Trickiest Job

by Cleo Peitsche

  “One moment,” the receptionist says before I can correct the misunderstanding.

  I kneel by Bandit and gently stroke the top of his head. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t seem to enjoy it, so I stop.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice says.

  “Hi. You don’t know me, but I’m friends with Hawthorne, and I’m Bandit’s owner. You helped—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she says. There’s a smile in her voice. “It’s not every day that my bratty little brother brings a woman to meet the family.”

  “No… I didn’t meet you,” I start to explain.

  She laughs. “I realize that. Forgive my strange sense of humor. My social skills are always questionable after I get out of surgery. What I meant is that Hawthorne has never brought a woman to my house, so even though you just sat in the driveway, well, it stuck in my mind. It also helps that he texted me moments before you called. How is our dear Bandit?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. He’s… listless.”

  Olivia runs through a list of questions, then decides, “You need to bring him in immediately.”

  My heart plummets even though I expected this conclusion. I was hoping it wasn’t anything serious. “I’m not in the area anymore,” I say.

  “Where are you?”

  Without questioning the wisdom of giving out that information to someone affiliated with Hawthorne, I tell her. “Milford Crossing. It’s in—”

  “One of my partners grew up in that area,” she says. “Give me five minutes and I’ll get you a vet recommendation. And don’t worry, Lindsay. He probably just ate something he shouldn’t have. Cats wouldn’t need nine lives if they weren’t always getting into trouble.”

  But there’s nothing in the hotel room for him to get into. When we arrived, I checked carefully for bug and rodent poison.

  While I wait, I put together everything I could possibly need. Several thousand dollars in cash. My phone charger and a few snacks, in case the wait at the vet will be long. I brush my hair and gather it into a low ponytail.

  After four minutes, I carefully load Bandit into his soft-sided carrier, and I zip it closed. I realize it makes sense for me to wait in my car so that I’m ready to go, and I’m heading down to the parking lot when my phone rings.

  I answer without looking, and Hawthorne’s deep voice floats out of the speaker. “You’ve got an appointment in thirty minutes with Dr. Dimka,” he says. “I’ll text you the address.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

  It turns out that Dr. Dimka is only twenty minutes from the hotel. The rain stops before I’m halfway there. When I arrive, I’m trembling, and just walking through the door almost makes me burst into tears.

  No one is stationed at the sign-in desk, so I take a seat on a hard wooden bench.

  Across from me is an English sheepdog with a runny eye. The owner reminds me a bit of Donald Quackk, the head of accounting at Sunrise Imports. This guy has the same glasses, the same scratchy wool clothing, the same bushy eyebrows.

  I wonder if Quackk is back on the job after his heart trouble or if he decided to take early retirement. Likely I’ll never know.

  An hour later, I’m back in my car. I make it a few blocks before I pull over and start sobbing with guilt and relief.

  Bandit should be fine. It’s something akin to kidney stones in humans. The vet wanted to keep him overnight for observation. He’ll need prescription cat food, but so long as he receives it, he’ll have a long and happy life.

  The vet assured me I couldn’t have known, that he often sees cats whose illnesses are more advanced, but I feel like it’s my fault, that if I’d been paying better attention, I could have gotten him medical assistance sooner.

  And I can’t help but think that Bandit would be better off if he’d never hustled me for lunch at Sunrise Imports. Or if Hawthorne hadn’t given him to me.

  I don’t remember anything of the drive back to the hotel. I go into the room, shut the curtains and get into bed.

  And I ask myself what the hell is wrong with me. Why did I come back to Milford Crossing? It’s clear to me now that I don’t have the guts to see my sister.

  All I did was drag out the time that I’d be on the road. With Bandit.

  I sleep a little bit, then wake up and watch some television. Hawthorne calls a few times, and I text to say that Bandit is fine.

  It doesn’t stop him from calling again, but I don’t feel obligated to respond.

  The hotel phone rings, and that I answer.

