𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Such Great Heights – The Postal Service
I SHOULD HAVE EXPECTED Gracie to return to her apartment.
That’s what she does when she has assignments.
I figured she’d come back to mine because it was game night and we’re a thing now but, no.
Mostly, I’m annoyed I had to hear from her bodyguards that she’d taken a taxi home. Still, that tells me she knew I’d have convinced her to stay if she’d waited on me and Hudson to take her back to her place.
I’m not too pissed about that.
One night with her in my bed, however, and it was already shitty going to sleep without her beside me.
I’m tempted to spank her ass for heading out without saying bye to me first, without even goddamn texting me, but my brain tells me that’s like tugging on a tiger’s tail and expecting not to get mauled.
The question is… would it be worth getting mauled by Gracie?
“Could be hot,” I muse to my reflection the following morning as I scratch my chin, hating the stubble growing there which is a reminder of how rough last night was.
Saying that it’s one of the worst night’s sleeps I’ve had in too long is under-embellishing how awful it was thanks to a nightmare that saw her with my kidnappers instead of me.
I’ve leveled up to night terrors because of her.
My hands grip the vanity to contain the rage that fills me at the memory.
And now she’s negotiated for having a bodyguard only ten hours a day…
She has me so riled up that I don’t really care we lost last night. What the fuck is a game in comparison to her safety?
Agitated, I quickly shave, getting rid of the scruff and gracing myself with a few nicks for my troubles, and shower.
When I’m drying off, I hear Gracie in the kitchen.
The bolt of contentedness that hits me isn’t surprising, not when I’ve been feeling it since she came back into my life on a permanent basis. The instant boner makes me laugh to myself though.
If it weren’t for the police lineup, I’d probably try to convince her to take another shower with me…
Instead, I race through getting dressed and retreat to the kitchen after I’ve texted my request to the security company.
She never said anything about how many bodyguards I could put on her…
Gracie has her phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear when I see her, but it’s her discontented expression that keys me into the fact she’s talking to her family.
“Who is it?” I mouth when she sees me, trying not to feel elated when her eyes light up at the sight of me.
“Mom, look, I don’t have time for this,” she grinds out, answering me in the process. “I certainly don’t need a lecture on being better prepared for living in a big city!”
Grimacing, I start making us both a shake while I chow down on a pasta salad the housekeeper left for me, one that needs about a bottle more of dressing.
As I eat, her temper ratchets higher and higher the longer Hanna keeps her talking.
When she slams my business phone onto the counter a couple of minutes later, she’s lucky the screen didn’t crack.
“Let it out. You’ll feel better if you do,” I advise, prudently hitting the blender’s ‘on’ button at the same time as she releases a scream.
I let it run extra long so she can get it out of her system, then, when I’m done, a breath gusts from her. “Thank you.”
“I’m surprised you told her.”
Her top lip curls into a sneer. “I didn’t.”
Guilt hits me at the same time as understanding does. “Kow did.”
“You told him. You said you wouldn’t!”
God, I had. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
“He texted me before the game. Shit. I’m sorry, Gracie. He wanted your new number and I knew he wouldn’t drop it.” I scrape a hand over my face, feeling like shit for letting her down. “I should have warned you. I guess I just didn’t think. I’m so sorry.”
She bites her lip. “It doesn’t matter.”
That means it does.
My guilt triples down.
“I’m sorry, Gracie,” I repeat for the third time. “I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”
“I know,” she grouches, offering me a tight smile as she heads to the fridge where she snags the bottle of maple syrup that’s always stocked there.
Before my eyes, she sets up a maple chaser.
“And, to be fair, if I had a normal family, it wouldn’t have caused me any problems. It’s just… Mom. You know?”
“I do,” I tell her, watching as she sinks it back.
“What happened before I started working with you doesn’t help,” she mumbles.
I hum my understanding.
I’ll never understand why Hanna gives her so much grief. She’s a good girl. Hard-working. She forged her own path, sure, but that’s not a crime.
Kow is constantly in the press for fucking the latest ‘Page 6’ darling, Noah gets into fights that end up being broadcasted on PSN, and Trent’s so close-mouthed about his private life that he could be a spy on the side.
Out of all of them, Gracie’s the best behaved, but you’d never know with the way Hanna jumps at her.
The thing is, I didn’t realize any of that until she came back into my life.
Feeling doubly guilty and as if my lack of insight failed her too, I round the kitchen counter and tug her into a hug. She fights me at first, then it’s like she remembers the last couple of days and she allows herself to slip into me. To lean on me.
The way we slot together is better than a jigsaw puzzle. My arms settle around her shoulders at the perfect height, and her face rests in the space that sits just below my heart.
