I don’t know what the fuck happened yesterday.
I’ve never acted like that in my life. I was raised to be a gentleman—not to grab a girl and kiss her like a wild bandit.
Maybe it was the adrenaline from racing Riona. Or the fact that we’ve been in constant proximity for the last eight days. Or the fact that she manages to get under my skin in a way I don’t quite understand.
I don’t know what it is about her. I’ve always had this compulsion to overcome challenges. And Riona is a constant challenge. She’s strong-willed and stubborn as fuck. Determined not to be impressed by me. Intent on always doing things her own way, damn the consequences.
Maybe I shouldn’t have raced her at all. I know how competitive she is. But for fuck’s sake, so am I! I thought it would be fun. Then I saw how seriously she was taking it. And I guess I realized I was taking it pretty damn seriously, too.
Well, now I feel like a horse’s ass.
She was right to slap me—I deserved that.
I know damn well she’s got a boyfriend.
I don’t like that guy, though. I get that he’s good-looking and a fancy surgeon and all that shit. On paper he’s a good match for Riona. But she doesn’t need somebody stiff and proper like that.
She needs somebody who can make her laugh. Who can help her relax a little. Not someone who’s going to amp her up even more.
I guess that sounds like I’m describing myself—I’m not. I know I’m not the right guy for her, either. We’d probably murder each other. Plus my lifestyle doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for romance.
No romance—just a whole lot of experience.
I’ve seen a whole lot of ugliness and greed and violence.
But I’ve seen gorgeous things too. I’ve seen the sun setting over Victoria Falls. I’ve ridden camels over sand dunes bigger than any ocean wave. I’ve taken a chopper over a volcano half a day before it erupted. And walked on black sand beaches that look like an alien planet.
I keep a list of the best places. Maybe so I can show them to somebody else someday. Maybe just so I don’t forget them.
I can hear Riona showering and getting ready for the day. I go and do the same, so she won’t have to wait on me.
It takes me a lot less time to shower. Probably ‘cause I don’t have two feet of flame-red hair to deal with. I get ready, then I poach some eggs and put some toast on. And I make the coffee extra strong ‘cause I know Riona likes it that way. It’s a peace offering. I can guess it’s gonna take a lot more than coffee and a good night’s rest to cool her off, though.
Sure enough, she comes sweeping out of her room without even a glance at me. She pours herself a mug of coffee and ignores the poached egg I set all nicely on a piece of buttered toast for her.
“Morning,” I say to her.
“Good morning,” she replies coolly.
“About yesterday—”
“We don’t have to talk about that,” she interrupts.
“I’m not tryna go on about it,” I persist. “I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry.”
Her green eyes flit up at me for just a second, then look away again. I can’t tell if she’s still mad or embarrassed or what. Maybe just surprised I apologized.
“Just—let’s leave it alone,” she says. “The whole thing was embarrassing.”
“Alright,” I say.
Riona grabs her coat and we head down to the underground parking garage. I check the vehicle over carefully before we enter, including looking under the carriage for any unwanted additions. As we drive up to street level, I can tell it’s an ugly day. Freezing cold, windy, and gray as slate. Little bits of sleet whip against the windshield, fine and hard as sand.
I’ve been in too many hot places for too long. I’m fucking cold, even with the heat turned up in the car.
“I can’t believe this,” I say to Riona. “After all the nice things I’ve heard about Chicago winters . . . ”
Riona gives a little snort.
“It’s only November,” she says. “It’ll get a lot worse.”
“How could it possibly be worse?”
“Just wait.”
We drive the four blocks to Riona’s office. I bet she’s glad now that we borrowed Dante’s SUV. That wouldn’t be a pleasant walk.
Usually I’d be a gentleman and drop her off right in front of the building while I find parking, but we need to stick together at all times. Especially now that I know Djinn is apparently such a relentless motherfucker.
Riona and I park a half-block away, then run for the double glass doors.
Compared to outside, the inside of the office building feels warm and pleasant. I can smell coffee and fresh muffins from the cafe on the ground floor.
I escort Riona all the way up to her office. Most of the people on her floor have gotten used to seeing me by now. Especially the paralegal Lucy—she gives me a little smile and wave.
I settle down in my favorite chair in the corner of Riona’s office while Riona dives right into her work. I see her plowing through folder after folder every day, but the pile of stuff she needs to get done never seems to shrink. She must be adding to it constantly.
After about an hour, we’re surprised by a knock at the door.
It’s Dante and Nero. Dante’s wearing a proper pea coat, but Nero only has on a black t-shirt and jeans. I’m guessing he’s too hot-headed to ever feel the cold.
Dante says to me, “I thought you might want to go talk to that ex-employee with me. Nero can stay here with Riona.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Riona says without looking up from her papers. “I can be here alone for an hour. There’s a hundred people on the floor with me.”
“Well, I’m already here,” Nero says. “So you may as well enjoy my company.”
