Everything for Us
Page 8
“I know, I know,” Cash interrupts testily. “I wasn’t saying you aren’t. It was just a reminder. That’s all.”
The tension between the two brothers makes me nervous. I feel like, at any moment, they might tear into each other in a very physical way. And there would be nothing I could do, of course. I mean, they’re both humongous. There was a reason Cash never needed a bouncer at his club when he was working. He never came across anyone he couldn’t handle. Or any two or three he couldn’t handle. He told me that himself. As Nash, of course, but still . . .
I’m relieved and strangely encouraged when Nash bites his tongue and ignores Cash’s sharp response.
“So what time are we talking about here?” Nash asks, turning his attention back to me.
“I’ll have to find out the details, but last year I attended this same charity event and they structured it like an auction. Kind of a fun, gimmicky thing. It started with bidding on hors d’oeuvres then on to seats around tables featuring certain local celebrities. It started at seven thirty, I think, so I’m guessing somewhere along those lines this year, too.”
Nash takes his cell phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen, presumably to find out what time it is. He nods and looks back up at me. “That’ll be fine. I’ve got some things to do in the meantime. Pick you up at seven?”
“That sounds good. If you’ll give me your number, I can text you if the time is different.”
He punches some numbers into his phone and I hear mine buzz an alert a few seconds later. He doesn’t look at me again as I reach for my phone but addresses Cash instead.
“Can I borrow your car again?”
“Can you drop us back at the club?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be okay the rest of the afternoon?” Olivia asks me.
“Of course. I’m going to go through my closet for a dress and then give myself a spa day, I think. You know, decompress before I have to deal with Daddy and all his cronies.”
Olivia doesn’t look entirely convinced. “If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m positive. You two go. Enjoy your day.”
“I’ll be back here to stay tonight.”
“Olivia,” Cash begins in warning.
She tosses him a withering look, and he sighs and turns away, shaking his head.
“We’ll be back here tonight. I don’t want you staying by yourself until this is over.”
“I told you I’d stay,” Nash growls from his spot near the front door. He didn’t move very far into the room. “Don’t you people listen?”
“See?” Cash says to Olivia.
Olivia turns her skeptical gaze to me. “That’s up to Marissa.”
A quiver works its way through the lowest part of my stomach when I think of the way Nash woke this morning. Of course, he’ll likely sleep in Olivia’s bed if they aren’t in it.
Likely . . .
“That’s fine. We’ll be fine. I’m sure no one would dare come through that door with him in the house.”
I say it in jest, but it’s probably ninety percent true. Only the scariest of criminals might not give Nash a second thought. Of course, those are the ones we’re all worried about.
“Damn straight,” Nash murmurs from his spot.
I grin at Olivia when she rolls her eyes. “See?”
“Well, I’ll check back in with you later, anyway. I won’t be working a shift. I’ve got some homework I need to get done, so . . .”
“Please stop worrying about me,” I plead earnestly. The more compassion and kindness she shows me, the worse I feel about the way I’ve always treated her. And I already feel like a steaming pile of poo. “You’ve got your own troubles to deal with. And your own happiness to bask in. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Her smile is reluctant, but it comes. And I feel better for having helped put it there. It feels good to be this person, this pleasant, thoughtful person rather than the scathing bitch I was before. The girl no one really wanted to be around unless they had something to gain from it.
“Yeah, we have basking to do,” Cash reiterates huskily as he pulls Olivia to her feet and into his arms. He nuzzles her throat and she giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Okay, okay.”
“Good. It’s all worked out then. Let’s go,” Cash says, taking Olivia by the hand and towing her toward the door. As she passes me, she impulsively bends down and winds one arm around my shoulders, hugging me to her.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she whispers in my ear, giving me a light squeeze. I reach up to return her hug, feeling the warmth of her personality more than ever.
And to think, if it weren’t for a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I could’ve gone the rest of my life missing out on someone as wonderful as Liv. That would’ve been the biggest tragedy of all.
“I am, too,” I whisper back. From the couch, I watch the trio leave. The last thing I see is the black pools of Nash’s eyes when they meet mine as he’s shutting the door.
I feel the complex heat of them long after he’s gone.
ELEVEN
Nash
I thought when I finally got to come out of hiding, when I finally got to live, I’d never have a reason to go back. Ever. To any part of the life I’ve had for these last seven years.
But I was wrong.
Of course, I never imagined that Dad would want us to give up the fight, that he’d be content to rot in prison and let Mom’s killer go free. But then again, he’s known who killed her all along.
My stomach clenches at the thought of Duffy. My fingers ache with the remembered desire to wrap my hands around his throat and look him in the eye as I squeeze the life out of him.
But Duffy’s just one man. Even though he’s technically the one who killed my mother with that bomb, whether he intended to or not, he’s just one of several who were ultimately behind Mom’s death and all the hell that followed. My thirst for revenge won’t be satisfied until they’re all dead or in prison. Maybe Dad knows that. Maybe that’s why he wants us to give it up. Maybe it’s a lifelong pursuit, trying to get to the bottom. Or the top, rather.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not giving it up. Not ever. I can’t. It would kill too much of me, of who I was and who I am, to let it go. So I’ll see it through. No matter what it takes or how long I have to fight, I’ll see it through.
