“You’re stalling,” he teased.
But there was nothing teasing about the light in her eyes when she faced him again. She swallowed, and her throat worked. Her voice came out small. “Was it ever real, Charlie? Any of it? Was it ever real for you? Or just another part to play to get a job done?”
He took the cigarette from her, and twisted around to stub it out in the tray on the bedside table. When he rolled back, she wore a frown.
“Now who’s stalling?”
He let out a breath, and a few last ribbons of smoke. “The day I met you, when you came up to me in that pub, I got a call from Dad. ‘Keep your eyes open, today,’ he said. And then hung up. I knew he was talking about you the second you said hello. I mean, I have a certain charm–”
She snorted.
“–but ladies such as yourself don’t just approach me in pubs like that. Not with any intent.”
“You knew what I was doing,” she said flatly, and he couldn’t tell if she was offended or disappointed. Probably both.
“But you were honest about your job. I respected that. You didn’t play any games that night. And by the time we left, I could tell you really did want me, and it wasn’t for show.”
“You unbelievable ass.”
“That’s not an accusation,” he said, pressing on, calm now. It had itched at first, the words restless under his skin. But giving voice to them proved them for what they actually were: a confession, even if it had only been made in his head. He didn’t examine his own emotions often, but this time, he found they’d eased him. “You did. And it was good that night. It was great. And we kept doing it, and I know it started out as an investigation for you, but then it turned into something more. Or, I thought it did.”
“It was never an investigation,” she said, growing agitated. She sat up and pulled the sheet up over her breasts, held it there with trembling fingers. “By the time you started slanting me looks, I already knew you weren’t our guy. I’m not a Bond villainess, Charlie; I don’t sleep with the enemy just to get closer.”
“I never said you did. But you still might not have–”
“It was real,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “Of course it was real. I–” Her breath caught, and she turned her head away, hair shivering down from behind her ear to shield her face.
This, a voice in the back of his head chimed in. He thought it was his conscience, but it sounded a lot like Abe. This is why no one gives a shit about you. You push too hard, and you piss people off, and you break their hearts.
He was an emotionless bastard, he knew. Literally, most of the time. But sometimes…sometimes, he did care. A little too much. And then he pushed, and pushed, because he didn’t think anyone else did.
He’d pushed too hard, here. And ordinarily, that was his cue to get up and walk away. He pushed the people in his life to points of anger and despondency they couldn’t come back from, not without him reaching out to bridge the divide. But did he ever do that? No. He left. Always.
Just like Devin.
He’d spent his whole life hating that he was most like his father out of the nine of them…and then doing Devin-like things over, and over, and over again anyway.
Fox sat up, heart pounding. “Eden.” He reached out, slow, even though she wasn’t looking at him, and carefully, carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. He left his hand there, fingers caught in the silky tangles the pillow had left behind – he’d always loved her hair a mess, evidence of passion and imperfection – and studied her face. Lower lip caught between her teeth, bitten hard enough to turn it white. Fast flicker of her lashes.
“Eden,” he said again, and moved to cup the back of her neck; he felt her pulse running hard beneath his fingertips. “I know I’m cold. I don’t mean to be.”
“Ha,” she said without a bit of humor. “That makes two of us, then.”
“I have a very bad habit,” he continued, “of hurting the people I love the most. And I still haven’t figured out how to ever apologize properly.”
Her head whipped around, eyes wide. Glassy with unshed tears.
“I’m sorry. I know that probably doesn’t mean much at this point, and you can hate me, or slap me – I get it, yeah. But I wanted you to know that–”
She laid a finger against his lips. She didn’t seem to be breathing, was instead vibrating. “You said ‘love,’” she murmured. “The people you love most.”
He swallowed. “I did. Yeah.”
She leaned in close, until her finger was all that separated their mouths. “Do you mean that?”
“Yeah. I always have.”
She studied him a long, tense moment, gaze tracking back and forth between his eyes. Then she pulled her hand down, and kissed him.