  The lady working at the front desk tells me I have a visitor.

  “Who?”

  She mumbles something about the vet.

  And then I know.

  Bandit must have taken a turn for the worse, and the vet wants to tell me in person. I gave them the hotel address—they insisted, and now I know why.

  It’s not the first time in my life someone has given me devastating, life-changing news, but when my parents died, it was different. Adults created a buffer.

  I also wasn’t responsible for keeping my parents safe, though it took me years to accept that truth.

  Bandit is a cat, and I’ve only known him a few months. I never could have predicted that my heart would turn leaden in my chest. The pain that runs through me… I know it’s emotional, but it physically hurts, like my organs are shutting down, one by one.

  Rather than rush down to the lobby, I change into a fresh skirt, one that isn’t wrinkled. It’s a muted black, somber. On a whim, I change into a black blouse with a spray of small white dots across the front and down one arm.

  I put on my nicest stilettos and twist my hair into a presentable if somewhat messy bun.

  In the mirror, my face is pallid, my eyes are pale, my hair is dull. I’m becoming a ghost of a person, a caricature, a wax figure.

  As I slide honey lip gloss over my mouth, I ask myself what the hell I’m doing, why I’m stalling. At no point in history did a doctor or vet decide not to deliver bad news because the family member had shiny lips.

  I can’t talk my way out of what’s coming. I can’t out-think it, out-maneuver it.

  My hand shakes as I carefully place the tube of gloss on the counter. My index finger presses along the long, glass cylinder, the transparent label beginning to peel at one corner. I move the gloss over so that it’s neatly aligned with the rest of my powders and liquids and pencils and paints.

  Then I raise my eyes to the mirror, and I see a miserable failure of a human being. If I hadn’t been so afraid to leave the hotel, I might have allowed myself to see the truth. I told myself that Bandit was tired of being stuck in the hotel room, but now it’s so clear…

  What did Hawthorne say? You can lie to yourself, but that doesn’t change reality…

  I pick up my bag, which still contains money, and I drop in my car keys and hotel key before leaving the room.

  The elevator seems to be stuck on the third floor, so I decide to use the steps. When I reach the lobby, I don’t see the vet.

  What I do see is Hawthorne, facing the elevators.

  My breath catches.

  Ultra-conservative gray suit. Dark hair always the exact same length and style. It’s not possible for him to be here; the drive is longer than the time that’s elapsed since I spoke to him on the phone. Unless, of course, the bastard was already on his way.

  But that makes no sense. He didn’t know where I was until he got that phone call.

  However illogical this is, the fact remains that it is Hawthorne. I can’t disbelieve him into magically disappearing back to the office, where he belongs.

  He glances at his wrist, his body tense because he knows I’ll run away when I see him.

  I turn and head for the side exit. From there, it’s a straight shot to my car, and I figure I can go park somewhere for a few hours, until Hawthorne is gone.

  Just as I clear the building, I become aware of a dark mass moving toward me.

  Chapter 5
/>   Startled, I leap to the side. It’s a wonder that I don’t break both my ankles; stilettos weren’t made for displays of athleticism.

  Romeo stops short. “Whoa, Lindsay,” he says, frowning. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He sounds irritated.

  I press my palm to my chest and feel my heart racing. “How are you here?”

  “We got your address from Olivia,” he says.

  “But how—”

  He nods, understanding. “Private plane, then a helicopter.”

  He might as well have said “transporter” because the idea of anyone taking a helicopter to come annoy me at my hotel-prison is ludicrous.

  “What do you want?” I ask. I’m aware that Romeo deserves more deference than this, but he’s no longer my boss, nor is he my dominant lover. In fact, from where I’m standing, he’s a stalkerish guy.

  The unkind thought gives me pause. Romeo has been nothing but generous to me, and it wasn’t fair for me to leave the way I did.

