"What?" I asked when I sensed there was something he wanted to say.
"Getting close to the weekend," he declared.
"I, ah, yeah," I agreed, confused.
"Just thinking..."
"About?" I prompted when he didn't continue, finding myself all the more intrigued since he was not someone who hedged things, who hesitated saying something he was thinking.
"Bringing you to Sunday dinner. For real this time," he added, gaze slipping to mine, showing me a hint of that vulnerability again.
I was thinking I was getting to know him enough to know how rare that vulnerability was, and also how uncomfortable it made him, how out of depth he was in it.
And because I wanted more of it, because I wanted him to feel he could share it with me, I figured it was best to make light of it.
"So that's what this was all about," I said, small-eyeing him. "You came over here, charmed me, and bedded me because you wanted to be served Sunday dinner at Helen's."
His eyes brightened at that, chasing away any insecurity, his smile curving up as his hand smacked my ass under the cover. "You caught me," he admitted. "It was all an elaborate ruse, so I can get some bomb-ass mashed potatoes in a couple days."
"You evil man you. No wonder goat-devil wants your soul."
The look on his face was freaking priceless as his gaze went to the closet, then back to me, eyes shining, smile warm, so warm it seemed to chase out any cold inside.
It took a long time for me to recognize the sensation at first, wanting to simply call it 'contentment' because it was easier to admit, a truth more palatable to someone who had been living with a bone-deep belief that they could never know this feeling again, not truly, not fully.
But no matter how much I tried to call it by another name, there was no denying what it was.
Happiness.
TWELVE
Nixon
"Quit fucking with the air," I demanded, swatting her hand away from the controls.
She'd been having temperature ADD for the past hour and a half, leaving me sweating through my shirt or covered in goosebumps.
I guess it was nervous energy on her part or something.
It was the first night we were in her black SUV rental, hiding out in the backseat like she had apparently done when she had managed to fool me while still stalking Michael. The tint was dark, dark enough to get tickets if we happened by any moody cops.
We'd managed four nights in a row of not staking him out, either lost in each other, or busy with the Mallicks, and her work. But she got antsier by the day, her nervous energy sparking off her skin, making her short-tempered and jumpy.
I had been the one to suggest we do it in the end, thinking she wanted to but didn't feel comfortable saying it. Why, I had no idea, since I was definitely not going to judge her now that I knew the whole story.
If she spent the rest of her life keeping tabs on the man, I would understand.
I couldn't imagine losing Scotti to a situation like she'd lost Sammy. I didn't even want to try to put myself in those shoes. But those were shoes Reagan had to slip into every day, despite the pinching discomfort, the ache left in their wake.
"Sorry. I think I'm, I don't know, anxious," she admitted, grabbing the front of her shirt, fanning air up under it to chill her overheated skin.
"Because I'm here?" I clarified.
"No," she rushed to object. "Or maybe yes. Honestly, I don't know," she told me, shrugging her delicate shoulders.
"Why do you do this?" I asked, making her brows pinch together.
"You know why I do this," she objected, body stiffening.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "I meant, what is the goal here with waiting around every night? To catch him in the act?"
"I... I guess," she said, shaking her head, starting to maybe see how problematic that could be. The one night she had other plans could be the night he did it again.
"You're seeing the flaw in the plan, right?"
"I guess, yeah. But what the hell else can I do? Storm in, accuse him, hope he confesses? That would never happen. And even if by some miracle it did, he would never serve any time for that. I want him to pay, Nixon. I know vengeance is probably a waste of time. I understand that I might never actually feel satisfied with an ending with this situation. But I have to do something."
"Wouldn't you say it would be more time-efficient to cut out the middle man?" I suggested.
"I'm not following."
"We live in Navesink Bank. You can hire people to just about any fucking thing for you here. You have the money."
"Money to pay someone to do what? Kill him?" she asked, brows lowering.
"No. Well, yeah, if that is what you want. But that's not what I meant."
"What did you mean then?"
"For example, you have Quin."
"Quinton Baird. The fixer, right?"
"Right. You have him and his team. You hire them, they dig shit up, they bring it to the light, they make sure everyone knows what he has done."
"But he might not have any proof of anything."
"Fair enough. It's a risk you run. But it's an option."
"And the other options?"
"I don't know. Contact Hailstorm. See if Lo would be willing to contract her people out."
"To do what? I honestly have no idea what goes on at Hailstorm still," she admitted.
I'd been giving her a crash course on our unique town, on all the players and how they interconnected. She'd sit there apt over dinner, mouth parting, focusing like some nighttime action series was unfolding before her eyes. And I guess it was, if you thought about it.
"They're a little harder to peg down than Quin's people or the Henchmen or whoever else is still hanging around town. Basically, they do whatever they are hired to do. Mercenary work, basic protection, extracting kids or spouses being held for ransom when the cops prove useless. Whatever you might want to pay them to do because you can't get it done legally, that is what they do. Among their philanthropic efforts where they just handle some people who shouldn't be free--or alive--anymore."