It wasn’t like before, up on the roof, desperate, and clinging, and bursting with heat. This was slow, and lush, and intimate.
When she pulled back, her expression had settled into something new and surprising; she seemed to glow, radiating with some newfound inner light, and the sight of it tightened his stomach in a pleasant way.
“Don’t do anything stupid and get yourself killed today, Charlie,” she commanded softly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Thirty-Three
The Pseudonym building gleamed like cut crystal, lit from the ground up by outdoor spotlights, a showpiece that dazzled even amidst the rain and the gathering dark. Thanks to the slope of the land, several artfully designed parking garages, and the faceted shape of the building itself, there were at least a dozen entrances. Tonight, a line of rain-slick limos snaked along a patch of lit-up garden to a pair of double glass doors covered by an awning.
“Remember,” Ian said in the back one of these limos, picking invisible lint off his cuffs, “I’ll do all the talking. Go where they tell you” – this he said to Reese and Evan – “and wait for the signal.”
Both boys wore long black coats with the collars popped up, sweats, and sneakers. Raven had said they looked like off-duty models, and Mercy would just have to take her word for it. She’d also done some dramatic – in Reese’s case frightening – things with their hair and makeup. They didn’t look like themselves at all.
Ian, however, hair elaborately braided, lashes and brows darkened, sharp cheekbones honed to razor edges with a few strokes of a brush, seemed to be enjoying the hell out of all this.
Mercy elbowed him. “Having fun?”
The dealer cut him a grin. “Oh, yes. I never get to do this sort of thing.”
“You mean be superior, and mean, and make everybody in the room feel about two inches tall?”
“No, that’s a daily occurrence. But I mean act.” He smoothed his lapels and tipped his head back. “I was going to be a very famous dancer once upon a time, you know.”
“You don’t say.”
Ian snorted. “Mock me all you like. Tonight, you’re my underling.” He chuckled. “I think I’m going to like that.”
Evan glanced through the tinted window and wet his lips for the dozenth time.
“Stop doing that,” Ian said. “You’ll ruin the gloss.”
The boy dropped his head between his knees and groaned, reaching up to rake his hands through his hair. He froze, though, when Ian cleared his throat, and picked his head back up. “Right. Hair,” he murmured. Then straightened and flopped back against the seat. “I just don’t get why…” His gaze slid over to Reese, and Mercy could see the shudder he failed to suppress. “I had to do this.” Then he looked at Ian, half-imploring, half-accusing. “I mean, I’m just–”
“Kid,” Mercy said. “Stop digging the hole.”
“Well,” Ian said, unperturbed. “You are, after all, just a scruffy no-account boy with a poor skincare routine. But you are slender, and you have a certain bone structure that, when seen from the right angle, and with cosmetic help, lends you a certain level of…watchability.”
“Watchability?” He looked stricken.
“Your job – our job – is to provide a dis
traction. And, let me assure you, should worse come to worse, I will be using you as a human shield. Felix and I are both important members of the Lean Dogs family, with spouses and homes to return to. You, on the other hand.” He smiled again, and Mercy bit back a laugh. “Well, every good plan needs an expendable party, wouldn’t you agree?”
Evan swallowed with an audible gulp, and the limo rolled forward again.
Mercy turned his attention to Reese, who sat statue-still – he didn’t even rock when the car did, but remained frozen, like a bird balanced on a perch – hands folded together in his lap. Raven had used heavy blacks and deep blues around his eyes, which sharpened the natural color. The show had a military theme, so he looked like he was wearing artful grease paint, curled up in a dozen little points at the edges, like a feathered Mardi Gras mask. With his hair gelled back severely, he looked every inch an angel of death.
“You okay?” Mercy asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know the plan?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ian leaned in close, shielded his mouth behind his hand, and whispered, “He does blink, doesn’t he?”
“Sometimes.”
The limo rolled again, and glided to a stop. “We’re here,” Bruce said.
