by Tracey Ward
I hold my breath waiting for his answer, scared he could actually know. But how?
He grins crookedly, his face liquid and drunk. “Toast.”
“Toast?”
“Yep.”
“Adrian is pacing the apartment worried about toast?”
“It vexes her,” Mickey explains seriously.
I smile at Rosaline, trying not to laugh. “Mick, are you hungry?”
“Starving, doll.”
“Do you want me to make you some toast?”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
Rose chuckles. “That ship sailed when you bled through our couch.”
“Then some toast would be swell, thanks,” he replies sleepily.
I look to Rosaline helplessly. “He got shot in the stomach. Are we allowed to feed him toast?”
She frowns. “He’s stitched up. It’s not going to leak out of him, Aid.”
“You know what I mean! Is it going to make him sick?”
“That quack didn’t say anything in his note about it, so your guess is as good as mine. He has to eat something, right?”
I chew on the inside of my lip, debating. “He should be in a hospital where they know what they’re doing.”
“No hospitals,” Mickey calls out, his eyes having fallen closed at some point.
“I know, I know,” I reply. “Alright, you can have one piece of toast and if it doesn’t kill you, then you can have another.”
“You’re the bees, toots.”
“Don’t call me toots or you’re not getting any butter,” I grumble, heading for the kitchen.
I’m in the middle of buttering the bread when Rosaline calls out for me from the bedroom. I bolt into the living, see that Mickey is asleep and breathing, then head for the sound of Rosaline’s voice. She’s standing in the center of the room with a strange look on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Close the door,” she tells me quietly.
I keep my eyes on her as I kick the door closed behind me, worried what’s happened. “Mickey is asleep. He can’t hear us talking.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what’s wrong?’
“Turn around.”
Slowly I do as she said until I’m facing the closed door, then I gasp. Written in white chalk against the white door, reflecting the late afternoon sun coming in through the window is one word.
Beaumont
“Any idea what it means?” Rosaline asks from behind me, her voice full to bursting with suspicion.
I shake my head, raising my hand to cover my smile. “I have no clue.”
***
I arrive at the Beaumont Hotel on the eastern end of Chicago late in the night. I didn’t leave the club until after midnight and the commute to this part of town took me an eternity. I could have cut that time in half by taking a cab, but I’m not exactly flush at the moment and I might be in the market for some new furniture soon, so every penny counts.
Tommy was nowhere to be seen all night, which was a relief. He, Hal, Ralph, and all the other boys stayed in the basement, holding court in the casino that was kept strictly VIP. It’s obvious something is up, though most of the people at the club have no idea what. I don’t even know for sure what went wrong last night. Rose and I haven’t asked Mickey a thing beyond making sure he’s comfortable and demanding why the hell he isn’t eating the toast we made for him.
As I step inside the small hotel, a bellboy steps forward with a brilliant smile. “Missus Tyannikov?”
I glance behind me, unsure if he’s speaking to me. “No, I’m sorry.”
His smile falters slightly. “Are you sure?”
“About my name?”
“You’re exactly as he described.”
“I’m sure a lot of women look like me.”
His smile changes and strengthens, becoming bold. “Not likely, ma’am. Is a gentleman expecting you?”
I pull my coat tighter around my body, suddenly feeling oddly scandalous. What kind of hotel is this? If he’s asked me to meet him at a brothel, I’ll kill him, lift cab fare from his wallet, and head straight home. I’m not stupid. I know what I came here for, but a girl doesn’t like to be made to feel like a whore about it.
“Your husband said you’d be arriving late this evening,” the boy explains. “Mr. Tyannikov left me strict instructions to see you up to your room as soon as you arrived.” He offers me his arm, smiling happily. “I’ll lead the way?”
I take his arm reluctantly and follow him to the elevator where we board, only to stand with another young man in a heavily starched uniform of gold and rose. They look like twins with their small, round hats strapped securely under their chins and beaming smiles. It makes me uneasy. This much smiling after ten pm without the aid of alcohol is unnatural and unnerving.
When we reach the eighth floor, the young man drags me forward down a long hall full of golds and greens from carpet to ceiling. He leads me to the very end where he raps sharply on one of the heavily lacquered black doors. It swings open almost immediately and there stands Drew looking more casual and natural than I’ve ever seen him. His jacket is off, his shirt unbuttoned down below his ribs to show a white shirt underneath, and his sleeves are rolled a quarter of the way up his thick arms. Even his hair is a little disheveled, like he’s been laying down and only just got up to open the door for us.
“Darling, you finally made it,” he says to me, his voice oddly formal. “Was the train ride awful?”
I smile at him warmly, stepping forward to greet him with a chaste kiss on the cheek. “It was dreadful and lonely without you.”
“I’ll visit your sister with you next time, I promise.” He turns to my escort, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. “Thanks for delivering her safely, Benny.”
Benny takes the offered cash, not bothering to check how much it is. Kid’s a pro. “No problem. She was no trouble. Didn’t recognize her own name when I called her Missus Tyannikov, but we sorted it out.”
“That’s because the name is Travnikov.”
