Tipping Point

by Helena Maeve

  “Then I thought that would make it worse, so I didn’t.” Nate patted his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  His hand was a warm, welcome pressure on Elijah’s back. It shouldn’t have been. I know nothing about you. Fortunately, anonymity went both ways. It was for the best. In Elijah’s experience, things got messy when history was shared and his was just so depressing. Not sexy at all.

  The room spun with him as he swiveled around to meet Nate’s gaze. He must have misjudged how much he’d imbibed, because suddenly his knees were giving out and it was only Nate’s hands on him, under his arms, holding him up. Laughter bubbled out of Elijah’s throat.

  “I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry…” For leaving, for squandering Nate’s dough on cheap beer, for last night’s tragic bit of self-abuse.

  I stripped the bed, he wanted to say. See? I’m trying to make it right. But intentions paved the road to hell. Prison had taught him that he was better off letting his deeds speak for themselves.

  He knotted a hand in Nate’s shirtfront and leaned in before Nate could figure out what he was up to. Fabric rustled in his grasp but didn’t tear. Nate wasn’t quick enough to pull away.

  Their lips met in a chaste kiss, if only for the space of an instant.

  Elijah had never mastered the art of taking what he wanted and now gravity worked against him. The liquor in his veins made it hard to commit. Pulse throbbing in his temple, he pulled back, ready for the repercussions. Either way, it would be an improvement on limbo. He was so sick of not knowing which side the hammer would fall from.

  “What’re you…?”

  Nate steadied him against the wall, caging him in with his body. He raised a hand so suddenly that Elijah barely caught himself before he flinched. It wasn’t to strike him. Nate only cupped his cheek.

  “What’re you doing?” He peered at Elijah with inky eyes, gaze so deep and penetrating, as if he wanted to pry back the layers of skin and flesh and get to the truth of him, the calcium frame answer to whatever two-bit riddle he posed.

  Elijah didn’t know what to tell him.

  Isn’t it obvious? He only narrowly avoided thumping his head back against the wall when Nate resumed contact—initiating, this time, what before he had only endured. His lips were soft and warm against Elijah’s. They tasted vaguely of caffeine.

  It didn’t occur to Elijah that Nate could probably smell the alcohol on his breath until he felt Nate’s tongue probing lightly at his lips. He parted them willingly, not even considering that there might be another option.

  He let Nate guide the kiss however he damn well pleased. Sitting back and letting it happen shouldn’t have been hard. He’d done it before. Hell, he’d fantasized about it before.

  But Nate was suddenly too close and Elijah couldn’t get his breath back, couldn’t wrap his head around the syncopated rise and fall of another man’s chest beneath his hands. I was fine. I’m fine.

  I’m drowning.

  He didn’t want to taint this—he’d asked for it, he’d planned for it—but vivid bursts of memory seeped in through the cracks of his composure, souring the sweet bliss of making out with Nate.

  “Wait. Wait…”

  He didn’t mean to push back so violently, but all the same Nate staggered backward under the force of Elijah’s shove. The expression on his face morphed from lust to confusion to a mixture of pity and horror that Elijah would have gladly lived a lifetime without encountering. It was a sobering sight, as close to mind-reading as he was ever likely to get.

  Nate stared back at him, hair disheveled, his clothes rumpled from their momentary tug-of-war. His lips still pink from the kiss. He didn’t need to ask what was wrong. One glance at Elijah and it was enough. He’d already guessed.

  “I’m sorry,” Elijah panted again, meaning every word. I’m sorry I’m such a freak. Apologies were worthless. “Fuck.” He slammed the back of his fist into the drywall between kitchen and foyer, pain racing up his arm like electricity.

  “It’s okay—”

  “No, it’s not!” Elijah refused to be placated.

  He watched Nate fumble for words. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You didn’t.” Bitter panic roiling in his gut, Elijah could admit that much. He’d practically jumped Nate the minute he came through the door. There was nothing accidental in that. Nothing organic. It was me. Elijah shook out his hand, sobering. “I need… I’m gonna go…”

  “No—”

  “Shower.” He gestured in the general direction of the bedroom with benumbed fingers, somehow keeping his breathing under control.