Ian hitched upright in his seat. “Excellent.”
Mercy felt a little thrum of excitement in his belly. This was nothing like a typical job – the hair, the suit, the glittering building that awaited, and a world he’d never explored – but a job was still a job, after all, and his pulse accelerated beneath the silk of his shirt, and the tattoo of Ava’s teeth on his chest.
The door opened, and Bruce climbed out first, ushering the attendant back and reaching in to assist his boss. Ian first, then Mercy shooed out the two boys, and then he followed.
The limo had let them out beneath the awning, and rain pattered against it, competing with the din of voices, those beneath the awning, and beyond the open doors, in a glass atrium boiling with humanity. Employees in black tuxes flanked a black carpet that led inside, and one of them stepped forward to approach their party, as another went to the trunk of the limo to take their bags.
Bruce took point, an arm held out protectively across his boss, a barrier between Ian and the approaching staff member.
“Welcome,” the employee said, all BBC and disinterested subservience. “Your name, sir?”
Ian put on a flawless French accent. “Francois de Leon. Special guest of Miss Anders. We should be on the list, oui?”
Mercy knew a moment of nerves, faint, but distinct, as the man scanned the clipboard in his hands. But then he nodded, and waved. “Right this way.” And they were in.
~*~
“Miss Anders,” the man at the door said, dipping his head, and scanned them through with his security pass.
Ryan was a few inches shorter, so Raven shortened her stride and matched her pace; both of them walked with heads up, spines straight, high heels clicking across the marble floors. Behind them, Shallie and Chef walked in all-black, not trying to look like anything other than the bodyguards that they were. Raven carried a small red clutch purse, just big enough to hold a gun, and its weight in her hand seemed a small comfort this deep into enemy territory.
They progressed down a narrow, elegant, if plain, hallway lined with black doors, some open, some affording views of suit-clad staff. This was the beating heart of tonight’s show, the place where security and the heads of sound, and lighting, and the director all had offices, gophers scurrying back and forth, important heads of things bent over computers.
Raven heard Ryan take a short, sharp breath just before she rapped on an open doorjamb, and Raven did the same.
They stepped into an office devoid of any comforts. A black desk, a sequence of computer monitors, and the standard office chairs that always gave Raven a backache. The man behind the desk was sharply dressed, but fleshy-faced and harried-looking. He lifted his head at the sound of Ryan’s knock. “Be with you in a…” And trailed off when he saw them. “Moment,” he finished faintly, eyes widening.
That look told Raven everything she needed to know: no one had expected Ryan Anders to show up tonight, whether or not this was her collection, and her models. Someone had meant to kill or capture her before then.
“Ryan!” he said, jerking upright. “You – you–” A forced smile. “You made it! How lovely. And who is–” His gaze shifted over to Raven, and then his eyes positively bugged.
The two of them charged forward as a unit. Ryan had a knife, a slim little switchblade, and it caught the light as she flicked it open and lunged over Howard Grafton’s desk to press it to his throat.
“Boys–” Raven started, but Chef was already shutting the door, and locking it.
“Now, Howard,” Ryan said, “there’s no need for this to get unpleasant. All we need is your ID card.”
~*~
Fox pulled his visor down low over his eyes and adjusted the stepladder on his shoulder. Devin, Abe, and Morgan trailed behind him, all of them dressed similarly – as a lighting crew, with walkie-talkies, and plastic equipment cases, and laminated badges that looked real. Ryan had been able to supply them with company names, so they looked as legit as possible. Amidst the hustle and bustle of workers going in and out of the service entrance, the security goons gave them only a cursory once-over before waving them through.
And they were in.
Someone with a clipboard waved them along, and they headed that way until they reached the massive, soaring ballroom where the fashion show was to take place. Here it was controlled chaos: lots of shouting, both across the vast room and into headsets; lots of waving, and directing, and dozens of lackeys in black turtlenecks and trousers aligning chairs and making sure the stage was level.
