Inside the file were assorted staged pictures of Harvey and the bottles of whiskey. He looked miserable in every single one of them.
"They're perfect, right?" Marley asked, eyes bright, excited, clearly invested in the company even if she was there by force.
"I think they might just work," I agreed, shutting the folder, handing it back.
"He managed to piss off everyone on set by insisting they all listen to Nietzsche on audio the whole day," Calvin informed me, smirking. "Nothing people like more than hearing a German philosopher spouting off about perspectivism for hours."
Apparently, Reagan was right about that kid. I wasn't sure I knew many adults who knew who Nietzsche was, let alone could pronounce his name correctly, and touch on his philosophies.
"Are you here to check in on the campaign?" Krissy asked, eyes keen. "Or just to see Reagan? I don't think she was expecting you."
"She wasn't. I got out of my usual work early." More like I walked out without saying a word. "Figured I would drop in to see how things were going."
"Oh, is that all?" Krissy asked, lips twitching. "Well, you picked a bad time. Reagan ran out. She should be back soon though. Why don't you wait in her office?" she suggested, jerking her chin over to it.
I didn't know why she wanted to hide me away. But I figured catching Reagan by surprise might be a good course of action.
I moved into her office, walking casually around, looking at the peaches piled in a bowl, wondering if that was where her scent came from. Not a perfume, just eating too many peaches, absentmindedly touching her neck or hair before washing her hands. Somehow, that made the scent even more appealing.
Without her there to see me snooping, I picked up the picture she had been looking at the first time I had visited. With the picture of a guy I had felt pangs of jealousy over at first. Her model brother. Who the woman was, I didn't know. Maybe a best friend she left behind in California.
I found I wanted to know why she had left that whole life behind. Why she would choose to settle down in Jersey with its cold winters and overcrowded summers, with its beaches covered in New Yorkers trying to escape the concrete jungle for a weekend.
I also found myself wanting to tell her why we had settled in Navesink Bank. What we had all been doing before then.
She'd been surprisingly receptive toward the fact that the Mallick family were loansharks. I imagined she would be able to accept my siblings' and my past.
I lowered myself down in her chair, watching the door, wondering if I was out of my mind. Why was I going out of my way for this woman when I barely spared others a second thought? It made no sense.
But I decided that King was right. If she wasn't scared off by me yet, and if I found myself so interested, then maybe it was something worth looking into.
"Harvey," Reagan's voice rang through the other room, her heels clicking across the room, something rustling as she went. Bags, probably. "The next time you place such an asinine order, you have to go pick it up. You should have seen the looks those people were giving me. I'll be right back. I just want to kick out of these shoe--"
"Hey, babe," I greeted her, feeling my lips curving up at the shock on her face, the way it made her eyes go round, made her lips part.
She was wearing another pair of those high waist slacks, this time in a bright royal blue color, paired again with another white top. But this one teased at playfulness with a short hem that showed off a sliver of stomach under her breasts. Just a couple inches. That would be all it would take to expose her to me, to take her nipple into my mouth, to her my name sigh out of her mouth as my teeth sank in.
Fuck.
I needed to focus.
"Nixon," she said, sucking in a breath. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed to proof Harvey's headshots," I told her in a loud enough voice to be heard by the eavesdropping Krissy.
Seeming to sense my reason, Reagan walked closer, came toward the desk, but stopped when she was at the side of it.
I wondered if she placed the distance there because she genuinely wanted it, or because she didn't trust herself close to me any more than I trusted myself close to her.
"The real reason," she told me, voice low.
"I don't have a passable answer for that," I admitted, shrugging.
"And yet I am supposed to accept that?" she shot back, brow raising, but her dark eyes were dancing.
"I told your staff I was here to proof the headshots," I told her, side-stepping her question.
"I gave your idea some thought. I figured it was worth a try."
"I hope it shakes out for you," I told her, meaning it.
"Harvey is dragging his feet, kicking and screaming the whole way, but I think there is a small part of him that is actually enjoying it. He would never admit it, but it's the truth. We are doing a commercial in a week. Marley and Calvin actually worked together to come up with the script. It's surprisingly hilarious in a very self-aware sort of way."
"It's going to be a hit," I told her, uncharacteristically optimistic. "If Harvey is a halfway believable actor."
"He'd kill me for telling you this, but he actually used to do theater. Which I only found out because his mother told me at an office party."
"With how much he hates popular culture?"
"I know, right? Well, he only ever did classics, so I guess he feels like that makes it more acceptable."
"If the guy can memorize Shakespeare, I think he can pull off a whiskey commercial."
"That's my thinking. I'm excited. It's been a long time since I've been excited about something work-wise. That sounds awful. I know how lucky I am to work somewhere like this. It's just--"
"Hey, babe," I cut her off. "Work is work. It doesn't matter if it is your dream fucking job, it is still work. You have to eke through it sometimes."
"Exactly," she said, giving me a relieved smile. "That's exactly it. It's nice to hear someone else say that. I feel so ungrateful even thinking it."
