"Drive-thru coffee. She's Bean Around is great, but not when you don't want to get out of the car."
"You have your serious voice on."
I glanced over, lips twitching. "I always have my serious voice on."
"Well, sort of. But now you have on your 'I have some business stuff to tell you' voice on."
"There's a distinct voice for that, huh?"
"Mmhm," she insisted, half-turning in her seat as I pulled up to the drive-thru, calling out the order, then pulling up to pay. "So," she pressed when her coffee was in her hands, and I pulled to the back of the lot to park. "What's going on?"
"Gunner found his house," I told her, not one for easing anyone into things. "Smith and I went over. Babe, he's been watching you since you moved to Navesink Bank. Lived in your first apartment building. Had pictures of you moving in the first day."
She had been bringing her coffee up to her lips, sure to burn her tongue, but seeming to need the distraction as I spoke. But at that last part, her hands lowered, curling more tightly around the too-hot paper cup. "What?"
"I know," I said, nodding, reaching out to squeeze her wrist. "You thought it was just since the move. But from what we could tell, he followed you when you moved, bought a house just a couple streets back, so he could come through the woods to look at you."
Her gaze went to my hand long enough for me to feel the need to remove it before she looked out the front window, watching a bluejay flutter from tree to tree. "How could I have missed it for that long?"
"Because, until eight months ago, he didn't ever seem to engage you. He just watched. Just took pictures. Something must have happened eight months ago to set him off. Maybe his shrink said something he didn't like, and he stopped going. Maybe you finally passed him on the street and smiled at him, and he took that as encouragement."
"I know you don't know me that well, Quin, but I don't smile at random men on the street."
She had smiled at every one of my team members when she met them, even as traumatized and brutalized as she was. It was a small, curtesy smile, but that was all these whack jobs needed. "Maybe he held a door open, and you thanked him. It's impossible to tell. Well, at least until I read through his journal. But something triggered the switch. And then your less-than-thrilled reaction to his advances likely was what turned him more angry, more violent."
She nodded a little at that, teeth nipping into the inside of her cheek as she thought. "Were there pictures of me without my clothes on?"
She knew the answer to that.
She just needed the confirmation.
"Aven..."
"That's a yes," she concluded, taking a deep breath, holding it so long that it must have burned her lungs, then letting it out slowly. "A lot?" she clarified.
"There was a collage on his bedroom wall. Most of them weren't fully naked. And it all stopped eight months ago." Sort of.
"Except?" she pressed, picking up on the fact that I was leaving something out.
"Except the camera he had on him that night had a few pictures as well."
She was silent for long enough that I uncomfortably shifted in my seat, full of all the wrong things to say.
"Is it weird that I somehow feel more violated about the pictures than about him jerking off outside my windows?"
"Your body is private, babe. Who does - and doesn't - get to see it should be your choice. He took that right away. Him jerking off is just some jackass being fucking disgusting. I get where you're coming from."
"What was his na--"
"No," I cut her off.
Her head snapped over, eyes fiery. "What? Why not?"
"Because knowing his name changes nothing. No need to humanize him after the fact. And it's better all-around that you never know."
"In case this woman goes to the cops, and they start asking me about Joe Somebody."
"Something like that," I agreed. "Though, I don't think she's going to the cops."
"Why not?"
"First, she has no proof anything went down with you. Second, his house - until Smith and I cleaned it out - looked like a stalker's wet dream. She likely knew that wouldn't look good for him."
"What are you going to do when you find her?"
"That depends a lot on her behavior when we start watching her."
"What does that mean?"
"Is she off her rocker like she was last night? Is she running her mouth to everyone? Is she just genuinely worried about her brother?"
"And in those situations, what would happen?"
"Babe, that isn't how this works," I told her, shaking my head. I had allowed too many breaks in protocol with Aven. I couldn't go there. I couldn't let it be on her conscience if we had to do something like get the woman committed. Have her disappear.
"Okay," she said, swallowing hard. "I guess that is, in a way, an answer."
"We don't--" I started, but cut myself off, finding the lie didn't come as easily as it should have. Because we did, once in a very blue moon, kill people. It came in the line of business. Deals went south. Someone went back on their word. It wasn't exactly rare to be caught in a situation where bullets start flying. In those cases, you had to do what you had to do to survive. Case closed.
I couldn't promise her that there wasn't even a shred of a chance that this woman could end up shot. I didn't have that foresight.
And while lying to a client wasn't exactly against my moral code, somehow lying to Aven felt like it was.
So I didn't.
"We do everything possible to preserve life at all costs. The vast majority of the time, we can. Once in a while, we can't, thanks to circumstances beyond our control. We try to prepare for every possible eventuality, but people are panicky, unpredictable things. You can never know what one is capable of doing."
"That's fair," she agreed, nodding.
"You want to get this work shit over with?"
"God, yes."
NINE
Aven
Telling my boss and coworkers about my 'mugging' went about as one could expect. There was shock and outrage. There were hugs, and insistence that I take as much time as I needed to recover, both body and mind.
