was staring out the window, rubbing his hip while Nick examined his black eye in his phone. He must think I’m crazy. Every time I see him, I’m getting in some kind of fight. Maybe that’s why he never called me?

  The hair on Graves’s head, a short dark-brown fuzz with gray at the temples, was ridiculously distracting. Nick tucked his hands under his thighs to stop from reaching out and stroking it. This wasn’t the time. There was too much between them. Eventu
ally, Graves seemed to rouse himself enough to talk.

  “Do you w-w-want to come to the…” his mouth worked a moment before he finally said “ship?” He didn’t sound especially enthused. He was looking down at his hands, frowning.

  Obviously, we aren’t going to talk about it. I should have stayed with Lena and Morris. What was I thinking? It hurt though, more than he would have expected. Leon’s remained a magical night in his mind. It had shifted his entire viewpoint about attraction and about his own ability to make other people happy.

  “If it’s okay, I’ll just go back to Jeanne’s,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. The divider between them and the front was down and Nick caught Graves’s glance to Bishop in the rearview. The look made embarrassment curl in his belly. Wow. He really doesn’t want me around. Like he really took me racing only as a favor. I’m some charity case.

  “Very well,” Graves said and told the driver to make for Jeanne’s. He shifted sideways to look at Nick, a slight frown on his face.

  “What?” Nick said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m trying to n-n-no coffee,” he waved the words off, going back to looking out the window. Nick wasn’t sure what was happening. Was Graves making fun of him?

  “Thank you very much for the ride, Lord Graves,” he said. “But you clearly don’t want me around, and I’m not about—”

  The naked distress on Graves’s face shifted Nick’s perspective. Hold on. It ain’t me; it’s the talking.

  “Wait. Are you okay?” he asked.

  But Graves wasn’t listening. He held up his hand, stopping Nick’s flow of words.

  “Bishop, w-where is the other car?”

  “It’s there, Boss, just at the light.”

  “Bring them up. Now!”

  Whatever was wrong with his speech, I guess it clears up when he’s giving orders. Nick touched his eye gingerly. Unless I’m hearing things, got hit too hard maybe?

  Graves looked outside, shifting in his seat. He turned fully around, looking out the back, before turning to the other side again. Nick caught his unease but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “David, what is that?” he asked as they pulled to a red light.

  “That’s what I am trying to figure out,” Bishop snapped. He was also shifting around and got onto his radio to talk to someone in Malay. “Something is wrong. Other car is stuck, coming around now.”

  Nick had no idea what they meant. There was a public works crew packing up across the corner. They seemed to have tangled their ladders and a man in a sports car was yelling at them. A limo tried to get around and got stuck, leading to more shouting.

  When Nick looked back, he yelped in fear. Graves had drawn his gun. It was scratched, worn, and fit his hand exactly. Bishop was now shouting into the radio.

  “Nick, get down!” Graves threw himself to the floor, dragging Nick under him. He shoved him down tight, curling his body over and covering his head with one huge hand.

  A staccato explosion of shots rang out in the street. The glass of the building by them shattered. The trapped limo was trying to pull away, half its windows blown out. Rounds stuttered and cracked against the glass, and Nick flinched. There was a scream outside, and something heavy thumped against the car. Nick made a hoarse sound like a frightened animal, his vision dimming on the edges.

  “Get us out of the kill zone now, Bishop! What are you doing?”

  “Boss, it’s Morozov! They have his car!”

  “Anatoly can handle himself! We have Nick with us! Get us out!” Graves roared and the Range Rover bucked forward, smashing the car in front and pushing it out of the way. There was a scream of metal on metal and the squeal of tires. The sound was deafening. Gunfire was coming from everywhere. Graves was still holding Nick under him, but he shifted and grabbed Bishop’s radio. He issued terse directives, ending with “Help him to the safe room at the Excelsior!”

  They veered sideways, jumping the curb, and smashing another car out of the way. Another screech and crash as the other car tried to back away, only to have the heavy Range Rover flip it over. They bumped over the sidewalk, another spray of snowflakes appearing across the bulletproof glass. The car rattled from the impacts. One more screeching swerve and they were on the highway again.

  Graves pulled Nick up and shoved him onto the seat. He didn’t say anything, his face closed off and furious. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and made a call, mostly in Mandarin, ending with “We’ll get them next time.” Nick couldn’t understand the words. Graves’s voice was strange—from down a long tunnel.

  Nick was slipping away, his heart pounding. His mouth was dry, and he was panting like a dog. His whole body shivered, flooding with adrenaline. Reality seemed to shimmer around him. The crashing sounds, the smell of burnt rubber, the shouting… He couldn’t breathe. Everything was getting blurry. His vision narrowed. He reached out, pawed at Graves, clutching his collar.

