“Don’t say that.” Nikki stops shuffling papers in the bag and looks up at me from where she crouches on the floor. She stands suddenly and takes both my hands in hers. It’s an incredibly sweet and incredibly commanding gesture. My body warms to her touch. I only look away to her mouth once her lips start to move. “Listen to me. You are a good person. You are a good person now and you’ll be a good person when this is over.”
When this is over— I used to spend a lot of time thinking about when this is over. I mostly picture me and Jesse happy and free of all the horrible things that haunt us. But since she met Lane my when this is over picture has been blurry.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” Nikki asks. She hasn’t released my hands and I’m very aware of how close our mouths are.
“When this is over,” I say. “What does it look like to you?”
Nikki smiles. “It looks pretty good.”
She grins again. I don’t know what I did, if it was my body language or if Nikki really just doesn’t have any self-control, but she kisses me. She slides in and plants one on my lips.
“Doesn’t your future look good?” she asks, breaking the kiss.
My future. I want a future with Jesse in it. I want a future with Jesse. But what if that never happens?
What if we survive but we are horrible people? Or what if we survive and we’ve seen each other do so many terrible things that we can’t bear to look at each other anymore? What if Jesse loses her mind completely with all this? What if she is too far gone to even recognize me, let alone love me? As it stands half the time, I don’t even know if Jesse is human.
“Hey are you okay?” Nikki says. She has me by the shoulders.
“Can I just lie down in my bed?” I ask. My knees feel weak and the room is spinning.
Nikki leads me to my bedroom and tucks me into the big fluffy covers. She is careful to stay out of the bed, only kneeling down beside it and taking my hand like I’m dying of something serious, like cholera rather than just having an emotional crisis.
“Are you coming down with something? Everyone and their mother has the flu,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I’m just tired and stressed.”
“Then you should rest. I shouldn’t have come without calling. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’re running out of time. But I’m just so tired of it all.”
“Can I get you anything?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Just give me a minute to clear my head.”
“I’ll take off,” she says and stands. “We can meet up tomorrow after you’ve slept. I don’t have to be at work until 4, so we have all day.”
“No,” I grab her hand as she turns to go. I don’t want to be alone. I’m so tired of fighting all on my own. I need someone to stand by me for once.
She looks down at my hand holding hers. “I can stay.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She smiles, slips off her shoes and climbs into the bed beside me.
Jesse
Gabriel, Gabriel—what the hell to do about Gabriel?
Even after I make it home, I don’t have an answer. I am so exhausted either from the usual energy dip of an afternoon or from the emotional rollercoaster of the day. As I tumble into my bed sheets, my elbow connects with something hard.
“Ow!” Yelping and cradling my funny bone, I peel back the covers to find a book. A Tale of Two Cites, the hardback edition. “Gee-zus. What the hell is this?”
It’s not my book. As if I could bear to read something so thick or so depressing. I saw that little Oliver boy on TV. I know how Dickens rolls. No thank you. So what the hell is this doing in my bed?
I open the front cover. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…” I fall back onto my pillows and yawn. “So, basically, a lot is going on?”
I toss the book away and it bounces off the mattress before tumbling onto the floor. On impact, a strange sound escapes the book, like the sound of the air whistling. Curious, I lean over the edge of the bed and lift the book again. I turn it over in my hands but I don’t see anything. The back cover, the inside, is different. Puffy. The edge of the glued-down flap is up and I use a fingernail to wedge it apart further and find a torn bit of note card inside.
“Pack a bag. G’s tonight.”
So Brinkley has graduated from foam darts to book messages.
“Message received,” I grumble and start to pack a bag. So much for a nap.
And I want to see Ally. Not just because I need her to watch Winston, but because I want to see her. So after I pack a bag and load up Winston, his stuffed skunk toy and food, I drive over to Ally’s apartment. By the time I get there, it is raining really hard. I’m holding a forty pound pug and punching the speaker on Ally’s apartment for a full two minutes before she answers.
“It’s me!” I beg. “And it’s raining.”
I hear a click and the outside door unlocks. I haul the fat pug up three flights of stairs and stumble, wet and huffing, down the dim hallway to the door marked A7. Ally left the door cracked for me and I push it wide with a knee, my hands stuffed full of pug.
She stands naked. Completely. We’ve seen each other naked so it isn’t a big deal, but the sight of her, all that bare skin and I suck air and look away. The fact that she is towel drying her hair tells me I’d caught the tail end of her shower, otherwise I’d have thought this was a different kind of hello.
Unsure of what else I should do, I plop the pug on the floor. I don’t dare leave the little square of linoleum that makes up her entryway and step onto her clean carpet. Not when I am all wet and muddy.
“I need you to watch Winston,” I say.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Ally makes a face that I can’t quite read. And she goes still. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Brinkley is sending me somewhere to pick up some girl.”
“Alone?”
I shrug my shoulders again.
“So you brought me Winston?”
“It was dark,” I say, pouting. “I can’t leave him in the dark all by himself.”
