by Finn, Emilia
Abel Hayes’ club was the second, and though I only wanted to keep up with my brother, I was approached because of my tendency to take risks and get shit done, and while under, I was contracted to go under while under.
What do they call those? A double-double agent?
There was a rat in my own organization—there still is—and I didn’t know who was on our side anymore. The only man I worked with that I trusted was my brother, so I stuck close; I covered his back, and I worked to smoke our rat out before he figured us out.
I didn’t even know who my real boss was anymore. Eric DeWhit was our immediate superior. His superior was a dude by the name of Clune, and Clune’s superior was some other fucker who had no clue what it was to work on the streets.
Everything about my career was about the bureaucracy: who to impress, who to answer to, who to make happy—and most of all, who was running for office that particular year.
I didn’t know who my boss was anymore. I didn’t know what my objective was anymore. In my mind, my only job was to keep Kane safe and to bring Abel Hayes down.
In the underworld that Abel belonged to, when you’re undercover and need to earn trust, you’re often told to do things your momma might not approve of.
Have sex with a woman. Kill a man. Dispose of a body. Snort a line of coke.
One time, one line when your choice is to do it or die doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. What damage could one line of cocaine do, especially when they held a gun to your brother’s temple?
None.
So you snort it, pick a willing girl and fuck it out of your system, then move on with your life and get back to work having earned Abel’s trust.
I could do that. I did do that, and so did my brother.
The issues began when Abel had me snort on Monday, then again Tuesday, then again Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. By the time the weekend rolled around, the pointed guns were unnecessary. I wanted the coke, and not only was it not a hardship, but I was willing to pay for it.
I was losing grip of what was real.
If I’d stayed clean, I might’ve been sharper. I might’ve been able to save Kane. If I’d stayed clean, I might not have died and ended up in a blizzard with no heating.
Turning away from my frozen windows with a shake of my head, I stop and glance at my computer when it dings again.
From: AcesAndEights
Subject: Don’t ignore me, motherfucker! I see you there
With narrowed eyes, I turn back to my windows and stare across the cityscape in search of Ace. The street lights are still on, but the snow is slamming against the windows and blocking most of my view. The sky is so black, not even stars shine through.
I keep a pair of binoculars by the window out of habit – a guy with twenty-two hours a day has time to stare out his window – so I bring them up as my stomach rumbles, and I scan the horizon in search of another apartment with their lights on.
Nothing.
Not a single one for as far as I can see.
Cars start inching toward the city. Factory workers who could never escape a life of manual labor are already up and moving, even with the snow and a promise of more to come.
My laptop dings once again and tells me my time is up.
From: AcesAndEights
Subject: Last chance, then I firebomb your apartment
Laughing, I toss my binoculars onto my desk and swing back around to sit. Opening the first email, I scan Ace’s information: Cole Fenney, age twenty-five, high school dropout, mafia ties, though tenuous at best – deceased.
I open the second email, roll my eyes at the repeated information and Ace’s requested confirmation that Cole is out, despite the fact he obviously already knows.
Opening the third email, I hit reply:
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From: KingOnD8
Subject: re: Last chance, then I firebomb your apartment
No need to firebomb, asshole. I’m right here. Cole’s out. I didn’t walk away until he bled out and his heart stopped. I have the blood on my knife and boots to prove it. I took a shower and made coffee – ya know, life’s basic necessities before one discusses women and murder. I got his phone and a contact for his boss – Pete. I got no surname, but I have a number, so I figure you can pull that info.
Let me know if you want me to drop the phone, where, what time, all that shit. If you don’t need anything else, then I’m going to get something to eat.
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From: AcesAndEights
Subject: re: re: Last chance, then I firebomb your apartment
Drop the phone in the usual place. Locker #384
Go there first, drop the package, then leave. I’ll have it collected within the hour, and when I pull the data, I’ll let you know what I find.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From: KingOnD8
Subject: Stop recycling subject lines. It gives me a headache
I’ll drop it now, then I need food. His passcode is 848437, like TITTIES, but with only one T.