  “Oh. Okay.” Nate sidestepped so as not to stand in his way. “Good idea. Is there anything I can do? Get you ice for the…”

  Elijah shook his head. He couldn’t tell him to call Jules and put an end to his nonsense. He wasn’t that strong.

  He locked the bathroom door behind him, lightheaded.

  Chapter Five

  Elijah rolled over in bed. At Nate’s request, he’d taken over the bedroom again, exiling his host to the couch. They hadn’t argued about it this time.

  They hadn’t talked much at all since Elijah had returned to the apartment, drunk and dangerous, and thrown himself at Nate. No surprise there. Elijah almost preferred it to the alternative of awkward explanations and excuses that couldn’t begin to make up for the gravity of the crime.

  Still, when it came to getting out of bed and facing the music in the morning, he found his movements sluggish. He lingered in the bathroom longer than necessary. He dragged himself through his morning ablutions. He made the bed twice, aligning the corners with painstaking care until he heard the timid shuffle of movement on the other side of the wall.

  There was nothing for it. With a deep breath, Elijah eased open the bedroom door.

  Nate was stretching by the living room windows, fingertips pressed to the top frame high above his head. He froze when he saw Elijah. “Hey.”

  “Morning,” Elijah replied, his throat locking inexplicably. Nate’s shirt had ridden up to reveal a flat, pale stomach. Elijah tried to pretend he couldn’t see it.

  “Hope the alarm didn’t wake you…”

  Elijah shook his head. “It’s fine. I know you have shit to do.” Nate was employed—by someone, somewhere—and Elijah had no desire to interfere with that. He’d already proved enough of a nuisance. And because beating around the bush wasn’t doing it for him, Elijah cleared his throat and opted to bite the proverbial bullet. “About last night—”

  “Water under the bridge.”

  That stopped Elijah in his tracks. “What?”

  Nate rolled his shoulders in a particularly distracting motion and let his arms hang down. “You’d been drinking. I was tired, didn’t quite…realize what I was doing. But since we neither of us is intoxicated now, I think we can agree that it was a mistake, yes?”

  My mistake, Elijah wanted to correct. I’m the unpinned grenade.

  Worse, under all the self-justifications he had worked out while stomping through the sun-scorched streets, he’d done nothing last night that he hadn’t wanted to do. For a few moments, he’d felt more in control, more grounded than he could remember being since lockup.

  None of which he dared tell Nate.

  “We’ll not mention it again.” And, Nate seemed to be implying, it won’t happen again.

  “All right…” Elijah could think of nothing else to say. He was too much of a coward to point out that he’d done the kissing first, that drunk or not, the bulk of the blame ought to rest with him.

  He didn’t have the guts to ask if it had really been so unpleasant for Nate that he preferred to blot out the whole experience from his memory.

  Perhaps cavalier was how Nate handled all of his startlingly bad decisions—letting Elijah stay in his apartment being a prime example, but also giving him money, associating with the likes of Jules. If he wasn’t a spy before, he’d become a traitor to Queen and country by mere association with
Elijah’s lethal sister.

  Yet here he was, in a thin wife-beater and a pair of loose sleep pants, the same black-and-white contrast that Elijah had come to regard as his personal color scheme, and he was smiling.

  “I have to get ready,” Nate sighed, bounding on the balls of his feet. “Can you get breakfast going?”

  “Sure… But I didn’t buy cereal.”

  Nate sucked his cheeks in as though to conceal a smile. “I suspect you’ll live.” His fingertips brushed Elijah’s hip as he walked away. It wasn’t deliberate.

  Elijah was mostly sure of that.

  While Nate showered, Elijah fiddled with the coffeepot and toaster. The number of gadgets in Nate’s kitchen grew with every opened cupboard door. It wasn’t rifling, Elijah told himself, as long as he didn’t do it with the intent to pry into Nate’s personal effects. It took him fifteen minutes to find a bread knife—in the wooden block on the table, handle sticking out like Excalibur—never mind butter or bacon for frying.

