Rare Vigilance

by M. A. Grant

  “Not sure yet. What’s in the bag?”

  Now Cristian retreated to his backseat. He took up the duffel bag, his grip firm and somewhat protective. “Nothing you’re paid to worry about. Now, sit. Stay.” And then he had the audacity to wink at Atlas in the mirror, which shorted Atlas’s brain long enough for Cristian to escape the car and head for the warehouse door. Before Atlas could throw the car in park and follow him, the door opened and Cristian ducked inside, leaving Atlas alone with more than a few regrets.

  He abandoned the car as his earlier doubts returned, louder than before. Everything about the situation was off. He didn’t know what was in the bag, but the timing of this visit after the meeting at the clinic was too coincidental for those things to not be connected. Whatever Cristian was up to, Atlas wanted no part of it. It was time for them to go.

  He was on the edge of the disgusting yard when the door of the warehouse swung open with a god-awful groan. Cristian emerged, empty duffel in hand, though his attention was fixed on the small, wizened woman beside him. Her skin was paper thin, stretched tight over the knobby knuckles of the hand grasping Cristian’s bicep. Her eyes seemed too large for her face from the dark circles etched into the skin beneath them, and her thin lips moved over a mostly toothless smile as she and Cristian chatted. Her clothes were threadbare, and Atlas fought to control his expression when he caught a whiff of stale, unwashed skin even at such a distance.

  The sight of Cristian in his designer clothes beside this unkempt figure didn’t fit. None of it fit. Atlas took a step forward, unsure if he should try to pry the woman off his charge. The movement caught Cristian’s attention, and the woman’s.

  She tried to retreat back into the building. Cristian clasped his hand over hers and kept her at his side, murmuring something to her, even as he shot Atlas a stern look. The woman trembled, but didn’t try to flee again.

  Unsure what to do, Atlas asked, “Mr. Slava?”

  The woman’s eyes widened comically. She looked at Cristian and asked in a hoarse voice, “Mr. Slava?”

  Cristian rolled his eyes and whispered something else to her. Whatever he said made her start cackling. She whispered something back, and Cristian’s bright peal of laughter made Atlas’s breath catch. Still laughing, Cristian squeezed the woman’s hand one last time and disentangled himself from her.

  “See you soon, Nell,” he promised on his way toward Atlas. “Don’t forget to lock up behind me.”

  He was nearly to him when Nell called out, “Next time, bring the good stuff!”

  Atlas’s gut pitched. What had Cristian brought her? It clearly had come from the clinic. Cristian was playing a dangerous game with his father’s business, one Atlas doubted Decebal would stand for.

  Cristian waved over his shoulder to Nell, biting down a soft smile until he looked up at Atlas. Whatever he saw must have upset him because the smile disappeared.

  “So... Nell, is it?” Atlas asked. “Do you visit her regularly?”

  Cristian ducked his head, brushed past Atlas, and tossed the empty duffel in the car. “It’s none of your business.”

  Atlas tried to coax Cristian back into conversation. “She assumes you’re coming back soon. If that’s necessary, I’ll plan—”

  “Plan for what?” Cristian snapped. “You don’t plan. You are given directions and you follow them. I told you to stay where you were. You didn’t.”

  “I am responsible for your safety,” Atlas reminded him. “I can’t do that if you don’t tell me what you’re doing. If you were to get hurt and your father asked me how, I wouldn’t—”

  “My father is not to learn of this!” The furious command rang out between them, bouncing off the warehouse facade and echoing too loudly into the sudden, unnatural quiet.

  Fuck. Atlas took a half step back, thrown momentarily by Cristian’s snarl and the flash of anger in his eyes. At least he had confirmation Decebal wouldn’t approve of Cristian’s actions. For all the good that knowledge would do him.

  Cristian sucked in a breath deep enough to make his nostrils flare, and forced himself to move farther away from Atlas and readjust the rolled cuffs of his shirt. He kept his head ducked, avoiding Atlas’s gaze, and said, quieter this time, “Ioana and the others are probably waiting for us.”

  “Probably,” Atlas agreed, not moving.