Over and out, Captain.
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From: AcesAndEights
Subject: re: re: re: re: I forgot to tell you
Fuck you.
2
Sophia
Breakfast With A Thug
“Here you go, darlin’. I threw in a few extra cherries for you, since you always have such beautiful manners.”
Grinning, I meet my server’s eyes and add another few dollars to my planned tip because she’s always giving me extras: bacon strips, cherries, patties on my burgers, and chocolate sauce on my ice cream. Ginnie is a red-headed waitress and as sweet as the pie she serves me seven days a week.
She’s worth every penny.
Sitting at the clean counter and turning to stare out into the darkness, I study the falling snow and wonder if the mystery man will come in today.
I used to eat here sporadically, a couple times a week, usually when I needed a break from work and a minute to stretch my legs. I live on this block, and Ginnie’s is the only place that’s open twenty-four hours within walking distance. But the day the handsome stranger walked in two months ago with his broad shoulders and hands dug deep in jeans pockets, was the day I sat a little taller on my stool and planned to drop by again at the same time the next day. And the next day. And the next day.
We’ve yet to speak beyond a rushed hey, but some days he stops close enough to rub shoulders while he flirts with Ginnie and orders his mammoth meals.
That’s okay; I love to eat, too.
Twenty-five years ago, I was born into a normal family, with a normal home, two golden retrievers – Daisy and Duke – and a four-door sedan. My sister and I shared a bedroom until I was seventeen and she was fifteen. We shared boyband posters and boyband boyfriends. We were the best friends anyone could find, and though we were teens and supposed to be in that stage of life where we should have been at each other’s throats, that just wasn’t us.
Ellie had the sweetest soul; she was the kindest person in this city and the next, so even if I wanted to be a bitch and hoard all of the New Kids on the Block, she made it hard to do so.
Not long after my seventeenth birthday and a small dose of what the shrinks like to call trauma and the resulting PTSD, things changed, and my appetite took a proliferate left turn until I developed a hunger beyond what my athletic body already possessed.
I consume between four and five thousand calories a day, and no matter what I eat, no matter how much I stretch my stomach out at each meal, it takes only an hour or two before my stomach grumbles and I have to start again.
So I sit in Ginnie’s diner seven days a week, and I allow her to clog my arteries with the tastiest food I could never dream of creating.
I’m good at my job.
In fact, I’m fucking amazing at my job.
But my coo
king skills leave a lot to be desired, despite my mom’s best efforts.
Ginnie offers me seconds, then dessert, then second dessert. So really, with Ginnie in my life, why should I learn to cook?
Each morning, when my stomach is bloated and I can feel the food in my chest, I drag my sluggish ass back to my apartment, and I get back to work. But for the hour or so I allow myself to be here and not working, I watch for the mysterious stranger. I kinda hope he’ll come in, and when I’m feeling extra daring, I lean just a little to my left when he’s ordering so his shoulder bumps mine.
I’m a G-Rated whore.
Icy snow beats at the diner windows and blocks out a lot of my view of the street, but I see his shadow first; I see his stride reflected from the streetlights. My heart races as I drop my head and study my meal like it holds the world’s secrets.
The bell over the door jingles when he comes in, and in that moment, the air in the almost empty diner changes. It was just me, Ginnie, and her cook, but now he’s here, and suddenly, the air feels electric.
“Hey, beautiful.” He stops at the counter in the same spot he always does. It’s almost like I’m invisible, because he sure as shit isn’t calling me beautiful. The counter is more than twenty-five feet long, but he stops by me every time, close enough our coats rub together, close enough his aftershave fills my lungs and makes me forget the plans I’ve already made for my life.
“Hey there, handsome.” Ginnie comes to the counter and takes his hands in hers. Rubbing them and making him smile, she blows hot air to warm him and watches him with a twinkle in her eyes. “It’s cold as hell out there. What in the name of Mother Mary are you doing coming down today?”