  Graves hung up his phone and cursed, reaching out and gripping him by the shoulders. But it was too late. He was falling, falling far out of reach.

  “Nick? Nick, talk to me, darling. Are you all right?” The endearment went unremarked. Nick couldn’t speak. He struggled to breathe. His body fell further away, cold and clammy.

  “H-help,” Nick whispered, his voice slurring.

  The road wasn’t slippery.

  I misjudged the distance.

  You hit them, hit the driver door. You ran them off the road.

  It was an accident.

  You killed them on purpose.

  I didn’t. He swerved and tipped.

  You pushed them over the embankment.

  I didn’t.

  You did. The whole back end of the van crushed. It crunched and smashed and the little boy—

  You killed me; you killed my mommy.

  It was an accident. I lost my temper.

  Nick’s vision darkened, the road superimposed over the inside of Graves’s car. His legs were kicking as he ran. Where is the van? Where? I have to find it! It was down the embankment, wheels spinning and engine still squealing and revving. Nick skidded down on his heels and ass, getting to the driver’s side door. He yanked it open and the stench of blood and fuel washed over him. He grabbed at the driver—high-pitched screams came from the back seat—the driver was stuck, impaled on the steering column—Nick pulled harder; the driver’s body began to flail and thrash, splattering blood everywhere. The boy in the back was screaming, screaming. Nick looked and saw the crushed body, the little red jacket turning black with blood, wide O of a screaming mouth. He was missing his front tooth. Just a little kid— The smell of gasoline and the blood sizzling when it—

  Nick jerked backward, arms up…and caught Graves around the neck. Solid. Real. He held on like a drowning man. The crunching and smashing and screaming receded. He drew in a sucking gulp of air. And then another.

  “You are safe, Nick,” Graves’s voice was right in his ear. The big man was kneeling beside him, his face slowly swimming to the surface of Nick’s vision.

  “Stay with me, darling.” His deep voice reached the thrashing panic in Nick’s head, forcing him to the present, to focus on where he was.

  “You’re in Singapore, Nick. You’re safe.”

  “I’m…” I am here. I am safe. I am here. I am safe. I am in Singapore. I am safe. I am in Singapore.

  Graves’s hands were warm, heavy, grounding him. Nick clung to his neck, their foreheads pressed together. He shuddered, coated in sweat. Breathed. In. Out. Reality, blessed reality, came back into focus.

  He gasped for breath, panting, and shaking, teeth chattering. He was kneeling on the floor of the Range Rover, bouncing slightly as they rolled through the marina’s gates.

  It dawned on him that he had his hands around the back of Nelson Graves’s neck in a white-knuckled grip. Graves had a hand on each shoulder and his forehead pressed against Nick’s, breathing with him, repeating “You’re safe. You’re safe.”
>
  Nick pulled back as if burned, falling against the door of the car even as they rolled to a stop. He felt sick.

  Nick’s phone went off suddenly, and he jumped. He stared at it like he had never seen it before. He was still panting for air. Graves leaned forward and plucked the phone from Nick’s cold fingers.

  “Jeanne? It’s me. Someone tried to off Anatoly Morozov in a public street. Meet us at the yacht.” Nick could hear Jeanne’s voice faintly, the worried French. “No, I am taking him with me. You come too. All right, yes.”

  Nick wanted out of the car. Right now. Out. He fumbled at the door and almost fell out when it was hauled open by Bishop. The old soldier was growling into a radio in a language Nick didn’t recognize. Graves was suddenly there, his arm around Nick’s shoulder.

  “No,” Nick slurred, his mouth struggling to form words. He shook Graves’s arm off but gripped the huge shoulder instead, steadying himself.

  “Don’t touch…” was all he could manage. Please don’t touch me. God, oh God, I’m gonna be sick. Oh, Jesus. He turned and fell over, retching and coughing. His hands and knees burned where they smacked the pavement. The street lights over the marina swung like pendulums. Graves caught him around the shoulders again, and Nick threw up what felt like everything he had ever eaten. He staggered to his feet, and his knees gave out, but Graves had him in a steady grip.

  “What’s wrong with our Nick?” Bishop’s voice, blurry and distant.

  “Just a bit of a shock. I’ll take care of him,” Graves said, his voice also far away and strange to Nick’s ringing ears.

  “It’s all right,” Graves said softly, leading Nick up the ramp to the yacht. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  *

  Nick’s fear and confusion slipped away under Graves’s practical, even clinical care. Graves waved away his stewards and peeled off Nick’s clothes, batting his hands away when he tried to resist.