Fox looked back over his shoulder to make sure his crew was still all together and all in place. Morgan was scanning the room with a critical gaze…but one that was detached, as well. In fact, all three of them wore a certain blank expression.
Reminiscing? Flashbacks? Or just the natural glazing-over that came with the job?
Fox turned around and kept moving. They knew what their orders were, and even if he didn’t trust them in a personal sense, they did know how to finish a job like this.
They skirted the stage, moving back around behind it, dropped the case they needed to, and there, just as Ryan had promised, waited the mouth of a hallway that was currently being unguarded. It led back to the staging area, she said, and wasn’t a spot they’d deem necessary for security.
It seemed far too easy. In Fox’s experience, that was the way things always seemed right before they blew up in his face.
~*~
“Put your pants on.”
“Just…right here in front of…everyone?”
“Yes,” Ian said. His tone was getting more and more brittle, and Mercy wasn’t sure how much of it was for show, for any listening ears, and how much of it was actual frustration. He suspected the staging area, with its taped-down cords, and undressing young men, and lighted makeup mirrors, was bringing back some very dark memories for Ian. “In front of everyone, just like every model and showgirl and dancer and performer has since the dawn of civilization.”
But Evan, Mercy had learned, was an idiot. Bless his heart.
“But…” he started.
Ian plucked the pants up off the back of Evan’s chair and brandished them like a weapon – Mercy hadn’t known pants could look as threatening as a knife, but here he was, learning something new. “Take off the pants you’re wearing,” Ian said through clenched teeth, “and put these other bloody pants on, or I’ll have Felix and Bruce do some very creative things with those brushes.” He stabbed a hand toward the big glass jar of them on the table.
“So generous,” Mercy said. “Always volunteering other people’s violence.”
“Pants,” Ian told Evan. “Now.”
Mercy went to the next table over to check on Reese. The kid was stari
ng at his own reflection in the mirror, and with the bulbs lit up on every side, it bathed his face in pure light, no shadows to dip his chin down in and hide. Not that he was the sort who hid; he was the most unselfconscious person Mercy had ever met. But even with the makeup, the light showcased how very young he was. It was so easy, given his demeanor, his profession, his…doglike personality…to forget there was a real boy locked in there somewhere behind that expressionless face. One denied a chance at a real life.
Mercy laid a hand on his shoulder, slow, making sure that Reese’s gaze caught the movement in the mirror. “Still doing okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You remember the plan?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mercy wasn’t one to feel awkward – and he didn’t truly feel awkward now. But he also wasn’t quite sure what to say to draw a little life out of the boy. He’d told Ghost and Walsh not to worry about that. “If he comes around, it’ll take time, and if he doesn’t, who cares?” But for Reese’s own sake, he hoped he would eventually learn to smile; to understand jokes, and feel some camaraderie with the club. Whatever happened with Kristin and Roman – literally the world’s slowest car crash – Mercy had a feeling the siblings would be tied to the Dogs indefinitely. He didn’t think there was anywhere else on earth better suited for them.
Mercy patted his shoulder and pulled his hand away. “Thanks for coming over here and helping us with this. I appreciate it, and I know Phillip’s crew does, too.”
Reese blinked. And then he turned his head around so he could look at Mercy face-to-face, without the mirror as a medium. “That’s what Lean Dogs do.” Matter-of-fact…and a little lost. Wondering, almost. “They help each other.”
“You’re right, kid.” He gave him a smile and another shoulder-touch, a squeeze this time. “That’s what we do.”
~*~
The backstage area bustled with the usual activity. Shouting coaches and designers and agents; frantic models leaning in close to the mirrors, in all manner of dress and undress. Normally, it sparked nostalgia in Raven, but tonight she felt like a live wire, juiced, breathless, and buzzing right at the edge of panic. She tried to unclench her jaw as she walked, but that wasn’t possible right now.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 29