As she returns the embrace, I feel her mumble as she whispers the words against my chest, “It’d have been nice for her to ask me how I was doing, you know?”
Anger rushes through me. “She didn’t ask?”
“No. She was mad at me for letting my guard down. I mean, it wasn’t my fault, Liam. He came out of nowhere. It’s not like I wasn’t paying attenti—”
Needing to stop her, I growl, “Gracie.”
She pauses then blinks up at me. “What?”
“It was not your fault that you were targeted by a mugger. No matter what your mom would have you believe, you did nothing wrong. You were a victim. Don’t let her twist things around, do you hear me?”
I think about how Gracie has been pulling away from the family since moving to New York, and I also think about how disappointed Hanna is when there’s a space at the dinner table come Thanksgiving or Christmas.
Mon Dieu, I’ve seen her hiding her tears in the kitchen!
You don’t cry about a missing kid at the table if you’re glad to see the back of them.
It doesn’t make any sense to me. None of this does.
I want to tell her that they care, that it’s just not the kind of care she’d like to receive, but how can I even get those words out? They wouldn’t be any comfort to her.
So, instead of trying to make things better when that’s not on me, but on Hanna, I press a kiss to the crown of her head and state the one solid truth she can rely on, “I got your back, Gracie.”
She stills. “You do?”
“Always.”
Silence looms between us, then she murmurs, “You know I’ve got yours too, right?”
“Known you’ve had it from the moment I moved into your house when we were kids. I’m the one who let you down. Both times with Kow.”
“Hardly,” she says with a snort.
“What with dropping the ball yesterday…” I rub my forehead. “I know back when we were teens, I switched allegiances.”
“You and Kow were peers. It makes sense that you’d hang out together.”
From her expression, I know I hit the nail on the head—I hurt her.
Fuck.
I hate Old Liam. Sure, New Liam has nightmares, but give me that over the reckless hurt I laid on this woman, the only one who fucking matters to me.
“I regret it. I’m sorry.”
“Things turned out how they were always supposed to.” She places a hand on my chest. “We need to talk.”
“Thought we were.”
“About Kerrigan.”
I groan. “What about him?”
“His baby momma’s got cancer.”
“What?”
“You need to cut him some slack.”
“Cancer?” I repeat. “How do you know? He hasn’t told anyone on the team.”
“She knows he’s playing like crap and she looped me in because she wanted you to stop giving him a hard time.”
“Their kid’s practically newborn,” I rasp.
She nods, and the sorrow in her eyes tells me that whatever Kerrigan’s woman’s going through, it’s not going to end well.
“I’ll try.” It’s all I can promise.
What Kerrigan’s dealing with is something no one should have to, but we’ve got responsibilities…
Man, I feel like a douche for even thinking that.
As if she knows, Gracie pats my arm. “The ‘C’ patch means you have to approach this with dual intentions, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.”
Though her confidence in me feels unwarranted, especially after I just failed her, I merely nod. That’s when she changes the subject. Again.
But that’s Gracie—four different conversations at once is the norm.
“By the way, I got my things back from Keith.”
“Who’s Keith? The doorman?”
Nodding, she bites her lip. “All my stationery is busted.”
Tabarnak. “We can go to the store after practice.”
“No, it’s dumb to waste so much money on pens.”
“You’re going to need to stop being so practical around me.”
“That’s like telling me to stop being mean to assholes.”
I grin. “No pouting. We’ll head there after practice.”
She doesn’t argue. At first, I think that’s because I did the impossible—convinced her—but no.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” she mumbles.
“To the lineup?” I frown. “I’d have thought that would be satisfying. They’ve got the fucker.”
“Why do they even need me if they found my stuff? Isn’t being caught red-handed enough?”
“Brownhill said the purse was dumped.” I study her. “What’s going on?”
She sighs. “Nothing.”
I don’t believe her but I’m not going to push her. Today’s already going to be stressful enough without me being a prick and mansplaining the situation to her.
“I’ll put our shakes in tumblers. Give me five minutes?”
Her smile feels wry when I taste it. “You can have ten. I’m feeling generous.”
Because we’re going out, I transfer our smoothies into travel-safe tumblers that, as per my contract with them, are branded with Mega XY logos all over them and ask, “How’s your knee?”
“Okay. It was only a small graze.” She taps her nails against the counter. “I still can’t believe that Mega XY is one of your sponsors. Didn’t they put human nails in their protein shakes?”
My nose crinkles. “That was Mega X. Why do you think I switched?”
“What a difference a Y makes.”