His smile disappears for the second time tonight. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, kid,” Drew assures him, peeling another bill off his roll and handing it to him. “You did great. You have a good night, alright?”
“Yes, sir. You too! Goodnight, missus Tryva—… goodnight, ma’am!”
“Goodnight, Benny,” I reply, but he’s already hurrying down the hall toward the elevator.
Drew ushers me inside, closing the door behind us. The room is small and simple. A narrow bed, a dark nightstand on one side with a dim lamp on top. A radiator rattles and spits on the far wall under a miniscule window where the city glows bright and forceful outside. I don’t spend a lot of time in Chicago, especially at night. My nights are marked for Cicero and the CC, and even though I’m on the tail end of one of those nights, I somehow feel fresh and alive as I stand in this stale hotel room. It’s new. It’s different. It’s a break from my norm and when I look back at Drew standing at the foot of the bed with his eyes on me and an easy grin on his face, I feel something else. Something warm. Something so real it hurts in my heart.
“Which was it?” I ask him.
“Which was what?”
“The names. Which was the one you told him to call me by?”
His grin blossoms into a sly smile. “Tyannikov. He got it right the first time.”
“You lied to a child,” I scold lightly.
“I covered my tracks,” he corrects. “Now that kid has no idea what name I told him. I checked in under a different one entirely.”
“Why Russian?”
“Because it confuses people.”
“Lot of effort to go through to make sure no one knows where you are.”
“It’s how I’ve stayed alive this long.”
I shift on my feet, my fingers running over the smooth plastic buttons of my overcoat. “Are there a lot of people that look for you?”<
br />
“Yes.”
“Because of what you do?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to keep being honest with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
I hesitate only a second. “Are you a torpedo?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “I’m a contract killer, yes.”
I swallow hard. “Are you going to have to kill me now that I know?”
“You already knew.”
“There’s a difference between knowing a thing and knowing a thing.”
“Are you afraid of me now that you know?”
I shrug tightly. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Let me put your mind at ease,” he tells me sternly. “I don’t kill for pleasure. It’s business. I was a sniper in the war with the army. I turned eighteen the same month the States took to the fight and I was in Europe until we pulled out a year later. I came home to a dead mother, no family, and no job. A buddy of mine from the war called me up to New York. He said his uncle had jobs for guys like us, if we were willing. I went up, had a meeting with him, and discovered that yeah, I was willing. What I do doesn’t feel any different than it did in the war, other than better pay and there are women around. I missed women very much.”
I grin. “Eighteen year old kid? I can only imagine.” I turn serious, not sure if I’m stepping on his toes with my next question. “How did your mom die?”
“Pneumonia.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you coming or going, Adrian?” he asks me bluntly.
My brow shoots up in surprise at his tone, but I casually toss my purse onto the end of the bed. I slowly unbutton my coat and shrug out of it, throwing it on the bed beside my purse. “I’m staying, if that’s alright with you,” I tell him calmly. “And the name is Addison. Not Adrian.”
Drew smiles as he watches me step out of my shoes. “I suppose you want a name in return to for that one.”
“I think I already got one tonight. Tyannikov. Am I saying that right?”
He nods slowly, his eyes burning into mine. “It’s never sounded sweeter.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Neither do you, Marcone.”
“That’s because Marcone was my mother’s last name. I’ve never been to the Old Country.”
“And I’ve never been to Russia. It was my father’s last name.”
“Drew?”
“Yeah, Addy?”
“Are you ever going to kiss me?”
That’s all it takes. He closes the distance between us in two long strides, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me to him. The strength of him hits me like a freight train. The steely grip of his arms around me, the wall of energy and power that is his chest resting flush against mine, jumpstarting my heart and sending it off to the races. And the way he kisses – God save me from the way this man kisses. It’s so unpracticed. So rough and real and addicting that I’m humming inside the second his mouth meets mine.
His hands run slowly over my skin, tracing it from my neck, to my shoulders, shoving aside clothing that gets in his way. He drags the shoulder of my dress down slowly, his fingertips trailing over my exposed skin so lightly it tickles. It sends tremors through my veins and by the time I step out of it completely, I’m shivering in anticipation of his next touch.
He makes me wait, the bastard.
As I stand there nearly naked, nothing but my brassier and undergarments hiding me from him, he steps back to unbutton his shirt. He does it slowly, his eyes on mine, then on my neck, my chest, my stomach, my legs, and back up again, taking me in and memorizing every inch of me. I feel it when he looks at me. I could close my eyes and I’d know where he was looking. I’d feel the heat. The flush on my skin blushing at his scrutiny, at the sheer adoration in his eyes as he takes me in and undresses himself.
When he’s completely naked, I shudder under the weight of the moment. It’s what I want – what I know for sure that I want more than anything – and I’m nervous like it’s the first time. I think it’s because it kind of is. It’s the first time that it’s ever meant anything to me, and even though I don’t totally understand what it means, I know it’s real. It’s big.