She’s watching me again, pulling the towel down from her hair and wrapping it around her body. “You can look at me.”
I look up from my shoes, a blue chuck and black chuck with the plastic white caps across the toes. “I was just trying to be polite. You having a girlfriend and all.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” she says.
But you have something. Something you’re running to, to get away from me.
When I meet her eyes she is closer to me, the towel clutched in one hand.
I kiss her.
I don’t know what I am thinking. I know I have a boyfriend. I know it’s stupid to kiss someone. It’s not like I expected the kiss to change anything. Or that she would suddenly confess everything.
Her lips are soft, yielding and at the last moment they part, offering the softest brush of tongue. My heart races and I press more of myself against her, our bodies connecting, mouth to mouth, hip to hip. And I feel it. I really do feel something in my chest and stomach when I kiss her. And not just horniness either.
“Do you still feel anything?” I ask. Like what I’m feeling. Or are you totally over me?
She smells like shampoo and soap. Her skin is still warm from the hot shower. I forget about keeping my muddy feet on the linoleum as I back her up to the arm of the couch, ready to fall into the cushions and take that damn towel away from her if she tries to stop me. She is up on her toes, pressed against the couch arm, but she won’t let herself be pushed down onto her back.
It’s a gentle stop. No slapping or yelling. No words. But she’s turned her cheek so I’
m kissing her neck instead, strands of her wet hair sticking to my cheek.
“Jess—” she whispers. Her voice is throaty, breathless, and I can feel the quick pulse in her neck throbbing against my lips. “You have to stop.”
I tug at the corner of her towel, pulling it down enough to see the full spread of her cleavage. Her hold tightens and her knuckles go white.
“Just tell me what’s bothering you,” she says. “You only act a fool when something’s wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, meeting her eyes for the first time. Those pretty brown eyes, the opposite shade of Lane’s. She isn’t wearing her nose ring and a little dimple blemishes the side just above the flare of the nostril. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“If you need to tell me something,” she says, tentatively. “You know you can.”
“What about you? Can you tell me everything?” I ask, thinking about that horrible hit list. “There’s only six people between us.”
As soon as I say it, I regret it. Her brow pinches together. “What are you talking about?”
“Just,” I start. But God, what to say? “Whatever you’re doing, just stop.”
She shifts her weight. Her mouth forms a question but no words come out. She still can’t tell me. I’m standing here letting her know I know, but she won’t tell me. She probably didn’t feel anything either, which is why she stopped me. Wow, it hurts more than I thought it would—knowing that Ally and I might not ever be close again. Good friends, maybe—but not best friends—and not like before I gave her up for Lane. And part of me thinks God you should drop Lane and you’re an idiot if you don’t before it’s too late. Another voice says, it’s already too late.
“I’m sorry that—” I take her hand and kiss the back of it. It’s hard to do, considering I feel like I can’t breathe. “—that you couldn’t tell me. Just please be more careful.”
And then I leave before I make a real fool of myself.
Ally
I stare at the back of the door for a long time after Jesse leaves. I can still smell her, sweeter than my salty ocean-scented soap. Honey, maybe. Or vanilla. And her lips, so soft when they—stop it, Ally. Don’t be an idiot.
Why didn’t she mention Gabriel? Why didn’t you mention Jeremiah? Fair enough. Because it is clear Jesse knows something about it. From Brinkley? Gloria? I cannot keep up anymore. Is this how people wake up one day and find they are strangers to each other—one secret builds upon another until no one knows what to believe anymore?
Winston waddles to his spot, where Jesse threw down his sleep pillow in a corner and curls himself into a ball. His curly tail wags when I kneel beside him, a few appreciative thumps. I scratch the back of his soft velvety ears and he snorts, inclining his head into my hand and rolling those big eyes up to meet mine.
“What are we going to do with her?” I ask. He snorts again. “I know.”
I tiptoe down the dark hallway and open the door to the bedroom. Nikki is beneath the tangle of sheets, still wearing all her clothes. Her face is framed by the thin strand of hallway light, her skin against my dark sheets looks pale and perfect. Her hair covers most of her face except the full lips, in a slightly open part, chest rising with each slow inhale and exhale.
What would I have done if she had awoken when Jesse came? Introduced them? That would have been a riot. Jesse would have been herself times 100, I’m sure. Why had I lied to Jesse? And how long do I think I can keep these two parts of my life separate: Jeremiah and Nikki, and Jesse. Why do I even feel like I need to?
I don’t know.
I know why I let Jess kiss me. Of course I still love her, but I want more than that. I miss her. I miss her now, thinking of her standing there in Lane’s jacket, those dark curls falling down her back and hiding one eye. The same hazel eyes catching the living room lamplight and sparkling. The way her mouth quirks to one side when she’s being mean. Her smooth soft hands in mine, or clasping the back of my neck. With her close, I could smell Lane in that jacket. And Nikki is asleep in the other room.