“Right. And we’re good to go.” I hold out my hand, watching as she studies it like I offered her a dead rat instead of my fingers. Gingerly, she slips her palm against mine. Squeezing it, I murmur, “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
She’s quiet as we ride down to the basement garage where Hudson is waiting to fight the morning traffic on our behalf. The rest of the journey is spent with her staring out the window, obviously thinking about whatever it is she doesn’t want to discuss, while I check the invitations to various shitshows Kara sent me overnight.
Deciding to decline most of them, I accept the invitation to one, mostly because I know Gracie will enjoy the museum showing—Suffragettes and their contribution to society.
By the time we make it to the precinct, Gracie’s pallor is unhealthily white. There isn’t much I can do apart from wrap my arm around her shoulders and hold her close.
Brownhill’s there, obsequious to the last. A couple of his buddies show up to get my autograph, and it’s in such bad taste that I almost refuse, but it’s never good to piss off the cops. Especially in a city like New York.
“Later, guys,” I gently rumble. “After business is over.”
They’re not happy about it, but I don’t care. I’ll sign their damn shirts and programs but Jesus Christ if it isn’t inappropriate timing.
Gracie doesn’t say anything, maybe she’s even too freaked out to notice, but inside, I’m cringing like fuck—I notice.
When we’re guided into a small backroom, Gracie settles in front of the window but shrugs off my hold on her. Not wanting her to think she’s in this alone, I stick fast to her side.
The lights blare on and a bunch of teenagers stride into the room. I can feel her eyes lock on them, her laser focus cataloging each of their features as they line up.
It’s when she scans number five that I know he’s the mugger. Even without the black eye, I’d know.
Christ, he’s young. Maybe the youngest here despite being the tallest. Though he’s a beanstalk, he can’t be any older than thirteen.
She studies them all again, even after Brownhill asks the boys, because that’s what they are, to turn to the side.
This, I realize, is why she was quiet.
It doesn’t come as much of a surprise when she says, “It’s none of them.”
Brownhill frowns. “Are you sure, ma’am? These assailants were found very close to where your purse was dumped.”
She swallows. “I don’t recognize him and I got a good look at his face.”
“He runs with the same crew as Kruger, the kid whose arrest you facilitated.” Brownhill taps the window, pointing, unobtrusively, to number five.
Gracie sniffs. “I remember his name and I remember the face of the jerk who mugged me. I’m telling you that he’s not here.”
Brownhill grumbles but lets us go. He’s annoyed enough that he forgets to pester me for an autograph. His other cockroach friends have scurried away too.
When we make it outside, she sucks in a deep breath and I can’t blame her. That place was oddly airless. Desperation, shame, and remorselessness are not a pretty perfume.
Which is when I realize I didn’t feel the walls closing in on me back there.
Progress? Or was I just hyper-focused on her?
I shove the thought aside for next week’s session with Mike.
There are around twenty steps to the sidewalk, and it’s only when we’re standing on terra firma that I state, “The fifth kid was your mugger.”
“I know it was,” is her absent response as she turns to face the stairs. “It’s even more embarrassing that I let an embryo get away with my stuff.”
I hide a smile. “Hudson’s waiting.”
“Just give me twenty minutes.”
I check my watch. “Practice is in an hour and it’ll take a good half hour to get to the stadium.”
“I know your schedule and the route we’ll take better than you do, Liam,” she grumbles. “Bear with me, okay?”
“Okay.”
I shrug my hands into my pockets, uncertain what’s going on here but knowing that it’s important so I don’t rush her.
Gracie is nothing but rational.
If she wants to wait here, then there’s a reason for it. If she wants to lie about the kid who mugged her, then there’s a reason for that too.
Fifteen minutes later, the children from the lineup sidle from the precinct. Some run down the steps, carefree and relieved to be out of there. A few slouch to the side and light up a cigarette, the doppelgängers clustering together in a fog of smoke.
Kid number five hunches his shoulders as he ambles toward the sidewalk but he keeps to himself.
The closer he gets, the easier it is to see the tear tracks on his cheeks.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I murmur, “What’s your game plan, Gracie?”
She locks her gaze on the kid. “I don’t know.”
“Unlike you.”
“Acting on instinct.”
“More like reacting.”
Pursing her lips, she mutters, “Remember when Noah got into trouble for joyriding?”
“I remember.”
“Some kids just need direction.”
“Noah didn’t have much choice about his direction.”
Her lips twitch. “No, he didn’t.”
Noah was the only Bukowski whose arm had practically been twisted into playing hockey.
Fryd had forced him to join a hockey team as punishment for his first offense.
In the Bukowski household, hockey was always the cure.
That’s when it clicks.
“The outreach program.”