He slouches over to my chair, flopping down on it as soon as I’ve vacated the spot. He goes to put his feet up on Riona’s glass coffee table. Still without looking up, she says, “Don’t even think about it.”
Nero grins and swings his legs over the arm of the chair instead, sitting sideways.
It’s strange. I never had a problem with Nero—I like all Dante’s siblings. But I find myself not wanting to leave him here with Riona. I tell myself it’s because I’m supposed to be watching her, keeping her safe. That’s my job. But if I’m totally honest, I look at Nero with his outrageous good looks and his air of menace that I know appeals to women in a very specific way, and I feel something just a little too close to jealousy.
Which is idiotic. Dante already told me that Nero is head over heels for some girl named Camille, and Riona is likewise taken by somebody else. So there’s nothing to be jealous about here. Not even a little bit.
Still, I leave the office in a strange kind of mood.
Once we’re back in the elevator, Dante says, “How’s it going with Riona?”
“Good.” I nod.
“Actually good?” Dante asks.
“Yeah. I mean, we’ve got our differences . . . ”
Dante chuckles. “I bet. She’s great, though. Once you get below the prickly surface.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m finding,”
I’m not planning to tell Dante about my fight with Riona. I’m definitely not going to tell him about the kiss. That was pure stupidity. I won’t do that again.
Instead I say, “You want me to drive? I got a pretty sick ride.”
Dante chuckles. “You better. Nero brought me over in some crazy old car that felt like it was gonna fall apart trying to carry me around. I don’t think they built cars for people my size back in the 50s.”
“I don’t think they had people your size.”
“Exactly. You ever seen a bodybuilder from the 50s? They were like 178 pounds soaking wet.”
“You could have a real career in the circus if we could get you a time machine, take you back to the old-timey days.”
“Thanks,” Dante snorts. “Nobody delivers a compliment like you, Long Shot.”
Dante has the address for Luke Barker, the guy Oran fired after he apparently tried to get touchy with Riona at the company Christmas party.
It’s been almost a year since then, so it seems unlikely to me that the guy’s still holding a grudge. Worth running down every lead, though.
Dante and I drive out to his house in the Loop. It’s a pretty Tudor-style place on a tree-lined street. Looks nice enough from the exterior.
“You sure he’s home?” I ask Dante. “In the middle of the day?”
“Yeah,” Dante says. “I called him earlier.”
Despite that, it takes quite a while for Barker to answer the door after we knock. I hear the sound of something being knocked over in the hallway, and an irritated curse. Then he pulls the door open, still dressed in a bathrobe and looking bleary-eyed and unshaven.
“What?” he says. Then, on spotting Dante, “Oh, right. Come in.”
The inside of the house is a lot less well-maintained than the outside. It smells musty and stale, and half-eaten take out boxes litter the counters in the kitchen. A yappy little Yorkie runs around barking at our ankles. Barker says, “Shut up, ya little fucker!” which the dog completely ignores.
The Yorkie is wearing a sparkling pink rhinestone collar. That, and the throw pillows on the couch that say “Live, Laugh, Wine” and “Cuddle Time” lead me to believe that a woman used to live here not too long ago. Probably not now, however—when Barker opens his fridge, the only thing inside is a pizza box, a dozen bottles of Budweiser, and a bunch of condiment bottles.
“You want a drink?” Barker says, taking a beer out for himself.
I’m guessing it’s not his first of the day.
“Sure,” Dante says. He’s probably trying to seem friendly.
Barker pops the caps off the beers and slides one over to Dante.
“I’m good,” I say.
Barker takes a long pull off his beer. He eyes us with narrowed, bloodshot eyes.
“What’s this all about?” he says. “You know I don’t work for Griffin, Briar, Weiss anymore.”
“Yeah,” Dante says. “I know that. I was wondering if you could tell me why they let you go?”
“You know why,” Barker says.
“No,” Dante replies calmly. “I don’t.”
“Because of that bitch,” Barker says, taking a swig of his beer.
The venom in his tone makes my heart rate spike.
“Are you talking about Riona Griffin?” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“Yeah. She was flirting with me all the time . . . couldn’t keep her eyes off me. Then at the party, we both have a couple drinks. One thing leads to another . . . and then she goes crying to her uncle.”
I can’t imagine Riona “going crying” to anybody. And I also can’t imagine her flirting with this sloppy sack of shit. He’s at least ten years older than her. And even if he were shaved and showered and dressed in a nice suit, he’d still have that smug look on his face that I know would rub her the wrong way.
“What do you mean by ‘one thing led to another?’ ” I say, through gritted teeth.
Dante glances over at me. He can tell I’m getting pissed.
Barker doesn’t seem to notice. He takes another swig of his beer.
