by A. Zavarelli
I feel sorry for her.
My mother will never know the simple pleasure of telling someone to fuck off. Of doing something because she wants to, and not because it’s expected of her.
She’s never going to know freedom in its purest form, with the chains she’s so carefully bound herself in.
This world is hers, and I don’t belong here anymore.
I never did.
But I know it now more than ever. The path I set out for myself is the only one I could have followed.
And I have nothing to say to her.
I have nothing to say to anyone here. Except for the last three names on my list.
The last three names before I am truly free from this life.
The train feels old hat though I never actually took public transportation in New York. Albrights got around in town cars.
The first time I ever took a train was the night that I left. I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I just checked the board and picked the next scheduled train.
That was how I ended up in Boston.
Since then, I’ve taken this route back and forth several times. None so somber as the first.
Now it feels more like an adventure.
I like to look at the people and make up stories about them in my head. I steer clear of businessmen and look for the standouts in the crowd. The ones with the colorful clothing or the weird ticks. The guy reading a self-help book about winning over friends.
There’s one in every crowd.
But things are different today. Or maybe I am.
My eyes settle in on a man two rows down and across from me, reading the paper.
There isn’t anything in particular that draws my attention to him. Just a feeling, like maybe we’ve met before.
He isn’t a former client though, and he’s definitely not a New Yorker.
He’s older than I am. Early thirties, I’d guess. Handsome in a rugged way. Military through and through. He checks his surroundings often, and he looks at everyone but me.
I’m a details girl.
Always have been.
I notice the things that others tend to miss because they are so wrapped up in themselves.
Like the way his trousers rise up just above the ankles when he sits, and how one of his ankles is smaller than the other.
Not smaller, but synthetic.
I recognize the joint of the prosthetic since there’s a girl on the street- Kesha- who wears one as well. Oddly enough, there’s a whole fetish for that sort of thing, and the girl makes bank. She likes to say the best thing she ever did was lose her leg.
But this guy, I’d venture a guess, lost his in a war zone.
His hand is scarred too, but because he’s wearing a jacket, the full extent of the damage is a mystery.
It makes me think of Storm.
I haven’t seen her around in a while. But now that I’m back in the game, that’s likely to change real soon.
I forget all about the man with the prosthetic as I get off at Back Bay Station. I only have one target on my mind now, and his name is Quinn.
He has a meeting today, and he has no idea that I’ve got the memo too.
The lounge is swanky, crammed with the usual suspects.
A few gold-diggers eye off the competition when I take a seat and turn up their noses. I don’t have the token Birken bag or Louboutin heels, so that must mean I’m gutter trash.
I cross my legs and swivel towards the bar. The thing they don’t know is that I could have a Birken bag if I really wanted one. Or a hundred pairs of Louboutins if I wanted them too.
I have a trust fund that would make their soon-to-be husbands bank rolls look like chump change.
When my mother found out where I was, she speedily and quietly transferred all the money over to me.
I don’t have any misgivings about spending it. The money was never hers to begin with, but rather my grandfathers.
And he had whispered in my ear once, on his death bed, that I should live while the getting was good. That I should spend my money how I saw fit and enjoy my life and celebrate every day I was given.
He wanted me to have that money.
And my mother was at peace knowing it meant she wouldn’t have to see me again.
So I took it. But I certainly don’t flash it around.
I do what my grandfather suggested. Now and then, I indulge in something I really want. Ice cream, shoes, La Perla underwear.
Today, it was this black dress I’m wearing.
When Quinn enters the bar, he won’t miss it.
And when the bartender comes around, I order a dirty martini.
Quinn won’t miss that either.
I take small sips and play on my phone, checking the bar every few minutes to make sure I haven’t missed him.
It isn’t Quinn who sits down next to me. But rather, the man from the train. The one with the prosthetic leg.
This is no coincidence.
And yet he’s quiet.
So am I.
One of us will need to speak first, but it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.
He removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, and from the corner of my eye, I get a small glimpse of the tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve.
A bone frog.
He waits until he orders his drink- a good old fashioned draft beer- to turn his attention towards me.
It’s a calculated move on his part, trying to unsettle me with the long silence. It’s working too, at least a little, but I don’t show it.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks.
And now he’s beating a dead horse.
“Sorry, pal.” I flash a smile. “I think you better go elsewhere if you’re in the market for a frog hog. This isn’t really the establishment.”
He smiles back, and there’s humor in his eyes.
“What gave me away?”
“If it walks like a SEAL and talks like a SEAL, then it’s probably a fucking SEAL.”
“Not anymore,” he says.
“I figured as much,” I tell him. “With the bum leg and all.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“The only thing I missed is what you’re doing here, in this bar, sitting here beside me.”