"Was this it?"
'Was this what?"
"Your dream job?"
"Yes and no. I always wanted to run a company. And I always wanted to kind of rebrand a company and make it something bigger and better. But the whiskey thing wasn't necessarily what I saw myself doing. I thought it would have more to do with lifestyle stuff or fashion or, I don't know. I guess something that makes people's lives better."
"Some might argue that whiskey does that. It makes my life better. I like a glass to relax after a long week."
"I guess," she agreed, nodding. "It feels good to have some passion about it, though. When I first started, I was pretty gung-ho. I was given free rein to find a headquarters, to get it renovated, to hire who I wanted, to find new suppliers. I was much more interested in making things more environmental and sustainable and all that than my parents were when they were in charge of things fully. But they have tied my hands a lot since we actually got up and running, so I lost a lot of momentum. I still love this place and these people, but the job itself wasn't as exciting anymore. Now it is again. I guess I can thank you for that."
"Happy to help, babe," I told her, watching as her eyes darted away at the endearment. "I haven't seen you much lately. Finally realized you were being an idiot in stalking that fuckhead?"
Yeah, I realized they were the wrong words as they were coming out of my mouth. Which was still too late.
Her eyes slit. Her arms crossed.
I didn't know a fuckuva lot about women, but I knew enough to know that was not a good look.
"I'm the idiot, huh?" she asked, cold smile twisting up, giving her face an icy expression that was still sexy as fuck. "You know what I learned this week?"
"What?" I asked, already knowing I didn't want to know the answer to that question.
"That you suck at your job."
I don't know what I had been expecting, but that wasn't it.
"What do you mean?"
"Really, all it took to thwart you was changing my
car out," she told me, the truth slapping me across the face. "I've been sitting right down the street from you, looking right at you, night after night. And you had no idea I was there. But I'm the idiot, huh?" she asked, turning, stalking away from me, disappearing out into the main area where the smell of sauce and cheese was starting to waft into her office from.
"Shit," I sighed, scrubbing my hand down my face.
I sat there for a long moment, letting the two most dominant thoughts settle in, take root.
First, that maybe she was right. I was slipping. I should have seen her. There was no excuse for getting that lax on the job. Not even if I believed in my gut that she was not dangerous.
Second, that King was wrong. That what I had been hoping for was dashed. She hadn't quit stalking. She hadn't moved on.
What all that meant, I wasn't sure.
But even knowing it, there was one last niggling, unavoidable truth.
I still wanted her.
I still wanted to see if there was something building between us.
But to get there, I had a feeling I was going to have to get to the bottom of what was going on with her and Michael. I was going to need to know why she had lost her shit in my arms.
I was going to need to know all the dark and ugly bits of her.
I just had to find a way to convince her to let me explore them with her.
Standing, I moved out into the main room, finding everyone standing or sitting off their desks, talking animatedly to one another as I moved past, disappeared.
I could feel Krissy's eyes on me as I went, could sense them moving back over toward Reagan as well, trying to figure out what had gone on, why her boss was stiff as a board, why I was storming out.
I had a feeling she didn't know the whole truth either, that Reagan had her secrets buried deep.
Luckily for me, I was a stubborn fuck. If I set my mind to something, I would get the job done.
And the new job?
Get Reagan alone.
Then get her to open up.
After that, convince her to move on with her life.
Maybe with me.
Even if a large part of me was trying to say it was too soon for things like that, to even think them.
That said, there had never been a woman who had managed to pierce in and stick under my skin the way she had.
I figured that meant something.
Feelings, yeah, they weren't my wheelhouse. Outside of wanting to fuck her, I couldn't explain the almost compulsive need to get to know her, to get closer to her, to spend more time with her.
All I knew was it was there.
Unavoidable.
Annoying in its insistence.
A splinter that couldn't be ignored.
Normally, my instinct would be to grab a pair of tweezers, pluck that fucking thing right out.
But as I drove home, as I tried to formulate a plan to carry through, I was starting to understand that there wasn't a single part of me that wanted to extract it.
I wanted it there.
I wanted it to be a part of me.
Which meant I wanted her to be a part of my life.
And that, well, that was borderline fucking cheesy wasn't it?
My brothers would never let me live this down.
Even that wasn't enough of a deterrent.
Because the fact of the matter was, I wanted Reagan.
And I was going to get her to see that she could have that too.
Because King was right.
If I could find someone who was willing to put up with my moody ass, I had to lock that shit down.
NINE
Nixon
Much like her office building, I found myself surprised by Reagan's home.
Not the sprawling, perfectly manicured mansion that I was sure she could afford.
Nope.
She lived in the top floor of a warehouse that had been turned into apartments about a decade before, still made of its ugly metal exterior, still with real glass windows that likely made heating bills insane, with those black window dividers, with the lifted bottom to make room for a parking garage. Which, while likely convenient for the tenants and their guests, was dark and creepy and a great place to get mugged.
Mugged because it wasn't even in a decent area of town.