Why didn’t I tell her Nikki was here? Was I ashamed? I haven’t done anything wrong. Having another girl sleep in my bed is hardly a crime. I reconsider all my actions and replay over and over the few minutes Jesse stood in my apartment until my mind grows tired of this obsession.
They are leaving tonight, heading off to somewhere to get this girl Caldwell is after.
Gloria must be watching the situation for any sign of Caldwell but surely they know they might run into him. They’re chasing the same person after all. Chances are high.
I sink into the couch with a cup of hot tea and turn on my computer. If I’m awake at this ungodly hour, I might as well get work done. I take the papers from Nikki’s bag and sort through them until I find the sheet with the highlighted names and interspersed stars.
I log into the database using my FBRD access code—those given to all agents—and begin to plug in a few names from the sheet: Stephanie Mason. Charles DuMonte, George Payton.
Three hits. All three of them have had death replacements. Not from Jesse though. Mason and Payton are from the East Coast and Mason is from Atlanta, but replacements nonetheless. Then I choose a name that looks familiar: Frank Johnson. Match. He was replaced by Jesse February of last year. Now I remember. A construction worker who fell from the beam with Jesse under him. She complained about that replacement for nearly a month, but I’d liked Frank. He had the kind of laugh that turned heads. You couldn’t not laugh when you heard it. And he loved his kids. He must’ve showed me a dozen photos of his two girls.
I keep checking the names and realize they all match except for eight. Everyone but the eight have been replaced by an agent in the last year or so. But these eight are still connected. They are the agents that did the replacements.
“So why would Caldwell kidnap agents and the people they replaced?” I ask Winston. He snores loudly. “What could he possibly want with them?”
Exhaustion settles back in, and I close my computer. I check the locks, give Winston a kiss on his upturned nose, and turn out the lights. I slip into bed and lay beside Nikki.
“You smell like soap,” she says.
I’m glad that’s all I smell like and not like a great big Jesse kiss. My lips were getting lots of action these days. For over a year, nada and now, it’s like rush hour traffic.
“Showers will do that,” I say.
She surveys me for a moment longer then sits up on her elbows. “Time for me to go?”
“You can stay.”
“Really?” she asks and I can’t help but smile at her big goofy grin.
“But I need to say some things.”
Her smile stiffens a little.
“But there is no point if you don’t really like me,” I say. I look up to meet her eyes. “So you can save yourself from this disclaimer speech if you want to.”
Her brow furrows. “But I really like you.”
“Okay, then, yes. I need to say some things.”
She puts her head in her hand. “I’m listening.”
“I’m still in love with Jesse,” I say. I just throw it out there like slinging a clay pot into the air to be shot. If I hit her with the worst first, surely she can handle the rest.
She barely bats an eyelash. “I know you are.”
“I don’t expect you to understand but I feel a lot of responsibility for her, for—” I search for a word but don’t find it. “For reasons, I’m not sure I can explain.”
“You feel guilty,” she says.
The word stings like a slap.
“Oh come on,” Nikki says in the dark confidence of my bedroom. “I might not know what you did or what you think you did, but guilt is an easy read. And it’s all over your face.”
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” I push on. “I only need to you understand that I can’t change the way I feel about her.”
“So why am I in your bed? What do you want me for?” she asks. “Just sex? Because I won
’t say no.”
I blush. “It has been awhile.”
“Was Jesse the last person?” she asks. And I find myself nodding before I have a chance to consider what a bad idea it might be to tell Nikki this.
“But it’s been like 18 months.”
Nikki grins. “That is like a very specific number. Have you been counting?”
“No.”
“So just sex then?” she asks. “Because I’ve worked with less.”
And for some reason I start laughing. And then she is laughing.
“No really,” she says. “Getting you to want me back is half the battle.”
I’m still laughing. “I find it hard to believe that Ms. Nicole Tamsin wouldn’t be able to bed any conquest she likes.”
“Oh you’d be surprised,” she says. “And did you just use the word ‘bed’ as a verb? Are we in a Jane Austen novel?”
“Maybe.”
“Too bad.” She sighs.
“Why?”
“Because we can’t do this in an Austen novel.”
She leans in and kisses me. I shouldn’t be surprised considering the context. We’re in my bed. I’m in my night clothes. We’re laughing and talking about sex. But when she touches me something hardens. A part of me steps back.
Nikki knows it instantly. “What else do you need from me?”
I don’t like her tone and I start to pull away.
“Don’t get mad,” she says, gently turning my chin toward her. “Explain it to me.”
I take a moment to think about where to begin—what needs to be said first.
“I don’t feel like I’ve been working with anyone,” I say. My cheeks are hot with anger. “I feel like I’ve been working against everyone. Everyone keeps putting Jesse in danger rather than protecting her. Take Jeremiah. He wants to storm her to the front lines, for Christ’s sake.”
She wets her lips before speaking. “So you want someone to help you look out for Jesse?”
“No,” I groan. Yes. “I just feel like I can’t be lying around having sex when everyone is trying to kill my best friend.”
Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) Page 13