“I’m hungry.” He doesn’t yank his hands from hers. He just drops onto the stool two down from mine and hunches his shoulders in defense of the cold. “I’m so hungry, Gin, I think the cold is eating up my energy.”
“Of course it is, darlin’. That’s how you stay warm. Lemme get you a burger and curly fries. That’ll warm you up.”
“Sounds perfect.” As soon as she turns away, he drops his hands into his coat pocket and bounces his knees to keep warm. “Can I get a hot cocoa, too? An extra tall one.” His strong jaw moves as he speaks, the muscles twitching as he fights against the cold. “I need enough to fill my belly with warm chocolate. And maybe tee up some of the pie, because my hungry is hungry, and I can already tell my burger and fries ain’t gonna cut it.”
“Yeah, honey.” She slaps his order onto the board for her cook, then bustles to the back wall and makes herself busy with the large coffee mugs. “You want a cocoa too, Soph? On me, because that snow is too cold today, and none of us should be here.” She turns to me, drawing the handsome stranger’s dark gaze with her. They both watch me, though one of them is smiling, and the other tilts his beanie covered head like he is a puppy, and I was doing something interesting.
“Soph?”
“Yeah.” I shoot my gaze back to Ginnie’s. “A hot cocoa would be great, thank you.”
She turns and gets to steaming the milk in a silver jug. The hot steam makes loud hissing noises, then turns to a deep pressure gurgle that competes with the soft music playing through the speakers.
“Your name’s Soph?” I turn at his deep voice and meet curious eyes and a still-tilted head. “Like Sophie?”
“Sophia.” I pick up a long strip of bacon and eat because I truly am hungry, and though I wanted him to stop in and visit, talking seems to be a whole other game I’m not sure I’m ready for. “Sophia, because my great-great-great however-many-times-we-have-to-go-back grandma was born in Greece.”
He makes the little scoff noise through his nose, part laugh, part agreement, as he lets his dark eyes wander my lean body. “I see your olive skin. I don’t think it was too many greats ago. Sophia… Sophia… Sophia…” He rolls my name around in his mouth and makes Ginnie smirk ten feet away. “What’s your last name, Sophia?”
“Ah… Solomon.”
He flashes a fast grin that makes my insides melt. “So Sophia is Greek and on your maternal side, and Solomon is your father’s side… Arabic?”
I chew my bacon and nod.
“Sophia means wisdom, and Solomon, peace. You have a good, strong name, Sophia Solomon. It’s kinda cool.”
“Ah… thanks, I guess.” Picking up my knife and fork, I work through my waffles and fill each square with syrup. “What’s your name?”
“John D. Hamilton.”
I turn my head and study his face. “Your name is John?”
“Uh-huh, but my friends call me J, you know, like my first initial.”
“Jay?” A secretive grin pulls up his lips and brings mine up to mirror. “Jay. Okay. I don’t know the origins of your name. I never checked.”
He barks out a fast laugh, which startles both me and Ginnie. “I did. It means joyful and lively. Kinda fits, I guess.”
He’s joyful and lively… I didn’t guess that.
“Cool.” Setting my fork down and wiping my palm on my jeans, I reach out and extend a hand. “Nice to meet you, Joyful and Lively Jay.”
His dark eyes twinkle with something, dare, challenge, joyfulness, I guess. “Back at ya, Wise and Peaceful Sophia.” He takes my hand, wrapping his around mine for a beat and sending lances of electricity racing through my veins. “Wanna eat with me? It’s cold as balls out there, and the snow’s getting heavier.” Releasing my hand, he pats the empty stool between us. “I’m gonna be here for the next hour, and you’ve only just started eating, so…” He shrugs.