“You know,” he says. “We’re talking, having drinks . . . she’s wearing this low-cut dress. Every time she moves, I can see the top of her tits, and she knows I can see it. She acts all uptight, but you know what redheads are like . . . they’re all fuckin’ animals in the sack. So she’s all like, ‘Excuse me,’ and walks over to the bathrooms, and I can see the way she’s walking, shakin’ her ass, she definitely wants me to follow her. So I do, and I shove her in the bathroom and pull up her skirt and—“
I don’t know at what point in the story I snap, but the next thing I know, my hands are around Barker’s throat and I’ve flung him up against the refrigerator. I’m choking the fucking life out of him and he’s gagging and sputtering and trying to pry my fingers off his neck.
The fact that this arrogant piece of shit thought that Riona was interested in him, the fact that he followed her into the bathroom and put his hands on her . . . it makes me want to murder him. Just snuff him out of this world.
Dante’s pulling me off Barker, shouting, “Long Shot, take it easy!”
I release my grip on Barker’s throat just a little—enough that he can talk.
“Did you hire somebody to come after her?” I snarl. “Were you trying to get even, because she got you fired?”
“She didn’t just get me fired!” Barker spits, still trying to pry my hands off his neck. “My wife left me, too! She’s divorcing me! She cleared out the bank account and took my car and left me with this fuckin’ dog!”
“Did you hire someone to kill Riona?” I roar in his face.
“What? No!” Barker sputters. “Are you insane?”
I squeeze his throat a little harder, lifting his feet up off the kitchen tile.
“Why not?” I snarl. “She ruined your life, right?”
“Even if I wanted to, I don’t have any fuckin’ money!” Barker chokes, his face turning puce. “Plus the Griffins . . . ”
His voice trails off, ‘cause he’s not getting enough air. I have to relax my grip again so he can speak.
“What?” I say. “What about the Griffins?”
“They’re fuckin’ . . . mafia,” he says hoarsely. “I was pissed. But I’m not suicidal.”
I let go of Barker. He rubs his throat dramatically, coughing and wheezing. I can see the imprints of my fingers on his neck. I don’t feel bad about it. I’d like to do a whole lot worse to him.
Dante looks at Barker, gasping dramatically on the floor. The guy looks pathetic as hell. It’s pretty clear that he can’t even clear out his pizza boxes, let alone plot revenge against Riona.
“Let’s go,” Dante says to me.
“Yeah, get the fuck out,” Barker says petulantly. “You fuckin’ psychopaths. Drinking my beer then trying to kill me.”
I turn around, ready to leave Barker’s musty house.
As I take three steps away from him, I hear Barker mutter, “I hope somebody does off that uppity bitch.”
I turn around and clock him—a right cross straight to the jaw. It slams him into the fridge, and he slumps down on the tiles, knocked out cold.
When I face Dante again, he’s watching me, eyebrows raised.
“You okay?” he says.
“Of course.” I shake out my right hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t think he had anything to do with hiring the Djinn.”
“Neither do I. But he’s still an asshole.”
The Yorkie is running around our feet again, barking, but not at us—just yapping in general. It doesn’t seem too concerned about its owner slumped down on the floor over by the fridge. In fact, it runs into the living room and pees against the leg of the coffee table, without a care in the world.
Once we’re outside in the chilly air again, Dante takes a deep breath. “That’s better.”
“He’s a mess,” I grunt. “I doubt a shit-stain like Barker has the gumption to hire the Djinn. Or the money to pay him, if what he said about his wife cleaning out the bank accounts was true. If it wasn’t Barker, and it wasn’t the Russians, that only leaves the Hartford family.”
“Yeah.” Dante nods slowly. “Only problem is, I don’t exactly want to threaten them. They’ve been through enough already.”
“We don’t have to go in guns blazing,” I say.
“Yeah?” Dante cocks an eyebrow at me. “You gonna be chill this time?”
“Of course,” I say, shrugging off his look. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine, though. I don’t know what the fuck that was in there—I completely lost my temper. That’s twice in two days.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this bodyguard life. I’m getting overly invested. All wrapped up in this thing with a level of emotion that isn’t usual for me.
As we get back into the car, my phone buzzes with a text from my brother:
You missed mom’s birthday. And the anniversary.
He means the anniversary of our dad’s death. It happened only two days apart from Mom’s birthday, so it’s always a hard time of year for her.
I text him back:
I called her.
A pause, then he replies:
Calling isn’t the same as visiting.
I haven’t been home in a while. Almost three years. But who’s counting.
I can picture the ranch as clear as the busy Chicago streets right in front of me. I can see the stands of birch trees, and almost smell the scent of clean hay and warm horseflesh.
I feel a pull to be in a warmer, greener place than here.
But I also feel a deep sorrow and shame at the thought of visiting home.
So I text back:
I’m on a job right now.
Grady fires back:
You’re always on a job.
There’s a pause where he waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he texts again:
Mom hurt her foot. She’s getting too old to do this full time. We need to talk about what we’re gonna do with the ranch . . .
I turn my phone off and stuff it in my pocket, annoyed.
“Problem?” Dante says.
“No.” I shake my head. “No problem at all.”