  He was still busy assembling the various ingredients when Nate emerged from the bedroom in full office-ready regalia. He’d opted for tweed today, a red tie bisecting his crisp white shirt. His brown shoes gleamed in the early-morning light.

  “What?” He grinned when he caught Elijah’s gaze. “Something wrong?”

  “No. You just… You look good.”

  ‘Dapper’ was the word that came to Elijah’s mind. He had only known him a few days, but Nate seemed to have perfectly groomed in his DNA. With his baby-smooth cheeks and esthetically riotous black hair, he would’ve been at home on a runway or the pages of a glossy fashion magazine. All the stranger, then, that his latest hobby involved babysitting homeless ex-cons.

  Maybe dapper was the wrong descriptor. Maybe the suit held him together, like twine around a ticking parcel.

  Elijah poured him a cup of coffee—two sugars, like he’d seen Nate take it on previous mornings—and gestured him to the table. “Any luck with Jules?” he pitched over his shoulder, mostly for the sake of conversation.

  “She’s coming by tomorrow.”

  He whirled around at that, toast slices sliding perilously on the plate he’d just piled them into. “Oh. Great… Did she say why?” Am I going away? He willed away the burgeoning alarm. Jules needed him. She’d said as much herself. Wherever he wound up next, he’d be all right.

  He’d just be alone. Again.

  Nate shook his head. “She was concise. We used a burner, but she doesn’t trust technology in general, so we don’t talk much.”

  “Tell me about it.” Elijah hopped onto a bar stool at the table.

  “How did that work, between you?” Nate wondered. “You were her hacker?”

  Elijah thinned his lips, butter knife poised above the stick. “I was a hacker. Jules just…needed my skills more than the average client.” He slanted a glance at Nate. “How much do you know about what she’s up to these days?”

  “More than you.”

  “That’s not an answer.” It also wasn’t very kind, but Elijah could tolerate the latter.

  Nate stirred two sugar cubes in his coffee. It was a transparent attempt to buy himself a little more time to calibrate a reply. “I know she’s working with some dangerous people to fight back against other dangerous people. Somewhere on that continuum…is where you and I live.”

  “As her pawns.”

  “If you’re feeling uncharitable,” Nate agreed pensively.

  “What would you call this?” Elijah waved the knife between them. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. But you wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for Jules.” Twisting your arm, forcing your hand. Making you do something you don’t want to do.

  Elijah had some idea of what that was like.

  Nate let his words simmer for a long beat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup before setting it aside. “Neither would you.”

  “Yeah, but let’s not pretend I didn’t get the long end of the stick.” The molten, acrid scent of burned rubber still lived in his lungs. He coughed in an attempt to dislodge it.

  “You sell yourself short.”

  “Really? I’m a hobo with a record.” And a drinking problem, and a history of drug use, and unsubstantiated suspicions concerning you.

  Nate cut his eyes to his cup, the barest hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. He smiled easily, but it only rarely reached his eyes and the difference between the two was stark. He also didn’t rage. Elijah wondered what it might be like to exhibit such self-control at all times. Exhausting came to mind.

  “At least you can be honest with yourself,” Nate murmured. “You’d be surprised how rare that is in my line of work.”

  “Which is what, exactly? Jules failed to mention it before she dropped me off.” Elijah knew this was shaky ground to walk, but curiosity got the better of him. He’d been treading water since he first set foot into the apartment. There wasn’t much worse he could do after sinking to the bottom like so much crushed rock.

  Nate held his gaze, his own eyes a deep and piercing black. “What do you think?”

  “My guesses are usually off the mark.”

  “Let’s just say I have wide array of skills and leave it at that.”

  Nate seemed eager to draw a line under the topics he found touchy—his work, Elijah all but assaulting him in his own home. Who was Elijah to protest?

  “Which reminds me,” Nate added, patting his pockets. “I think you should have this.” He extricated a small silver key from his pant pocket. “Works on the lobby door, too, if it’s locked when you get back.”

