The Deal

by Holly Hart

  “I hope you never have to,” he says with a faraway look. “I made it back in one piece after three tours, but a lot of my friends weren’t so lucky. Some of them had physical wounds; all of them had emotional ones. Quite a few of them work for me now.”

  “I know,” I smile. “I met some. They think you’re a hero.”

  He shrugs. “It’s easy to look like a hero when you’re signing somebody’s paycheck.”

  I think of Quentin Pearce and cringe inwardly.

  “You’re being modest,” I say. “They told me you saved a lot of lives overseas.”

  “A lot of guys did,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got us a table at the Purple Room in twenty minutes. Sound good?”

  I let him change the subject; he never was one to take praise very well. It was pretty rare that he got any growing up.

  “This is crazy,” I say.

  He looks at me, startled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the last time we were together, you could barely afford a burger at McDonald’s. Now we’re on our way to the most expensive restaurant in Chicago. I’d say you’ve come a long way, but that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.”

  He finishes his scotch.

  “I try not to think about that,” he says. “Money’s just a perk of the job, really. I’d be just as happy eating burgers at the Bad Apple every day, but clients kind of expect high-end treatment. It’s the work that’s important.”

  “So I’ve heard. A lot of people have better lives because of Atlas.”

  “I saw some bad stuff on the other side of the world. It changes you, or at least it changed me. I wanted to help people, and when I met Sully, it was like God was saying ‘all right, here’s your opportunity.’”

  I nod. “By all accounts, it sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

  “He was the father I never had,” Chance says simply. “Everything I have, I owe to him.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Chance. When we were young, you were like this giant warehouse full of potential, just waiting for someone to unlock your door. I think maybe Sully was that key for you.”

  He smiles. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “You never did see yourself the way I saw you,” I say before I can stop myself.

  He looks uncomfortable all of a sudden; I’m sure if there were a mirror in here, I’d look the same. Way to make it awkward, Sara.

  Chance breaks the tension by changing the subject again.

  “I’d rather talk about you,” he says. “Tre told me about Bishop & Associates. So you and Gracie track down missing kids? That’s incredible.”

  I blush. “Nothing like what Atlas does,” I say. “But – well, you know what Grace and I went through when we were growing up. A lot of girls aren’t lucky enough to have… people in their lives to help them through it.”

  Suddenly his hand is on top of mine. I don’t think he even realizes he’s done it; there’s just this empathetic look in his eyes, urging me to go on.

  “So they leave,” I say. “Unfortunately, there’s never a shortage of hawks out there looking for girls to exploit. We work to find them and get them out of those situations.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” he says.

  I shrug. “You taught me how to handle myself years ago, and I’ve been practicing ever since. I’m pretty good at it.”

  “So you’re saying everything you are today, you owe to me?” he says with a grin.

  I giggle. “Yes, Dudley Do-Right,” I say, pretending to swoon. “You saved me from the railroad tracks of life!”

  That makes him laugh. It’s the first time he’s done that around me since we met up again, and it prompts an aching wave of nostalgia in my heart. Suddenly all I can think of are what-ifs.

  I down the last of my vodka in an effort to get a hold of myself.

  “But those cases tend not to pay all that well,” I say. “So I have to take some jobs that aren’t quite as morally upright, if you know what I mean.”

  Chance nods. “There are a lot of rappers and reality show stars who need bodyguards, and they help Atlas keep the lights on. Sometimes you have to work with people like that.”

  “Yup. And sometimes, you have to work with people like Quentin Pearce.”

  The car comes to a stop and the driver comes around to open our door.

  “Let’s not talk about that,” Chance says, taking my hand. “I want us to just be happy tonight.”

  I smile, trying to mask the emotions running just below the surface of my eyes.

  “I want that, too.”

  You can’t imagine how much.

  113

  20. CHANCE

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I ask as my driver motors off into the darkness.

  “What, with walking? I’m pretty good at it, Chance. Been doing it since I was a toddler.”

  I chuckle. Sara always could make me laugh like nobody else.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean, and I’m fine with it. I really want to see your place, Chance.”

  We’re both a little tipsy, but that’s okay. Dinner went better than I could have hoped. We spent the whole time catching up. She was most interested in stories about what Atlas does for people in dangerous situations around the world; I wanted to hear more about the girls she’s rescued.

  Quentin Pearce never came up once, which makes me think I may have accomplished my goal.

  You accomplished more than that, my conscience tells me. Sara’s on her way to your penthouse right now. Where are you going to go from here?

  Wherever I have to if it means saving Atlas.

  Saving Atlas. Uh-huh. Nothing at all to do with satisfying the urges you’ve been having since she walked into that boardroom.

  Shut up, brain. You’re starting to sound like Tre.

  “The food tonight was amazing,” Sara says.

  “Better than the Blue Box Café?” I ask. It’s what we used to call the Kraft Mac & Cheese I practically live on when we were kids.

  “Oh my God,” she giggles. “I haven’t thought of that in years.”