“Alright.” He folds the napkin beneath the beer in his hands while he talks. “I just thought you should know Quinn won’t be here this evening.”
This banter has lost its appeal.
“Let me guess. He hired you as personal security. What a goddamn joke.”
I get up to leave, but he reaches for my arm and stops me. When I glare at him, however, he removes it quickly.
“I’m not his security,” the stranger tells me. “In fact, he doesn’t know me at all. But I know you, Tenly. Or do you prefer Scarlett?”
There is no malice in his voice. But I am rattled nonetheless.
“What is this about?”
“I’d like to tell you,” he says. “In a more private setting, if you don’t mind.”
I’m about to tell him to fuck right off when he flashes a badge at me.
Fucking FBI.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask. “And will there be anyone else there?”
“You can trust me,” he says. “I’m not like Royce.”
I want to leave. But something in his eyes keeps my feet firmly planted in place. The funny thing is, I do believe he’s one of the good guys, even if he’s about to make my day hell. And I also believe, I’m probably going to want to hear what he has to say.
I give him a small nod, and he retrieves his jacket, gesturing for me to follow him.
We take the elevator up to the roof.
“And this is the part where you murder me, right?”
He shakes his head and closes the door behind us, making a point to show me it’s not locked.
“You can leave at any time you don’t feel safe.”
I cross my arms and look out over the city, wait
ing for him to tell me why he dragged me up here in the first place.
“My name is Booker Cayce, if you want to know.”
“You obviously know mine already,” I answer.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on Royce for some time now,” he tells me.
“So I guess that means you’ve been keeping an eye on me too.”
He nods.
“That still doesn’t explain how you know about his friends. I never told anyone.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “Royce has notes of his own.”
Notes?
Jesus, I don’t even want to think that could be real.
“How can I be sure that any of what you are saying is even true?” I ask him. “I mean, do they even let amputees into the FBI academy?”
“There was a case a few years ago,” he tells me. “A wounded veteran. It set a precedent. As long as I am fully capable of performing my duties, then it’s not an issue.”
It sounds legit, but I don’t know. I don’t know what to make of this guy at all.
“Why were you watching Royce?” I ask.
“I had suspicions about him. Most were unsubstantiated. I didn’t want to bring them forward to the bureau until I was certain.”
“And you are telling me this why?”
I know why, but fuck. I need to hear him say it. I need him to tell me how screwed I am.
“I don’t blame you for wanting them dead,” he says. “They deserve it, for what they did to you.”
I stare past him, so I don’t have to see his eyes. So I don’t have to witness the expression on his face while he talks about my past.
“I don’t know what happened to Ethan,” he continues, “but I highly suspect it wasn’t a robbery. And as for Trip? His overdose is questionable, but not unlikely either, given his history of drug abuse.”
I wait for the hammer to fall. Either he’s going to blackmail me, or he’s going to send me packing in an orange jumpsuit.
“Royce is growing reckless. And he has a pervasive obsession with you that’s only getting worse by the day.”
I do meet his gaze this time. And I put it into words he can understand.
“You’ve been to war,” I say. “You know some people are so fucked in the head the only humane thing to do is put them down.”
“That might be true,” he agrees. “But this isn’t a war zone, Tenly. And I can’t allow you to kill him.”
I feel it happening. The bricks and mortar of my carefully constructed house of revenge crumbling in on themselves. He’s taking this away from me, and I hate him for it.
“So what do you suggest?” I bite back. “Just let him kill me? That’s the way these things usually end. You want to tell me to get a restraining order and wave it in his face when he comes for me?”
“That depends,” he answers. “Tell me about Kylie and her friend Katie.”
I look away. But there is no hiding my reaction. Booker isn’t a businessman looking for a cheap thrill.
He’s got me cornered, and he knows it.
“I want to put him away for good,” he says. “But I need your help to do it.”
“Nuh-uh.” I shake my head. “No fucking way. Are you kidding me? You think prison is going to stop him? If he even makes it to prison. I know how these things work, okay. You’re asking me to get up on a stand and testify against him?”
“And Quinn, and Duke.”
“This is a goddamn joke,” I mutter. “Do you know what the likelihood of winning that case would be? There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell. There’s no evidence. It’s just my word against theirs.”
“There’s also a journal,” he tells me. “Trip wrote everything down. A confession.”
“That isn’t enough. People think I’m dead, and I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Well unfortunately,” Booker says. “The ones who matter all know you’re alive now. So you really will be dead soon, if you don’t do this, Tenly. Because I can’t protect you unless you agree to testify.”
“No,” I tell him again. “In fact, that’s a hell no.”
I walk towards the door, and his voice stops me.
“It isn’t just about you,” he says. “How many other women do you think he will kill before he gets to you?”