And it’s slow. The way he lays me out on the bed on my back. The way he hovers over my body, looking but not touching. The way he drags out the words, asking if he can touch me. The way I whisper my reply. The way he runs his hands along my sides, over my hips, under my brassier, against my skin. The way he takes me in his mouth, the way he makes me moan deep and guttural from the heart of me where it’s impossible to lie. He’s slow as he lays his weight down on top of me, crushing me the way he did in the ally when I wanted more, more, more, so much more of him, and then it’s there. He’s there. He’s inside me and I’m breathless and panting, pulling at him to get him closer. Deeper. His hands are in my hair, his breath is in my mouth, and he’s moving so slowly inside me that I’m worried I’ll go hoarse from begging him.
I’ve never done that before – begged a man. Not for anything.
Tonight I plead with the passion of a woman on her knees in church.
I whisper in his ear, I cry out as my agony spikes, and I mumble prayers against his shoulder as the tide ebbs and flows. He absorbs all of it, but he stays on course. Slow and easy, never wavering, and it goes on and on and on until finally I feel it in the heat of my heart. He feels it too because suddenly his hand is on me, swirling and spinning leisurely until my world explodes in a shower of white hot sparks that burst and crackle against my vision like fireworks on New Year’s night.
Drew kisses me deeply, swallowing my sighs, and then he’s crossing over as well. His body goes rigid and he groans in the base of his throat and into my mouth, and I savor the taste of him like his release is wine on my tongue.
When I open my eyes, I’m not myself. I’m not the girl from Iowa or the woman on the stage. I’m someone I’ve never known before. Someone new and alive and full of the world and the night and the sky. The stars and the moon and this man and a feeling I’ve never known before. I’m in his eyes and I’m fresh and free, I’m clean. I’m warm. Safe.
I’m home.
Chapter Eighteen
The night Mickey was shot the boys were attacked by both the Canadians they were seeking revenge on and a small band of men from the Northside Gang. The Irish. It all came back to the murder of Hymie Weiss months ago, a murder I’m pretty sure Birdy committed, though I’ll never ask because the lunatic would actually tell me. The Irish took their time for once and teamed up with the Tremblays to get the drop on the Outfit’s boys. They only made it out alive because Birdy was with them positioned in a tree overlooking the entire ordeal. He wasn’t able to stop Mickey getting shot, but he put down the guy that did it. The only men that walked out of the woods that night were either Outfit or Birdy.
Later that week Lucy comes home to find the couch empty but destroyed. We don’t even discuss it – she sleeps in the bed with Rosaline that night. The next day I invest in thick sheets, flip the cushions, and take solace in the fact that even though the couch is ruined by blood stains, at least the man who bled is still alive.
Drew is still in town. That fact shocks me. I thought he was leaving almost immediately but four days after I spend the night with him, I see him at the club sitting in the back during my closing number. We don’t speak that night, but the next morning in the post I find a note. It’s a simple white square of paper with one letter written in the center of it and nothing else.
B
That night after the club closes I make my way into Chicago and just as the clock strikes midnight, I step into the lobby of the Beaumont Hotel. Benny is there again and he smiles at me happily. He tells me my husband is waiting for me in our room and asks if I want him to escort me up. I tell him no thank you, I know the way, and I smile when he says goodnight to me with no attempt at using Drew’s last name.
The second I
step into the room, Drew pushes me up against the wall. He kisses his way down my neck, making me breathless and needy before I’ve even said so much as ‘hello’.
“I thought you were leaving,” I mumbled, tangling my fingers in his dark hair.
“Ralph asked me to stay awhile until things cool down. Normally I’d say no, it’s not my fight, but…” he brings his face back to mine, kissing the corners of my mouth softly, “I’ve taken quite a shine to Chicago. I’d hate to see anything bad happen to it.”
I smile as I lazily comb my fingers through his hair, smoothing what I’ve tousled. “Chicago can take care of itself.”
“Probably, but it worries me. Chicago keeps shady company.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I whisper, pulling his mouth against mine and delving my tongue inside.
He presses his hips into me hard and I moan anxiously. “Can I touch you, Addy?” he asks, his hands already gathering my skirt and raising it to my waist.
“Yes.”
He makes love to me there against the wall with my clothes on, my undergarments pushed to the side, and my body eclipsed by his. I disappear in his shadow, under his power, and when I reappear I’m shaking and shimmering like waves of heat on the street in summertime. I’m ethereal and untouchable, visible only to him as he keeps me alive with my name on his tongue and my body in his hands. My flesh and bone, my blood held hard by the power in his palms. He could kill me with those hands, but instead he breathes life into me with every touch, every caress.
I fall asleep in the bed beside him, both of us fully dressed and our hands clasped loosely between us. He doesn’t sleep. I know it because it’s a weakness. It’s a vulnerability and it’s exactly the kind of thing that can get a man like him killed.
Or a woman seeing a man like him.
I know what I’m risking. I’m in more danger now than I ever have been before. If any of the people looking to settle a score with him finds out about me, I’m finished. I’m a weakness for him as much as sleep. I don’t know where he does it because he keeps it a carefully guarded secret, something I know he’s doing with me as well, but can we hide from everyone? What if Tommy finds out? It might not mean a death sentence, but it certainly won’t be pretty. I’ll regret this if I’m not painstakingly careful, and I can’t imagine anything that would make me sadder because nothing has ever made me happier than being with Drew.