  “What’s that line from the Barenaked Ladies song? Something about eating even more mac and cheese if I had a million dollars.”

  “Is it true? I mean, I assume you have a lot more than a million dollars. Is your pantry stuffed with blue boxes and expensive ketchups?”

  “There’s nothing in my pantry,” I confess. “I, uh, don’t really cook.”

  She goggles at me. “Seriously?”

  “Hey, I grew up on the streets and then went into the military and got fed every meal. Where was I going to learn how?”

  “And then you struck it rich and realized you could afford the Purple Room,” she says with a mocking grin.

  “Don’t hate the player,” I say. “Hate the game.”

  She giggles and takes my arm. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it – it was practically a reflex for her when we were young.

  We amble along North Wayne Avenue like that for a while until I see my house in the distance.

  “There’s my place,” I say, pointing to the three-story greystone I bought a couple years ago.

  “Holy crap,” she breathes.

  “It’s not the storeroom at the rec center,” I say. “But it’s all right, in its own way.”

  She giggles. “That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you, Chance. You’ve come so far.”

  I pull her closer to me as we approach the lobby.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  114

  21. SARA

  Chance’s house reminds me a lot of the Atlas offices: sleek and understated, with lots of wood and glass. The foyer opens onto the front room and the elegant staircase to the second floor, with a glimpse down the hall at a modern kitchen.

  There’s no hint of a feminine touch to the décor anywhere. I can’t help but take that as a good sign.


  “It’s beautiful,” I say as he closes the massive walnut front door behind us.

  “Thanks. I don’t get to spend a lot of time here; mostly I’m traveling for work. There’s a little suite adjacent to my office, too, for those nights when I don’t make it home from work.”

  “Oh, sure,” I say, nodding. “I mean, who doesn’t have one of those, right?”

  He grins as he leads me down the hall, past a tasteful dining room with a low table that looks like it was made from a solid piece of ebony, and into the kitchen.

  “Parties always seemed to end up in the kitchen when we were kids,” he says. “Might as well start there.”

  It’s a huge space, with about twenty feet of counter space and polished ash cabinets that go all the way up to the ceiling. An eight-by-four-foot island separates the kitchen proper from a subdued family room with a huge TV on the wall and a floor-to-ceiling window onto the back yard.

  “I feel like I’m dreaming,” I say. “Something like this – I never could have imagined it when we were young.”

  “You and me both,” he says, pouring us each a drink from a sideboard in the family room. “I used to dream about just having my own bedroom back then, let alone this.”

  Grace and I were far from well-off, but at least we had our own rooms. Chance never had a room to himself in the foster care system; the closest he ever came was the sofa in the basement of Tre’s house.

  He hands me my glass and I raise it in a toast.

  “To you,” I say. “You did it, Chance. You made your own reality. I always knew you would.”

  “I’ve got a better one,” he says. “To those kids in the storeroom of the rec center, who never gave up on themselves.”

  That slices like a blade, but I don’t let it show. If only he could have said we never gave up on each other.

  For a moment, we stand there quietly, looking out at the night sky and the stunning landscaping of the yard. It looks like a Japanese garden of sorts, with cedar and stone and a fountain in the center.

  “Come with me,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to a spiral staircase in the corner.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Up.”

  Two flights later and we emerge through another walnut door onto a rooftop patio. There’s outdoor furniture that forms a conversation area overlooking the yard and the rest of the downtown neighborhood.

  I scan the 360-degree view.

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking at me. “It sure is.”

  I down my drink in the hopes of slowing my suddenly rapid heart rate. What’s going on? Is it what I hoped when he invited me here? What did I hope? Am I ready for this? Do I want this?

  Chance places his glass on a low end table and takes my hand.

  “Remember when we used to slow dance in the storeroom?” he asks. “Just swaying back and forth to whatever was playing on that shitty little transistor radio that only picked up the oldies station?”

  I nod, unable to speak.

  He takes a remote control of the table and taps a button. Immediately, Madonna starts singing from an unseen speaker about being crazy for someone.

  Chance pulls me toward him and I move as if in a trance. We take our places like we always did back then: me with my arms around his neck, him with his hands clasped at the small of my back. It’s like the last fifteen years just disappear like steam on a windowpane.

  I can’t seem to swallow as we sway back and forth under the stars, staring into each other’s eyes, with the muffled sounds of downtown and the song on the radio. Finally, he brings his forehead down to touch mine.

  “I missed you, Sara,” he whispers.

  “I missed you, too.”

  The little oboe line signals the end of the song as he draws my hand to his lips and kisses it.

  “Thanks for the dance,” he whispers.

  This is crazy. I shouldn’t do this. Quentin will fire my ass if he finds out. I need that money.

  “One more,” I whisper back as The Cars start to wonder who’s going to drive someone home tonight.

  The world comes to a standstill for the duration of the song. Our hips move as one, in perfect synch, just like they used to when we were young. It’s as if our bodies remembered things our brains forgot.