  “We should go.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Cristian retreated into the car, slamming the door behind him. Atlas stood there, mind racing with all the ways this could end badly. Somewhere nearby, an animal growled. He tried to peer into the shadows for it, but didn’t see it. That was probably for the best. His interaction with Cristian seemed a sign that he was in no place to help any cornered creatures tonight.

  They didn’t speak the rest of the way to Rapture. Cristian didn’t even offer directions to Atlas to get them out of the shitty section of town. Instead, Atlas did his best to retrace their steps, failing a few times before eventually finding Scarsdale’s main thoroughfare and turning back in Rapture’s direction. The flotsam of the depressed areas faded, shifting into nicer neighborhoods of updated bungalows crouched over strips of lawn where young families made fresh, hipster starts. The run-down neighborhood convenience markets became upscale grocery stores boasting advertisements for affordable organic delights. Eventually, those insulated neighborhoods gave way to luxury apartment buildings and modern brownstones catering to the slew of white-collar professionals lured to Scarsdale by the new hospital and rapidly growing medical sector. The grocery stores underwent Cinderella transformations into fashionable boutiques with uncluttered window displays and artisan coffee bars with exotic names inspired by foreign places, or sturdy names pulled from famous American capitalists.

  Rapture was nestled in this polished section of Scarsdale. Atlas remembered when it was a condemned movie theater. His grandmother, who’d worked the snack bar inside as a teen, had told him and Bea stories about the place. He felt a casual disgust whenever he brought Cristian there and had to spend the night looking at the bones of yet another piece of lost Scarsdale history, but he was also mercenary enough to acknowledge Decebal had landed a financial masterstroke with the place. It was a brilliant, urbane cuckoo that found ways to keep money local instead of being spent on mini vacations to Manhattan.

  The long line of eager patrons waiting to get in warned Atlas they’d gotten there later than Cristian usually preferred. The crowd shifted when they pulled up and threw eager glances at the car. Atlas faced his usual mental gymnastics of whether it was better for Cristian to be able to jump the line to get inside, or whether his status drew unwanted attention they’d suffer for. He didn’t have time to convince himself one way or the other. Cristian was up and out of the vehicle before it came to a full stop. Atlas had no choice but to scramble out after his charge, leaving the keys in the still-running car for the poor valet. At the door, the bouncer, Novak, nodded to Cristian as he rushed past the raised rope. Maybe it was Atlas’s imagination, but Novak looked far more sympathetic than usual when he hurried past in pursuit. The gentle ting of the rope settling into place behind him did nothing but set his nerves further on edge as he followed Cristian into the belly of the club.

  Chapter Five

  Cristian’s group waited in their usual balcony and crowed welcomes when they spotted Cristian—and Atlas—making their way closer through the crush of bodies on the floor below. The club security at the base of the stairs leading to the balcony let Cristian past without a word. Atlas inspected the man as he passed, disliking the small pang of worry that came with the sight of yet another unfamiliar face. Helias had sent him information on Vladislavic employees, but the list of names without any accompanying pictures offered him little help.

  The scene at the top of the stairs soon provided him a distraction. Vasilica, dressed in a thin, shimmering dress designed to show off her long legs and the bare skin
of her upper back, leaned in to press soft kisses to both of Cristian’s cheeks. Constantin, in a surprisingly classy floral print suit that complimented Vasilica’s dress, kept a hand at her lower back and offered a bright smile to the new arrivals. “Took you long enough to get here,” he remarked as Cristian slid past Vasilica and headed toward the comfortable booth Ioana and Andrei occupied.

  “Had a stop along the way,” Cristian told his friends.

  Atlas took up his post against the railing, where he could see both the stairs and the dance floor beneath them. He wasn’t part of the group, had no desire to be, and the evening’s strangeness wore on him. There was no doubt tonight’s shift would leave him a mess in the morning. Already, the mingling scents of the club sharpened the edge of the headache that had officially set in on their drive away from the riverfront. Sweet perfumes, spiced cologne, biting alcohol, and the sting of sweat wafted up off the dancers, an inescapable potpourri he hoped he could stomach for however long Cristian decided to remain here. At least tonight’s music wasn’t the usual, high-pitched club mixes. Instead, the throbbing bass and low notes set up in his chest like a heartbeat and he used them to steady his breathing.