“Sure… I mean… I guess.” I slide my plate along the countertop to fill the space next to his hands. Scooting from one stool to the next, I shiver all over again as the cold gets into my bones. When I get comfortable, I find our shoulders touch; his are so broad, they impose on my space until I have to lean against him and hide my smile.
“Here you go, honey.” Ginnie drops an extra tall mug of steaming cocoa in front of Jay, then another in front of me. Turning away, she comes back with a small plate heaped with mini-marshmallows. “Have the time of your life.” She laughs when he fists a heap and shoves them straight into his mouth.
Ginnie’s eyes come to me. “They were to share. But I’ll get you some more.”
“You live near here, Sophia Solomon?” As soon as Ginnie turns away, my eyes come back to Jay’s. He wears that beanie low over his eyes, but I know he has short, dark hair. He doesn’t always wear a beanie. His eyes nearly lack color – they’re basically all black. His skin holds a similar olive complexion to mine, and though he’s covered almost from head to toe with clothes to stay warm, I see the tattoos that cover his hands, and when he turns at the exact right angle and his coat moves, I see the same ink stretch right up his throat to just beneath his ears.
He’s been coming in here since around Christmas, so he’s only ever worn winter clothes, but I know the ink covers him all over. I know he’s spent a lot of time and money in a tattoo parlor.
“Soph?”
“Yeah.” My stomach protests loudly, reminding me I’ve had a plate of food in front of me for more than five minutes, and I’ve hardly touched it. Jay continues to eat his marshmallows as I cut up more waffle and shove it into my mouth. “I’m on this block. In an apartment not very far from here.”
He chews his marshmallows, then with his mouth full, brings his cocoa up and sips. “That’s cool. Me too. I’m in the old Benson building.”
Pausing, I turn to him with suspicious eyes. “Me too…”
“Bullshit! Really?” He clangs his mug down and turns his entire body until his knees hit my thighs. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I live on the fifth floor of the old newspaper press. But now that I told you that – and you’re a stranger and all that – I’m regretting my life choices and considering moving.”
“Shit.” He laughs. “I won’t murder you in your sleep or anything, I promise, but I live on the floor below you. No shit; I’m on the fourth floor of
the Benson place.”
“You’re in the apartment below me? You’re the noisy jerk who keeps everyone awake all night?”
Chuckling, he hides his eyes when he glances into his lap. “No, that’s the third floor. They’re noisy as fuck. But I guess sometimes I stomp around to get payback, so maybe I am the noisy jerk in your eyes.” His gaze comes back up. “I was just thinking about my fifth-floor neighbor as I was walking here.”
I swallow dry waffle and chase it with cocoa. “You were?”
“Yeah. You’re so quiet, I wondered if you were dead.”
My stomach dips. “Dead? What the hell’s the matter with you?”
He laughs and turns back to the counter. “I swear, I never hear anyone up there, so I figured my neighbor was either already dead, or a dancer who’s light on their feet.” Staring at my plate a little too long and telegraphing his intentions, he reaches out without invitation. Whipping up my knife, I bring it down with a swift slice and embed the blade between his fingers.
His dark eyes snap back to mine in surprise.
“Don’t touch my fucking food.”
Pulling back slowly, he studies his unharmed hand, wiggles his fingers, then glances back to the knife stuck in the countertop. “What the fuck, Sophia?”
I push my food to the right and scoot back to my original stool. “I don’t know you, so don’t touch my food. I already let you have the marshmallows. That’s all the quarter you get from me. And yes,” I flip my long hair back so it doesn’t get in the syrup, “I’m a classically trained dancer… I was. A long time ago. But I was the best, so it sticks around even when you haven’t done it in eight years.”
* * *
Three days after officially meeting the mysterious man in Ginnie’s diner, I step into the hall of our apartment complex and regret my decision to share with him where I live. I should have kept my trap shut, because now I get random taps on my floor, like someone is using a broom handle to talk in Morse code. The worst thing is, I know Morse code, and something tells me Jay’s incessant tapping isn’t coincidental.