  I want to stay in this moment for a month, then collect my check from Quentin and…

  And what, Sara?

  Chance pulls away slightly as the song ends. “One more?” he asks.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “How about you show me your bedroom instead?”

  115

  22. SARA

  “This is bigger than my apartment,” I marvel as he leads me through the frosted glass door into his room.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty ridiculous,” he says, tapping a switch on the wall that ignites indirect lighting under panels along the ceiling. “I mean, a family could live in here. But it came with the house.”

  There’s a living room suite in one corner near the huge window that looks out onto North Wayne Avenue. In the other corner is a grouping of high-end exercise equipment.

  And, of course, there’s the oversized bed on the solid walnut platform frame.

  What are you doing here? This is insane.

  Shut up, brain! Don’t make me go back to killing you with vodka at the Toad & Turtle pub!

  Chance pulls me gently to him, and I follow willingly. Whatever tonight is about, it’s going to happen. I’m not going to spend my life regretting what-ifs anymore – whatever happens, happens.

  “You’re sure?” he asks again.

  “I’ve never been so sure of anything in fifteen years,” I whisper, closing the distance between our lips until they finally touch again, for the first time as adults.

  The soft heat is so familiar and yet totally new at the same time. My heart flutters as his tongue gently parts my lips and touches my own, tentatively at first, then with more passion. I melt into his arms as he holds me tighter, wrapping himself around me.

  My arms grip his neck for dear life, feeling the coiled muscle under the skin as I press into him even more. His chest is like rock against my breasts, prompting a wave of heat down below. My hips respond independent of my mind, pressing forward against him.

  Our lips part for a moment as Chance catches his breath.

  “This is… this is good,” he pants. “Right?”

  “So good,” I whisper as I cover his mouth with mine again. I’m hungry now, for everything he’ll give me.

  My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt as he shuffles me backwards toward the bed. I yank his shirt free and pull it off, exposing his rippling torso to me for the first time since we were teens.

  My breath stops in my chest as the low light delineates a relief of scar tissue along his pectoral muscles and down the ribs on one side.

  “Oh my God, Chance.” I run my fingers gingerly over the old wounds. “What happened?”

  “War,” he says simply. “This was from an ambush attack. Sully was actually there that night. It was when we…”

  Suddenly, there’s a stricken look in his eyes, but it fades just as quickly.

  “Do you really want to talk about my scars?” he asks, taking the hand that’s been touching them in his own and pulling it to his lips. He kisses the inside of my wrist and my knees almost buckle.

  “No,” I say, pulling him down with me onto the bed. “I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do.”

  116

  23. CHANCE

  She probes my mouth with hers again as I lean over her on the bed. Still cherry, after all these years.

  God, I can’t believe I almost told her about that night with Sully. I came this close to giving away the secret I’ve been working so fucking hard to keep from her.

  Sure, says my conscience. Like this is hard work.

  The bed is three times as wide as the old cot in the rec center storeroom, but my body still knows what to do with Sara’s.
I reach under her and wrap her in my arms, lowering myself onto the mattress next to her. She responds by lifting her leg on top of mine and pressing in even closer.

  So many nights we spent like this in those days. But we were kids back then.

  Tonight we’re both grown-ups. And I want to act like the adults we are.

  “Sara,” I groan as her lips move off mine and find their way down to the nape of my neck. Her tongue feels like a hot poker against my skin.

  I brazenly reach for the zipper of her dress and unzip her. Her reaction is to wriggle out of the shoulder straps and pull herself free, giving me full view of her lacy black bra and a tease of the luscious breasts concealed inside.

  My mouth closes on the swell of her cleavage as my tongue explores the delicate, salty skin there. This is as far as we ever went back in the day. And I don’t want to stop here.

  Sara must feel the same way, because the next thing I know her right hand is behind her back and suddenly the bra snaps open on her chest. I pull it off eagerly, until I’m staring at her full, naked breasts.

  “Touch me,” she whispers in my ear as her crotch grinds into my thigh. “I want to feel your hands all over me.”

  I can barely hold back. My hands reach down and massage her breasts, felling the hot, hard nipples against my palms. My hard cock is pressing desperately against my zipper, struggling to break free from its restraints like a hungry tiger on a chain.

  Sara responds to me with abandon, pulling her dress all the way off until her panties are grinding against the fabric of my slacks. This is the moment I fantasized about so many times as a teenager, lying awake at night in my cot and masturbating myself to sleep with thoughts of her.

  Her hands start tugging at my belt. As she frees it, she yanks down the zipper and pulls my pants down, past my erection, until they puddle onto the floor beside the bed.

  “God, Chance,” she hisses in my ear as she frees my cock from my boxers and grips it. “I waited so fucking long for this…”

  “It’s all yours,” I say before sliding my tongue down to her nipple. The heat and pressure of her crotch against my leg increases, and I feel a hint of moisture in the fabric of her panties.