  “And your meeting?” Andrei asked Cristian.

  “Short, thankfully.” He paused before adding, “We stopped to see Nell.”

  Movement from the booth. Atlas glanced over to find Ioana leaning forward toward Cristian. The stiletto heel of her left foot tapped against the floor and she tilted her head toward Atlas. “He drove you?”

  Cristian leaned over the far railing, watching the dancers below. He didn’t look at Atlas when he shrugged and said, “He was going to find out sooner or later.”

  “Did you invite him inside?” Vasilica asked. “You didn’t, right? I mean, I doubt he could understand.”

  “Just because he works for Whitethorn doesn’t mean he’d be okay with it,” Constantin agreed. “He’s a little straitlaced—”

  That was unnecessary. “He is standing right here,” Atlas growled. It earned him an amused look from Cristian and glares from the others as they closed ranks. “Does someone want to tell me who this Nell is?”

  “Not really,” Cristian said. “I’m thirsty.”

  He sauntered away from the railing and moved toward the stairs. The flashing lights of the dance floor below cast him differently, and gave his movements a predatory edge. Atlas tensed without meaning to.

  Cristian noticed. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m going to get a drink.”

  Constantin stepped in front of Cristian. He leaned close and muttered something in Cristian’s ear while showing off something on his phone screen. Whatever he said was unwelcome because the wide, bright smile Cristian had put on dimmed somewhat. Atlas was getting better at noticing his counterfeit expressions. Cristian took one last look at the phone, shook off his friend’s hand, and looked directly at his bodyguard.

  “Want anything, Mr. Kinkaid?”

  Atlas shook his head, too aware of Ioana rising from her seat behind Cristian, her lips twisting in a strange way. Vasilica’s breathing sped up. Even Andrei had looked away from his drink to watch the exchange.

  Rather than asking Constantin to move out of his way, Cristian sidestepped into Atlas’s space. His elbow brushed against Atlas’s arm and lingered. It could have been taken as mild flirtation, if not for the way his gaze fixed on Atlas’s throat rather than lifting to meet his eyes. Atlas struggled against the instinctive urge to reach up and cover the skin—and its scars—with his hand and settled for turning a little, hiding them from Cristian’s view. His doctors had called him fortunate; the injuries had healed well enough, with minimal discoloration, that they weren’t too obvious from a distance. Up close though, the bumps and ridges of scarred flesh were more obvious. It was part of the reason he didn’t let people near enough to see the true extent of the damage.

  Cristian didn’t seem to have the same sense of personal boundaries most people, or vaguely polite animals, did. He ignored Atlas’s discomfort and leaned closer to murmur, “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind you joining me, you know?”

  “I’m on shift.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Cristian said.

  “All the same, I’m fine here,” Atlas said.

  “Too bad.” Cristian sighed and continued on his way, his light steps down the stairs obscured swiftly by the music. The moment he left, the rest relaxed some. It was a relief to know the strange, tightening anticipation hadn’t been in Atlas’s imagination alone. If all of Cristian’s friends picked up on the tension and expected Cristian to do something regrettable, it meant there was a genuine reason for concern. He needed more information.

  Atlas turned to Ioana, trusting her protective streak would win out over her desire to close ranks against him. “So, this Nell... Is Cristian safe with her, or should I be concerned?”

  Ioana shot Andrei a quick look. He made a face and waved her off, returning to his drink and the entertainment below. When Constantin and Vasilica didn’t speak up, she answered, “You don’t need to worry about Nell.”

  Right. Sure. Just like he didn’t need to worry about them lying to his face. He caught sight of Cristian in his periphery. The man stood by the bar, chatting with someone, and Atlas tried to keep him in sight while continuing the conversation. “Good. I got a little worried after the whole duffel bag thing.” He let it hang there, hoping one of them would take the bait.

  Constantin indulged him with a flabbergasted, “What duffel bag thing?”