  “Am I going somewhere?” The news came as a surprise to Elijah.

  “We’re still out of cereal.”

  “Right.” Elijah downed another mouthful of tepid coffee. He didn’t know whether that qualified as a request or permission, and which would be worse.

  Nate placed the key on the kitchen island. “Well, if you need it…”

  I won’t. Last night’s mistakes weren’t worth repeating and he had nowhere left to run to. “See you at six?” Elijah turned to rinse his plate. He cringed at the easy familiarity in those four words.

  “Maybe a little later,” Nate replied casually, shifting to his feet. “Feel free to cook or order in. I can leave you some money if—”

  “I’m good.” Elijah’s smile was poor cover for his interjection, but he couldn’t stomach taking more money from Nate’s hand.

  “Sure?”

  He nodded. “Good luck with your…wide skill set.”

  Something twisted in the pit of his stomach when Nate grinned. His whole face lit up, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He was handsome even in repose, but amusement was unquestionably a good look on him. Suddenly he seemed more boyish than brooding, a hair’s breadth away from mischief.

  Elijah banished the thought. It wasn’t just self-preservation that had him scrutinizing Nate’s every move—and that way lay peril.

  He blew out a sigh of relief when the front door clicked shut, silence swiftly settling over the apartment in Nate’s absence. The clamor inside Elijah’s head took longer to fade.

  In his mind’s eye, he pictured the day unfolding before him like a red carpet. Hours of light entertainment as he tried to make sense of shows he’d only every followed intermittently before prison, pocked with binging on whatever food he found in Nate’s pantry. Maybe he’d work up the nerve to call for takeout after a while. Maybe he’d get bogged down in calculating the most he could get for his limited buck and never make it as far as dialing the restaurant.

  Suds bloomed on his hands under the rushing kitchen tap, vaguely hypnotic in their rapid surge and decline. Glossy yellow dabs of butter washed off in a matter of seconds. Elijah shut off the water. It wasn’t apathy that stole his breath, but the number of possibilities at hand. Choices underpinned every facet of Nate’s existence.

  A shrill ringing brought Elijah’s mus
ings to a swift stop. He whirled around, thinking it might be the doorbell, but the sound was coming from inside the apartment. It echoed again, more insistently than the first time. Elijah started for the landline even as he knew he couldn’t pick up the phone.

  Technically, he wasn’t here.

  He didn’t exist in Jules’ life or Nate’s. Neither one needed to sit him down and explain how keeping a low profile worked.

  It didn’t stop his pulse from racing when the trill resonated once again.

  Elijah tracked its origin to a drawer in Nate’s dresser. The chest was a two-toned wooden case with sanded drawers and brass handles. He knew it was a mistake to open one long before the impulse crystallized into action. He did it anyway. The contents were mostly black cotton socks, with a couple of white rolled-up pairs for contrast. It was the white ones that reflected the glow of a cell phone screen.

  Heart in his throat, Elijah pried back the top layer. Then the next one. By the third, he had a clear view of the small green Nokia tucked among Nate’s clothes. The handgun secreted beside it was equally noticeable.

  It took him a moment to notice that the ringing had stopped. By the time the cell phone displayed darkened, Elijah’s thoughts were already pinging in all directions.

  Doesn’t mean anything. Many people keep guns in the house. And burner phones. And receive clandestine envelopes in the middle of the night…

  Many people in Jules’ line of business, anyway.

  Elijah rolled a sock over his hand and gingerly eased out the gun. It was a hefty piece, a Walther PP9 standard to the British Intelligence Services. The serial numbers had been filed off, though, which cast a shade of doubt over the assumption that it was a legal acquisition.

  Out of morbid curiosity, Elijah checked the clip. Jules had shown him how when they were kids. Even then, she’d been perfectly at ease around deadly weapons.

  His stomach sank when he discovered that the Walther was fully loaded. Only one round was missing. Elijah tried not to let his imagination run wild with potential explanations. He lacked sufficient data to make a call. He had no proof—of anything, let alone wrongdoing.