My hand shakes on the knob.
“You can’t put that on me.”
“He’s going to out you,” Booker says, and his voice is resigned now. “There are photos of you. Piles of evidence. The senator’s son, and plenty of others. He’s already been in contact with several news outlets.”
And he’s got me, because I know for fact these things are true.
I turn around and meet his gaze. I’ve never pleaded with anyone in my life, but I want to plead with him right now. To stop this. I want to believe he’s a good person.
Like Rory.
I can tell he respects women. He respects me. But there is no such thing as a good deed.
“What do you get out of all this?” I ask him. “What do you get for helping me out?”
He turns away, disgusted with himself, guilty… and I am right. I am always right.
“When it’s over,” he says. “I’ll need a favor of my own.”
“Sorry, Rumple. I don’t deal in those sorts of favors. You’ll need to tell me upfront, or no deal.”
His eyes flicker to the skyline, and absently, he rubs the scars on the back of his hand.
“Storm.”
Well, that is a surprise.
“What about her?”
“I need to know where I can find her.”
I don’t tell him that I don’t know, because right now, this is the only bargaining chip I have. And it’s always better to let people believe they are going to get what they want from you.
“You’d know better than anyone how to find her,” he adds.
“What do you want with her?”
He doesn’t answer. But there’s something in his eyes that tells me this is personal for him. He wants it badly.
Badly enough to blackmail me into doing the right thing. And I’m guessing he’s not a man who goes against his honor very often.
But it doesn’t matter.
On the streets, we have our own Omertà.
I wouldn’t give her up for any of his promises. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Fine,” I say. “If I do this, you’ll get rid of all the evidence against me?”
He nods.
“My mother’s going to have a fucking coronary when she finds out.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But she hasn’t been much of a mother to you, so I wouldn’t concern yourself with how she feels.”
“Don’t pretend to know me,” I warn him. “You don’t know me, no matter what you’ve dug up in my life. You know what’s on paper, and that’s all.”
He ignores my barb and gives me a nod.
“Let’s do this then. Let’s get it over with.”
“I’m going to give you the week to think about it,” he says.
“There’s nothing to think about,” I argue. “Do you want me to do this or not? There’s no point fucking around…”
“There’s something else you should know before you agree.”
Whatever it is, I’m not going to like it.
“This kind of trial, it’s going to be complex. Drawn out. Media everywhere. You’ll be watched closely by the bureau, by the opposing council, by reporters who are out for blood.”
“And your point?”
“Rory Brodrick,” he says quietly.
And suddenly, everything that was so clear has become very hazy.
Rory.
How could I not have factored him into this? I’ve been spending so much time with him, of course Booker would know about him too.
My mouth is dry when I ask my next question.
“What about him?”
“I don’t want to be presumptuous,” Booker says, “but I’d venture a guess in saying that yo
u might care for him.”
He takes my silence as an affirmative.
“If you don’t want him involved in this… if you don’t want to arouse suspicion of the syndicate by bringing heat down onto them, then you’ll need to stay away from him.”
And there it is.
My clarity.
This morning, things with Rory were so gray. Muddled and confused and uncertain. But Booker’s words make it very black and white. And I have to confront the very real feelings I’ve been trying so hard to deny.
I do care for Rory.
I’m in love with him.
And that’s as real as it’s ever going to get for me.
“Why would you do that?” I ask Booker. “Why would you warn me? If you know what they do…”
“I don’t believe Rory Brodrick is a bad man,” he says. “But the practices of criminal syndicates are generally the same the world over. If they catch you talking to the feds, what do you think would happen?”
I know what would happen.
Rory wouldn’t hurt me. But Lachlan? I’m not so sure. I’m Mack’s friend, but if he had to choose between protecting his family or me, he’s always going to choose his family.
“He’s a good man,” I tell Booker. “Rory would never hurt me.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve seen you together.”
The rest of my words fail me, but Booker understands perfectly.
“And you won’t hurt him either.”
He’s right.
I can’t bring him into this mess. Any further than he already is. I can’t risk his life, or his relationship with the syndicate.
I need him to hate me. It’s the only way he will let me go. He said so himself. That he would go to battle for me. That he won’t ever give up.
I close my eyes, and a shudder racks my body.
I’m going to fall on my sword for him. To protect him. And to love him in the only way I can. By keeping him as far away from me as possible.
Giving him a real shot at happiness. With someone who deserves it.
Booker is waiting for me when I open my eyes. Waiting for the words he already knew were coming.
“I’ll need your help.”
31
RORY
IT’S LATE, and most of the lads have cleared out of the gym, but Conor lingers behind. He’s itching to get back to Ivy, but I make him spar with me, anyway.