No, if anything, it was a sketchy area full of crumbling houses, shady-looking storefronts, and a bunch of guys just standing around looking up to no good.
My first thought was one of unexpected protectiveness.
I wasn't really that guy.
Yeah, I gave a shit about the women in my life. My sister. My extended family. But I never felt like it was my job to tell them where to live, where to frequent, how to conduct their lives.
But as I drove into the unguarded parking garage, I envisioned storming up to her place and demanding she move the fuck out and over to someplace safer.
Yeah, that shit would need to be analyzed. Later.
One thing at a time.
I parked next to her Tesla, wondering what other car in the lot might be hers, what vehicle she'd been using to thwart me all week.
Locking my car, I moved toward the back entrance, feeling rage bubble up when I found the lock broken, letting just anyone walk in off the street. Yeah, it worked in my favor, but I couldn't help but think of one of those Machine Gun Kelly lookalikes out front deciding to go see what kind of trouble they could get into in the apartment building. And finding themselves at Reagan's door.
The anger was still bubbling in me as I rode up the elevator, as I came to stand in front of her door, as I hit the bell.
It only amplified when she opened the fucking door without asking who it was.
"You need to call your fucking landlord," I declared as soon as the door was open.
Reagan stood there changed out of her more formal work clothes, wearing a simple light pink and white flower-patterned one-piece thing that chicks liked to wear. The ones that were short of the thigh, so much so that if they stooped down, their asses hung out the back.
I suddenly wanted to find a reason to make her bend over.
And I couldn't help but realize that with an outfit like that, if you slid it off her shoulders, it would slip right to the floor in one movement.
Fuck.
No.
I had to focus on one thing at a time.
"Ah... why?" she asked, eyes squinting.
"The door to the parking garage is broken," I told her, hearing something akin to an accusation in my voice. How can you be so careless? Don't you know you're something worth protecting? I didn't know where that possessive inner voice came from, but it was now a part of me, apparently.
"Oh, yeah. It's been like that since I moved in," she said, shrugging a shoulder.
"You live in a shitty area, Reagan. You can't leave things unlocked."
"It's not that bad," she insisted, shaking her head. "There's a lot of gentrifying going on. When I was looking around, the real estate agent told me this was an up-and-coming neighborhood. A lot of developers are snatching up the old buildings, turning them around."
"Yeah, fucking great. There will be a Whole Foods and Starbucks on every corner. Won't do you any good if you get mugged when you leave your apartment building."
"Are you always so paranoid?" she asked, lips twitching.
"I'm not paranoid. I see a threat. I point it out. That's not paranoia. That's basic observation skills."
"Nixon, what are you even doing here?" she asked.
"We need to talk about some shit."
"I think we've done enough talking."
"No, we've done enough sniping at each other. This is different."
"I'm not entirely sure you can have a whole conversation without snapping at someone," she said, but her lips were curving up like she maybe found that trait endearing.
The fucking freak.
"I can try," I told her, feeling my own lips curl up. "No fucking promises, though."
&nbs
p; "Everything alright, Reagan?" another female voice asked, making me turn to find her in the apartment across the hall, the two of them each getting half of the massive space. She was well into her sixties with a shock of long gray hair and bright blue eyes.
"Hey, Allegra. Yes. This man is here to give me a stern talking-to," she told the woman, eyes dancing.
Allegra's eyes moved down and up my body slowly before settling on my face for a long second. Then, turning back to Reagan, she declared, "And maybe if you're lucky, a spanking." Her eyes went wicked, her brows wiggling as she backed into her own apartment, closing the door.
"See?" Reagan said, smile big. "I don't need a working security door. I have Allegra."
"Yeah, I'm sure she's real terrifying. What's she gonna do, stab a burglar with a knitting needle?"
To that, I was granted a laugh. "You're mean."
"You like it," I shot back, stepping forward as she moved out of the way, silently inviting me in.
Reagan's apartment was a lot like her office at work. Very stark white with minimal accents, most of them in neutrals. Whites, beiges, a hint of green here and there. Between the color scheme and the giant windows lining one whole side of the space, it was almost startlingly bright.
Apparently, Reagan wasn't one for giant couches you could sink into, for knick-knacks and clutter.
Whatever she did own seemed to be tucked away in closets or storage units, leaving the place utilitarian clean.
"What's with the weird fucking shelves?" I heard myself ask, realizing too late that I maybe should have found a nicer way to say that.
Thankfully, she just snorted at the wording as she moved over toward the wall, putting her hand on one of the many eight-inch white shelves staggered up the wall, leading up to longer shelves that lined the entire room.
"These aren't shelves. They're steps."
"Babe, you're small, but you're not that small."
I got another chuckle at that, and I realized it was one of the best sounds I'd ever heard.
"They're clearly not for me. They're for Mal."
"Mal?" I repeated.
"It's short for Malicious Little Fuckwad," she told me, positively beaming at the admission. "He's a dumpster cat I picked up from the first week I started at the office. He both thinks he doesn't need me for anything but also expects me to wait on him hand and foot."
Lock You Down Page 10