She peers at me. “Tell me I’m wrong?”
“He’s hanging around with a bad crowd,” I point out.
“And Noah wasn’t?” Her fingers find mine. “He just needs someone to take an interest. Someone to care. Look at him, Liam.” Her voice breaks. “He’s scared.”
Unable to argue, I nod. “I’ll sponsor him for the team.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, and just in time because kid number five makes it to the bottom step.
If I hadn’t known he was her attacker, I’d have seen it in how his eyes flare wide—she got him good.
There’s a faint graze on his ear as if she drew blood when she Mike Tysoned him, and the way his hands drop to his crotch before he fights the urge to cup himself is clue enough that she got him in the balls like she said.
With every step forward she takes, he cringes backward until she drawls, “You and I both know you stole my purse, you little shit,” and he freezes.
I can almost see the smokescreen between kid and criminal quiver in place.
The criminal sniffs his disdain, but the kid’s voice is a croak. “The pigs just released me.”
“Sure they did,” Gracie agrees. “Because I told them you didn’t do it. But your freedom comes with a price.”
If his eyes were wide before, now they’re bugging. “You one of them perverts, lady?” he demands as he backs up, only to forget that he’s on the precinct steps.
When he falls flat on his ass, Gracie approaches him with her hand held out. “You heard of the New York Stars?”
The kid blinks. “Sure. They were the Liberties and they sucked ass.” When I snort at that, his gaze flickers toward me, and maybe it’s the context that helps him out, but his mouth gapes before he squeaks, “Are you the Leprechaun?” If his voice breaks over two octaves, that’s between him and his vocal cords.
I hitch a shoulder. “What’s it got to do with you?”
I can support Gracie’s plan without liking it—the little bastard scared her, made her goddamn cry. I don’t have to cut him any slack here.
“He’s a Star,” Gracie confirms, snagging the boy’s hand in her own and dragging him onto his feet. “The team has this outreach program for troubled kids. I think you fit the bill, don’t you?”
“I don’t play hockey.”
“No? You’re about to learn.” She snaps her fingers. “I can tell the cops I was wrong in a heartbeat. I can say that I was confused, that my mind blanked for a minute. Next thing you know, you can be in juvie, kid.
‘Or you can cooperate and you can find a better path than hanging out on street corners with jackasses who think it’s funny to throw babies into the path of oncoming traffic.”
The kid’s so young that he doesn’t have an Adam’s apple. His throat bobs as he whispers, “Arnie didn’t mean to do that.”
“It sure as hell looked as if he did when he was busting a nut laughing over his antics,” she growls, vibrating with her rage. Smartly, the boy takes another step back, making a near miss with the stairs again. “What I don’t understand is why you mugged me. Retaliation?”
When he shuffles his feet, I ask, “What’s your name?”
He swallows. “Oliver Nolan.”
“Well, Oliver?” she persists. “What was your intention? To scare me?”
Oliver scrubs at his cheeks. “The others said we had to make you pay for sending Arnie up. One of ‘em saw you heading into the Acuig building. I-I was watching you when you came out.
“They were really mad at you, lady.” His bottom lip trembles, making him appear even younger than he did initially. “I figured if I mugged you and took your shit, they’d think that was it. You know, revenge? It worked.”
Though relief the grudge match might be over fills me, I draw her under my arm, asking, “You sure about this?”
She nods. “Oliver, do you want revenge against me?”
“No. Arnie shouldn’t have done w-what he did. I-I think he was trying to be funny, but he went too far.” Another sniffle. For the first time, I see the tears in his eyes, not just the ones that have dried on his cheeks. More than that, I see the fear. “I-I don’t want to get into trouble. This is the first time the cops have hauled me in.”
“Where’s your mom?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
“You must have had a social worker with you?”
“He had to leave. He’s busy.”
Squeezing her arm, I pick up the slack. “You can stick to the path you’re on, Oliver, or you can do something different.”
“What if I suck at hockey?”
“Then you suck. You can still try. And if you hate it, we’ll figure something out.”
The hope in his eyes is brutal to behold. “Like what?”
“I have contacts,” I answer in Gracie’s stead. “I can find you a sport you do enjoy.”
“What if I hate sports?”
Brat.
“Do you?”
He hitches a shoulder. “Maybe.”
“The only choice you have is which sport you can practice, Oliver,” Gracie practically spits. “That’s it. Or I go back in there and I change the shape of your future forever.”
“You’re lucky she didn’t do that already,” I insert. “She could have. I would.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry, lady.”
She sticks out her hand. “The name’s Gracie.”
Oliver tentatively slips his grubby fingers into hers and they shake on it.