"Okay, so you're suggesting I hire them to do what?"
"I'm suggesting you hire them to put a woman in the fuckhead's path, make it easy, dangle the bait. He'll probably bite. And then have someone catch him almost in the act."
"That sounds risky."
"Trust me, if you knew Lo, you would know that nothing she ever does could be considered risky. They plan everything down to the minute detail. They have backups upon backups. Nothing could ever go so wrong that a woman would end up genuinely hurt. Her women are trained too. Really, the bastard wouldn't stand a chance."
"Hmm," she said, reaching for the control again, turning down the air.
"Think about it," I suggested. "You want to sit here night after night for the next couple decades, we can arrange that. Pick up some new hobbies we can do in here or some shit. Knitting. Origami..."
"Please, please can it be knitting? Your brothers would love to see that picture."
"I'm just saying, think this shit over. You have options that could cut down on how much of your life you are spending in the backseat of a car," I told her, watching as Michael exited his building, going right into his car.
And, knowing him, going right home.
That was what he did.
He went home.
Occasionally, he went to a social function. What happened there was anyone's guess.
He never went to bars or clubs.
I couldn't help but wonder if he hunted for prey inside his circle, only striking on those he already knew, maybe the ones he thought he wouldn't get any push-back from.
If that was the case, it would make things harder, but not impossible. So long as Reagan could pay, Lo could get someone inside, could make sure she played the part perfectly, got in his path over and over until he felt comfortable inviting her to dinner. Then maybe back to his place.
An
d then we could get him.
But the thing was, he never fucking prowled after work. So Reagan had been losing most nights of her life to a mission that was never going to pay off because she had the wrong methods.
Seeming to sense I was onto something, she didn't even squish up between the seats, climb into the driver's, put the car into drive, move to follow him home.
She stayed put.
"I will think about it," she assured me, then fell silent for a long time, the only sound that of some guy rapping about boots with fur on the radio, volume turned low because after an hour, I had about had my fill of ass-shaking anthems. Though, to be fair, if we were in Reagan's apartment, I'd have cranked that shit up because then she would be the one ass shaking, and I always wanted to encourage that whenever possible. "You know what?" she asked, turning back to me, pulling her legs up onto the seat, so she was half on her knees, cocked a little to the side.
"What?" I asked, seeing a mischievous little look on her face.
"I can think of way better things to do in the backseat than knitting. Or paper folding," she told me, planting her hands on my chest, moving to straddle me.
My hands slid down the deep gray t-shirt she had on, the material buttery soft, but not nearly as soft as the skin I would find beneath. My fingers sank into her ass, pulling her a little closer on my lap as her head dipped, not seeking my lips, but going for my neck instead.
That was all it took.
The press of her lips to the space where my neck met my shoulder, and my cock was hard.
It didn't matter that I'd had her on every damn surface of her apartment over the past few days, I still found myself hard just by a brush of her hand, or an ass wiggle, or a throaty laugh at something I said.
She wasn't in the mood for too much teasing, her hands already moving downward, working at my button and zipper even as my hand dipped under the waistbands of her pants and panties, palming her ass before moving lower, gliding between the lips of her pussy, finding her soaked for me like she always was.
She let out a husky whimper against my neck as my fingers thrust inside her, feeling the muscles squeeze around them as they did with my cock when I got inside her, a thought that made my cock twitch even as her hand finally got it free, stroked it once, her thumb moving across the head.
My finger fucked her as her lips claimed mine, priming her further, feeling her pussy press down on my palm grinding, seeking relief from the need coursing through her.
Impatient to be inside her, I pulled my fingers pulled out. Ignoring the whimper of objection, I reached for her pants and panties, yanking them down off her ass.
Frustrated with the small space, I grabbed her hips, tossing her down onto the seat, yanking her legs up in the air, freeing each ankle from her pants and panties, and tossing them to the floor before helping her back up. I turned her, facing her out toward the dash as I pulled her ass down on my lap.
I fought with the condom for a long second before getting it on, feeling her wiggling against me, making the job harder.
I inched her up with one hand while gliding my cock to her pussy. Using my hold of her hip, I yanked her down, making her lose her shaky footing, taking me fully, a choked whimper escaping her at the sensation.
My arm anchored around her lower stomach, holding her right where I wanted her as my hips moved in circles inside her, feeling her walls clench me almost painfully, trying to get more, trying to get closer to an orgasm while I kept it slow, excruciatingly slow.
I loved the sounds she made when she was desperate. The deep, throaty moans, the husky pleas.
Eventually, they turned into this pathetic whimpering that damn near made me come every single fucking time I heard it.
That was how I knew she was close.
My arm left her stomach, going over the top of her chest, pulling her back flush to my chest, my other hand moving between her thighs to work her clit as I finally started thrusting. Short, slow thrusts, staying as deep as I possibly could inside her as she got tighter and tighter, making it almost impossible to move as she got to the edge, then crashed down, crying out my name over and over, her pussy clenching my cock, milking my orgasm out with her, her name hissing out of my lips into her neck.