There was also a somewhat unexpected outburst from Benny about all these 'motherfucking assholes in this town raising their hands to women.' This was directly followed by him promising me that we would have a chick flick movie marathon as soon as I was feeling better.
"Take care of our girl," he insisted, giving Quin a hard look before he led me away.
"You seem beat," I told Quin as we got in his car, sitting at a light, watching as he raked a hand down his scruffy face, making the memory of that scraping over my face as he kissed me overtake all other thoughts. It felt like forever ago. It felt like it had been a dream.
"It's been a long couple of... weeks," he admitted, snorting a little.
"You don't need to babysit me," I felt compelled to say, though I was enjoying his company perhaps more than I should have. "Go home and get some rest."
"When there's work to be done?" he asked, turning to me, the side of his head resting on the headrest, the most relaxed I had ever seen him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"I feel compelled to quote The Shining here, Jack."
That made the smile spread even more. "King fan?"
"Is that an actual question?" I shot back, rolling my eyes. "Who isn't a King fan? The Shining, Shawshank, The Green Mile..."
"You're naming all the ones that broke his usual style."
"Alright. Then Mercy and It also come to mind."
"Did you see it?"
"See what?"
"The new It?"
I shook my head, shrugging a shoulder. I didn't get to the movies often. Not because I didn't have time or because it was too far away. I just tended to need to psych myself up for it, and by then, it was already out of theaters.
"I usually wait for things to come on DVD to watch them," I told him. "I kinda prefer being at home in sweats wher
e no one can judge me for eating a whole pizza myself, and scoffing at the completely unrealistic action scenes."
"Remind me to put on the Bourne movies around you sometime."
"Don't get me started," I warned, smiling a bit when he did even though it pulled at the healing cut on my lip. "And then we could put in some Fast and Furious franchise movies, and laugh at how they defy the laws of physics!"
Even as the chuckle rolled through him, reverberating into my chest, I realized how much I actually wanted that. To do something normal with him. Watch a movie. Hate on it. Eat pizza. Just, be two people. Not a fixer and his client. Not a white knight and his damsel in distress. Just a man and a woman.
I wondered if that were possible, if things would be different. If we would get along; if we would enjoy each other's company.
If maybe something could come of it.
Silly and fanciful of me?
Possibly.
I barely knew the man, after all.
But there just seemed to be a tug there, slight, but unmistakable.
And the attraction factor? Yeah, that was definitely part of it too.
"What's that look for, babe?" he asked, hand raising, his cufflink catching the sun, blindingly bright for a moment, before his hand went under my jaw, tilting my head up higher.
The bigger part of me wanted to lie, to deflect, to not expose a small bit of vulnerability. But, for some reason, the smaller part that wanted to share somehow won out.
"I was thinking it would have been nice to meet you outside of this whole mess of a situation."
"Why's that?" he asked, deep eyes watching, looking for a lie.
So I gave a half-truth instead.
"I think we would have gotten along. I could..." I broke off shaking my head a little. "I could have used a friend in town."
"A friend, huh?" he asked, something in his voice that I didn't know him well enough to interpret, but it was deep, heavy, something that weighed down his words. It was something that my mind really, really wanted me to interpret as disappointment in that being all I wanted, something I was sure we both knew was a lie.
There were times, though, for wishful thinking.
This wasn't that.
I couldn't get wishy-washy with Quin.
He was in my life in a professional capacity, nothing more.
But he was still just looking at me, eyes expectant, hand still gently framing my jaw.
What came next simply burst out of me without any conscious thought. I swear I was surprised when the words filled the air, like they came from somewhere else, not from my lungs, from my tongue.
"It's been lonely here." The words dripped with truth, painted pictures of me alone in my home, no phone nearby because no one ever called, no one to open carefully chosen, red and white striped gifts with on Christmas, no one to get champagne silly with, then pop confetti wands with, and kiss at midnight on New Years, no memories of fun nights out with friends, laughing until my belly hurt, smiling until my cheeks did, no visions of cuddling close under the covers with a man I cared enough for to share not only my body, but my time, my self.
There was too much of me in those four little words.
"Know how I spent New Years last year?" he asked, seeing the same things I did, as I knew he would. I felt my head nod, not wanting to speak, to possibly ruin the moment. "I was in a hotel room in Milwaukee, looking down at the couples walking down the street from my room perched above it all, whiskey in hand, feeling every bit like an outsider, like I was missing out on something everyone else enjoyed. It was just another day of work for me."
He's been lonely too.
It was a strange thing in life how we so often forget that men, especially wealthy and powerful and gorgeous men, were capable of our same emotions, our same wants, drives, and desires.
I could picture him up there in his suite, all the comforts that money could buy. And none of them that money couldn't.
"I fell asleep on my couch before the ball even dropped," I admitted, leaving out the fact that I had maybe done a small, very small, bit of crying before sleep finally took away the twinge of sadness.