  “What do I want?” he asks in a low, commanding voice. I notice that his words echo my phone conversation with Hawthorne… Like he’s suggesting I initiated this.

  He levels his dark gaze at me. Because he’s Romeo, I’m not worried that he’s going to do something regrettable, but it’s impossible not to be apprehensive when a man of his size wears such an irritated look.

  “You called us,” he says.

  “I…” Licking my lips, I choose my next words carefully. “That’s true, but you didn’t have to come all the way out here. You could have called me back. And even that wouldn’t have been necessary. Hawthorne already answered all my questions.”

  “Did he?” Romeo steps closer, and I can’t help but inhale the mix of aftershave and cologne and think of being in his arms—or at least kneeling before his executive chair.

  “Here’s the problem,” Romeo says. “When you left, Hawthorne convinced us you wanted to be alone.”

  “As much as it pains me to admit Hawthorne was right,” I say, “it’s true. I needed space.”

  “Do not lie to me, Lindsay,” Romeo growls. “You left because you were scared, not because of anything we did.”

  Spreading my fingers helplessly, I search for the right thing to say. Something clear-cut enough that he’ll be persuaded to leave, but nothing so tidy that it will sound like denial.

  I’ve got nothing.

  “Out of respect for you, the three of us decided to give you the space you requested,” Romeo continues. In the fading daylight, his brown eyes are turning shadowy. His masculine jaw and the sculpted lines of his handsome face are even more alluring like this, half-shrouded in the growing darkness.

  “We agreed that if you were to contact us, then it would be our turn.”

  I lick my lips nervously. “Your turn to do what?”

  The sound of a shoe scuffing the pavement is the only warning I have before Hawthorne’s overbearing voice says, “Our turn to take control.”

  My pulse feels like a vibrating wire threaded through my veins. “There’s nothing to take control of,” I insist. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that they’re here.

  “Why are you in Milford Crossing?” Romeo asks.

  Footsteps approach to my right—Slade joining the impromptu party in the parking lot.

  One big happy reunion. When I bemoaned feeling lonely, I didn’t actually intend to conjure up anyone, especially these three.

  “I decided to see my sister before I went to California,” I say, lifting my chin.

  “And then what? What’s so important that you just took off like that?” Romeo demands.

  He’s… hurt. Is it his ego? I don’t think so. Romeo isn’t pumped full of pride, like Hawthorne. The idea that someone like me could have the power to wound someone like him… It would be as ridiculous as if I tried to attack a real wood bison with nothing but a pair of tweezers.

  “What I suggest,” Slade says smoothly, “is that we get something to eat. I haven’t had dinner, and I’m starving.” He steps closer to me and places a hand reassuringly on the small of my back.

  If there’s anyone who can talk sense into the other two, it’s Slade. He’s been consistently in my corner since the beginning… a little less invested. Romeo cares because he offered me a prime job and trained me. I guess he saw me as a project. Hawthorne cares because he hates the idea of anyone making decisions that he doesn’t approve of.

  But Slade… If I can win him over to my way of seeing things, then he’ll help me convince the others, and I can get back to my semblance of a life.

  “What do you say, Lindsay?” Slade asks.

  And because he’s actually asking instead of demanding or attacking, I nod. “I would love to get something to eat.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I shouldn’t be surprised that the men rented a limo, but I am.

  No champagne in the back, sadly—just bottles of water. Pity. I could really use a drink.

  As the car moves through the dusk, I wonder where we’re going. There are some restaurants I would have to reject. The Italian place my grandfather goes when he wants everyone to kiss his ass. The sports bar that swallows up tens of thousands of his dollars on a regular basis.

  The restaurant we go to is higher end but not insufferably fancy. There used to be a fitness center in this location, as I recall, but it’s hard to see it in the architecture.

  So many changes since I last lived here. After a few days in the area, I should be used to the idea that things don’t stand still, but I’m not.

  Hawthorne goes in first, and after a couple of minutes, the rest of us follow. I don’t know why the men did it like this until I enter and Hawthorne beckons us down a hall.