She came down with a giggle, her whole body jumping against mine.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just... I've never had sex in a car before," she admitted, and I could hear the mix of amusement and self-deprecation in her voice.
"Seriously? Where did you fuck when you were a teenager?"
"In bedrooms," she said, shaking her head. "I was probably the only teenager who fantasized about car sex while everyone else wanted to know what fucking in a bed was like."
"What's the verdict on the car sex?" I asked, watching as she slid away, fetching her panties and pants, awkwardly maneuvering them back on in the limited space.
"It was worth the wait," she admitted, giving me a triumphant smile, her cheeks still pink. They'd stay like that for a while. They always did.
"Anywhere else you've wanted to fuck?" I asked, tossing the condom in a convenient plastic-lined garbage bin that was attached to the back of the console, already half full with granola bar wrappers--for her--and mini chip bags--for me.
"Hmm," she said, mulling it over. "Outside."
"Where outside?"
"Anywhere outside. The woods. A back deck. On the beach."
"Heads up on the beach," I said, smirk pulling up, "you get sand in places. Places you don't want sand."
"Ouch," she said, grimacing.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Oh, I have one."
"Yeah?"
"Like... a bathroom at a party. A social event kind of thing. You know... you never know who might happen by," she added, eyes dancing.
"You dirty exhibitionist, you," I teased, slapping her ass hard as she climbed up between the two front seats, slipping into the passenger.
"You love it," she shot back, pulling down the mirror to fix her hair.
See, the thing was, I did.
It was early. I didn't believe you could love someone right away. Not in the way that mattered anyway. The deep way. You could love the shallow parts of someone quickly. But that wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted what all the Mallick men had with their women, what Kingston had with Savea.
So, no, I wasn't deeply in love with Reagan.
But there was something there. An inkling of something bigger to come.
It should have terrified me.
I should have been running scared.
I'd never been interested in romance shit and happily ever afters. Even though I had seen it many times over in the people around me. It didn't seem likely for me.
But then there she was.
Someone who thought my inability to hold my tongue amusing, who gave it back to me just as bad as I gave it to her, who somehow found me charming.
I don't think I realized how certain I had been that such a person didn't exist before. Or that I had based my entire belief system on love and relationships and 'the long run' on that mistaken idea.
But she was here now.
I knew there was a lot of work to be done, a lot of dismantling of old thought patterns.
But I knew it down to my fucking marrow that she was worth all that, that what we had growing, it was something with deep roots, something you could really lean on once it got some seasons in.
Yeah, it was too soon to be in love, but there was no denying as I climbed into the driver's seat, as my hand reached out to close over her knee, as she gave me one of those big smiles of hers, that it was starting.
I should have been fucking terrified.
But I had never felt more certain, more sure of anything ever before.
----
"Absolutely fucking not."
I could tell this was not a very well-received comment among the many women in the room, the kind of women who did not take kindly to a man telling them they couldn
't--or shouldn't--do something.
We were inside Hailstorm, a place I'd heard endless stories about, but had never been anywhere near before.
I'd seen it up on the hill, of course, since it was impossible to miss a giant gated, barbed-wire compound with solar panels and arms guards, the structure itself made entirely of shipping containers. It wasn't the kind of place you overlooked.
That said, because of the guards with their AK-47s, you knew it was not the place you went for a casual picnic.
But we'd set up an appointment, we'd gone through the security check-point, we were led inside by a somber-faced man with a buzzcut and a prosthetic arm.
We were walked through the seemingly never-ending tunnels of rooms, no windows, no way to get our bearings.
Until, finally, we were ushered into a container room that was set up much like a typical conference room - long table lined with chairs, a large screen TV for conference calls, a whiteboard for discussing ideas, a pitcher of water in the center with cucumbers and lemons floating inside.
All we got was a head jerk toward the seats, directing us to sit down beside each other as he left, the door slamming behind him.
Then we waited. And waited. And waited.
Until finally the door opened once again, ushering in Hailstorm's fearless leader. A woman who went by the name Lo, she was tall and fit with blond hair and an assessing gaze, moving over the two of us until we both felt like we'd been through an X-ray machine, like she knew all our insides.
Following behind her were three other women and two men, all moving to settle around the table, sitting in silence as we filled them in on the story, on the plan.
"Alright," Lo said, taking a breath, leaning back in her chair, holding a pen between her two hands as she looked at us, lips pursed slightly. "It's doable," she told us, making some of the tension slip from Reagan's shoulders.
"But?" I prompted when I sensed one hanging in the air.
"But," she agreed, nodding, tossing the pen onto the notepad she had on the table, "there is no guarantee that this will work the first time. Or the second. Or the third. I'm not saying that to discourage you, I just want you to be aware. This could be a long game, unfortunately. That's fine with us. We do that sort of thing all the time. I know you are willing to pay for that should it be necessary, but I just want you to consider other options," she said, her gaze moving to Reagan, the two of them seeming to have a silent conversation, one I wasn't privy to.
Lock You Down Page 15