"Tell you what," he said, thumb stroking slightly up my cheek. "If we're both not doing anything, how about we do something for New Years? No reason for us both to be sad loners when we can be..." he paused, seeming to struggle for a second, "friends."
"I can get behind that," I agreed, though there was a small, aching feeling in my chest as I said it. "But I am not flying to Milwaukee."
"1600 Broadway, #7C."
"Hm?"
"That's the address to my apartment in the city. 1600 Broadway, #7C. That is where I will be this New Years. If you have nothing going on and don't want to be alone, it is a short train ride away."
"I want champagne and confetti wands. And a hat that says New Years on it."
His smile was warm as his hand dropped. "I think I can make that work," he agreed, sitting back up straight. Whether he realized it or not, it was a wall he was putting back up.
He wasn't Quinton Baird, the guy who was willing to spend New Years with a fellow lonely soul. He was Quinton Baird, my fixer.
I took a breath, trying to tamp down the disappointment, trying to remind myself that friends didn't get upset about this little stuff.
"Want to head back?" he asked, but he was already putting the car into reverse.
"Yeah, quick, before anyone else sees this," I said, motioning to my face as he turned to look out the back window. Levity, the moment needed a little.
But Quin wasn't going to let me have it.
"Don't say that," he told me, tone both pleading and demanding at once.
With that, we drove back to the office in stony silence.
A part of me had ideas of confetti and a glittery ball and champagne giggles. The other part, though, couldn't get past the coolness in the car, the change in just a split second.
"Hey pretty lady!" Kai greeted from where he was perched on Jules's desk, absentmindedly stirring the pens in her holder around.
Jules, seemingly as oblivious as Quin had once claimed, was thumbing through some paperwork.
Quin moved past me, fingers casually touching my hip for less than a blink, then disappearing down the hall. I turned to watch his back leave, a falling feeling in my belly.
"Hey Kai," I said with a forced smile, as Jules's hand slapped down on his, making the brushing sound of the pens moving stop immediately.
"Quit that," she demanded softly, sounding distracted.
I did not miss, however, the way Kai's gaze went down, looking at her hand over his. And, God, it was almost painful to witness the look of wonder, hope, and longing.
Never had a man looked at me that way before.
Chances were, no one ever would.
So maybe my chances for soul-deep love were next to null.
But that didn't mean that I couldn't root for these two.
Minivans and white picket fences and heels getting stuck in the sidelines of a little league game.
There was hope for love in the world.
You had to appreciate it when you saw it, even if it wasn't your own.
"Fenway has called down every ten minutes since you walked out the door asking when his fellow inmate will return. His last call requested a game of Monopoly when you return," Jules informed me. "Where he gets the idea that we would even have a game of... can I help you?" she asked as a door opened and closed behind me, making me turn half-away, self-consciously hiding my messed up face.
"Delivery," the man informed us, wearing what seemed to be bike messenger gear, complete with a big black bag hanging to his side, the strap across his chest reinforced with bright metallic duct tape.
"For whom? I have no notes about deliveries," Jules said, standing straighter.
In response, the man reached into his bag, pulling out, I shit you not, a brand-spanking new wrapped game of Monopoly.
"That guy is smooth," Kai said, signing for it when
Jules just crossed her arms, clearly not amused. "You gotta give him credit for that, right?" he asked, reaching for a tip for the guy, then holding out the board game to me as the man left. "Just remember," Kai told me, everything about him serious. "Park Place is never a good investment." Then he broke into a big, happy grin, one that seemed very common for him. Even the somewhat clueless Jules sent him a half-smile before going back to work.
"I think I can count on Fenway to make a silly, ostentatious purchase such as that."
"That's right. Play to his weaknesses," Kai said, pretending like a friendly time-passing game of Monopoly was of utmost importance. "Jules said she is ordering in from Famiglia tonight," Kai said, referencing the local upscale Italian place. "Maybe I can come up and join you guys."
There was something in his voice, something very un-Kai-like, or seemed to be, but it was not something I could place.
"Yeah, sure. The more, the merrier."
"I don't understand how you keep winning!" I growled an hour and a half later, four games deep into some unexpectedly competitive rounds of Monopoly.
I never lost at board games.
Back when my father was alive, he insisted that every Saturday night was board game night. The three of us, and friends if I had any available, sat down around a pop-up table in our living room with Monopoly, Clue, Game of Life, Scattagories, Scrabble, Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, Battleship, Risk. You name it, we played it. And my parents were not of the mind that you should let children win just because they are children. I learned to lose. And I learned to hate losing enough to figure out how to win.
Monopoly, especially, was my jam.
I couldn't remember the last time I lost.
And yet Fenway kept beating me effortlessly, not seeming even to be paying full attention to the game, looking over at a Law & Order: CI rerun on the TV most of the time.
"This is what I do," he said, giving me one of his charming smiles.
"Win at board games?"
"Buy and sell real estate," he countered, eyes dancing as I small-eyed him.
The Fixer Page 13