  We enter a small banquet room, the sort that would be ideally suited for ten to twelve people. Hawthorne closes the door after us.

  “I thought it best if you weren’t observed any more than necessary,” he says, and I’m suddenly glad he knows about Kidnapper Joe and how dangerous this is for me.

  On the other hand, if he hadn’t exploited his sister to get my hotel address, it wouldn’t be a concern at all.

  There are two tables, one round, the other rectangular.

  Slade pulls out a chair for me at the round table, and he sits to my left.

  Hawthorne takes the seat to my right, and Romeo sits across from me.

  “I’m sorry that you left work early for this,” I say sincerely as I lower myself into the comfortable chair. “But you’ll see it’s a waste of time. I’m fine.”

  Romeo rests his head on his hand, his thumb on his cheekbone, his fingers on his temple. “Don’t, Lindsay,” he says.

  For a long time, no one speaks.

  Then Hawthorne says, “Bandit is fine. My sister said his illness was only in the earliest stages and that it’s not your fault. Apparently Dr. Dimka thinks you took it pretty hard.”

  I shrug, but a weight lifts from my shoulders.

  I’m not really sure what the men want, why they came. But what’s clear is that keeping my mouth shut is the wiser move at the moment, at least until I can get the lay of the land.

  Romeo finally looks up, right into my eyes. “You’re here to see your sister,” he says. “Why the secrecy? Why leave without telling anyone where you were going?”

  My eyes dart toward Hawthorne, but his stony face tells me that he’s not going to cover for me. Yes, Hawthorne knew I was leaving, but he didn’t know where I was going.

  Well… I do owe these men more than I’ve given them. A lot more. “One of my grandfather’s thugs tracked me down,” I say. “The abduction… It wasn’t random. I was scared.”

  “Thank you for telling me that,” Romeo says, and it’s so obvious that he already knew. “You didn’t think you could come to me?”

  We’re all about truth, right? So I shake my head. And I feel awful for hurting him.

  Even if I don’t understand why my leaving had this effect, I know what I want the reason to be: that night we spent toget
her, when his body was wrapped protectively around mine. I want it to have meant something to him, too.

  “I was afraid to tell you,” I say. “Because I knew you’d try… I knew you would succeed in talking me out of it.” How’s that for truth? But I feel exposed.

  “And would that have been so bad?” he asks, and it’s like it’s just the two of us in the room. I can’t look away from his beautiful brown eyes.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “My grandfather is… relentless. If he knows where I am, he’ll find a way to get me.”

  “And do what?” Hawthorne asks.

  The door opens and two waiters enter. One carries two bottles of wine, one red, one white. The other bears a tray containing an assortment of appetizers. I’m relieved to see that I don’t recognize either man. They’re both in their thirties, too old to know me from high school.

  Hawthorne does the swishing-tasting wine thing and approves both bottles.

  “Red, please,” I tell the waiter.

  As he fills my glass, I pretend to watch, but my attention skips past his outstretched arm… to Hawthorne.

  Hawthorne, whose icy blue eyes are frozen on me.

  I feel, suddenly, naked, and not in the fun way, either.

  Then the waiter straightens, and when he moves his arm, it breaks the spell. I quickly turn away.

  After the waiters are gone, Slade holds up his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he says.

  Equal parts intrigued and worried, I lift my own glass. It’s Slade, so I don’t expect a trap, but then again, I wouldn’t have expected Slade to be part of this grossly misguided intervention.

  “To new frontiers for us all,” he says solemnly. And when the others echo the sentiment, I realize something. In my absence, they’ve been making some kind of plan.

  It makes me wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten weak, hadn’t called. Eventually, would I have found myself sitting in a room with these three men?

  Slade holds out a platter of bruschetta, and I take one of the tiny slices.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. It gives the wine time to work its magic, to dull my sharp edges and fears.