  “Well, he brought a full duffel bag out of the clinic with him. It was empty after he visited Nell.”

  Andrei swore, low and rough, before glaring at Atlas and warning, “What Cristian does is none of your business.”

  Atlas offered a brilliant, fake smile and held up his hands. “I agree. But I’d like to know if I’m about to get caught in a father-son pissing contest that will leave me unemployed.”

  “Trust Cristian,” Vasilica urged. “He wouldn’t do anything to hurt the family. Angelica taught him well.”

  “Angelica?” Atlas wracked his brain and came up empty. “I haven’t met her yet.”

  “You won’t meet her,” Ioana said bluntly. “She’s dead.”

  Her statement destroyed any chance there may have been to dig for more information. Everyone’s head dropped and even the music couldn’t drown out the pained silence of the balcony. It was a line not to be crossed, so Atlas nodded and glanced over his shoulder to look for Cristian. He was no longer at the bar, instead weaving his way through the crowd toward a door marked Staff Only. Of course he was going to sneak off without telling anyone. This was the kind of shit that would have gotten Todd to quit. Atlas started to follow, but a second flash of movement gave him pause.

  The man working through the crowd after Cristian was younger than Atlas expected, with broad shoulders and the expectant stride of a winner. He couldn’t slip through the dancers as easily as Cristian, but he gave good chase.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  He was halfway down the stairs by the time he heard Vasilica’s call. He ignored her and the sudden argument between the others, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Cristian’s pursuer. There was no choice but to follow him into the crowd. The bodies swallowed Atlas without mercy, buffeting him back and forth in the human current. All the scents he’d valiantly been ignoring pummeled him anew. His stomach churned, but he swallowed down the bile, kept his hands outstretched, and firmly parted the people before him. He made good time, but wasn’t fast enough to catch the other man. The sight of the door swinging shut gave him the motivation he needed to close the distance.

  He paused when he finally reached the employees-only entrance, taking a quick look around for anyone else coming. Only when he was sure he wouldn’t be surprised by any newcomers did he slip past the door. The short, uncluttered hall branched off int
o a series of rooms. Most of it appeared to be storage, he noted as he peeked through cracked doors. He found what could have been a private lounge, though the antique furniture filling the space was far fancier than anything he’d seen before in similar spaces.

  The music was muted here, and Atlas didn’t have to strain as much to listen for signs of his quarry as he attempted to check each room. This is taking too long, he fumed as he closed the door to a well-kept bathroom. But then, down the hall, came a thud against a wall. Atlas moved before he could think.

  The refinished wooden door between him and Cristian was locked. No matter. A well placed, and likely too violent, kick granted him access. He burst into the room, prepared to defend Cristian.

  He didn’t need to.

  That much was obvious from a glance. Yes, Cristian was caught between the wall and the man who’d been following him. But judging from the bare, flushed skin exposed by their open shirts and dark teeth marks on each other’s skin, Cristian wasn’t in any physical danger. Well, unless suffering blue balls counted.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Cristian demanded, not relinquishing his hold on the other man, who continued to paw at Cristian’s well-muscled chest. A very naked chest Atlas couldn’t stop staring at. “You are not needed, Mr. Kinkaid.”

  “You sure, baby?” the other man murmured against Cristian’s neck, giving Atlas a slow once-over. “I’m game if you are—”

  Cristian slid his fingers up the man’s neck and clutched at his hair, quieting him with the movement. Atlas wished the man hadn’t shut up. Holding Cristian’s gaze was more intimate than he’d expected. Maybe it was Cristian’s flush, or the way his fingers tightened and drew an amused groan from his lover.

  Whatever it was, Atlas did not like it. He did not like how easily someone slipped past his—and the rest of the security’s—guard. He did not like that Cristian blamed him for doing his job, as if, by bursting in, he broke some kind of rule he had no knowledge of. And, more than anything, he absolutely did not like the prickle of dark anger in the pit of his gut, the frustration bursting into life over seeing Cristian debauched in a stranger’s arms. Someone unvetted, who could have hurt Cristian before Atlas had a chance to intervene, destroying his career and Bea’s reputation in a single moment.