After dropping Cash and Olivia back at Dual, I drive the quick trip across town to the train station. I stopped there on my way into town and got myself a locker. Having no roots to speak of makes it a little more difficult to keep important things safe. Even some people with roots choose locations such as these to keep valuable things out of harm’s way. Like Dad, for instance. It was at this very train station that he’d stashed his bag of goodies.
My smile is wry and a little hostile when I think to myself that it’s probably a good thing only one of us boys followed so closely in Dad’s footsteps. I just always assumed if either of us turned out to be a criminal or turned out to possess criminal tendencies, it would be Cash. I think everyone assumed that. In a way, I guess Nash really did die the day of the explosion. The guy he was and the guy he would’ve grown to be are dead. Both of them. Gone forever. The question is: Who am I? Who rose to take their place?
Pushing those troubling thoughts aside, I find a place to park in the lot outside the station. Glancing casually over my shoulder, a habit I doubt I’ll ever break, I make my way into the building and over to the small stand of lockers to the left. I’d picked a locker number I’d remember easily. Number four thirteen. Mom’s birthday. April thirteenth.
As always, when I think of her birthday, I think of the day she died. As if that’s ever far from my mind. But sometimes it’s more . . . poignant. The guilt of surviving when I should’ve died, of being the douche on the dock filming a topless girl rather than on the boat where he should’ve been, eats at me. She shouldn’t have been alone. She shouldn’t have died alone. I should’ve been with her. But I wasn’t. I was spared. And look what’s become of me. The world would be a much better place if she’d lived and I’d been the one blown to bits that day.
But that’s not the way it worked out. So the least I can do is bring the culprits to justice. One way or the other.
I pull a small key with an orange top out of my boot. It’s nondescript. If someone were to ever find it, they’d never know where it came from or, if they happened to figure it out somehow, what locker it fits.
It slides easily into the lock and I turn it until the door pops open. Inside is a black bag with a few emergency supplies and a couple of phones. One of them is very important. Like the one Dad had left us, it has all sorts of numbers that I might need at some point. I had hoped I’d never have to use any of them, but I kept them for a reason. Because things rarely go as planned. Dammit.
It also contains another copy of the footage from the dock. There are a few other odds and ends stored on it. Things that could easily get me killed. Things about weapons and smugglers and routes I should know nothing about. But I do. There’s enough insurance here to save my life a dozen times over. Or cost it. Depends on who has the phone. And who knows what’s on it. Right now, it’s only me. And that’s how I plan to keep it. Trust no one. I’ve survived a long time on that motto. It’s kept me safe. Alive.
I power the phone up and scroll through the list of contacts until I find Dmitry’s number. I text it to a second phone, that of a burner that also resides in the locker. One of several burner phones, actually. Someone in my line of work and with my family history can never have too many. I get them with no GPS and very limited . . . everything. I can use them, then trash them, leaving no trace that could ever lead back to me.
After another casual assessment of my surroundings, I secure the locker and drop the key back in my boot. I take the burner phone to an empty bench and hit the send button.
It rings several times before a familiar gruff voice says three short, heavily accented words.
“Leave me message.” A beep follows.
“It’s Nikolai,” I begin. It’s the name Dmitry gave me from the moment we met. I had to be someone other than Greg Davenport’s son, Nash. I had to be someone else entirely. “I, uh, I need to talk to you. It’s really something I’d rather discuss in person, though. If you can make it to the place I first met you, about the same time, in two days, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Dmitry.”
I hang up, knowing he’ll understand my message perfectly. And I know in two days, he’ll be there if at all possible. The boat shouldn’t be pulling out for another week or so, so it should be no problem for him to get there.
Punching a few keys to erase all traces of the text and the call, I get up and walk toward the exit, nonchalantly dropping the phone in a trash can as I pass.
As I make my way back to Cash’s car, my mind flickers back over the past seven years’ worth of conversations with Dmitry. He told me dozens of stories involving him and Dad. Nothing too scandalous; just mischief they got into in the early years. Evidently they both got into the business about the same time.
They made their way through the ranks, my father eventually going into the money-laundering side, Dmitry into the smuggling side. They remained friends and confidants, which is why Dad had Dmitry as an emergency exit strategy. It’s not that he would’ve risked our safety with a smuggler; it’s just that he trusted Dmitry above all others.
And now I’m about to trust Dmitry. And I’m about to ask for his help. It’s a big favor, one that he might not be willing to grant, but it’s worth asking. Things might’ve degraded to where he’s one of three or four linchpins on which our only shot of making this right depends. Only time will tell, but I have to start somewhere. I have to do something. I need a plan A and a plan B. I can’t let this go. And even though Cash said he has no intention of letting it go, I don’t trust that it’s as important to him to see this through. At least not as important as it is to me. I just don’t trust anyone that much. Not even family. I’ve been on my own too long for that to change. Maybe one day. But I doubt it.
My conscience prickles. Here I am, hesitating to fully trust anyone when I myself would be considered by most to be untrustworthy. I’ve become so driven, I let very little get in my way, especially if it’s a matter of something like “right” standing in the path of what I want or need. The life that I was forced into is one of survival of the fittest with a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude. It’s hard to shake those habits and make a smooth return to the civilized world.
A pair of bright blue eyes watches me from the back of my mind. My conscience stabs me again. I wonder what she’d think if she knew everything. Everything I’ve done.
Especially the things that involve her.
Unlocking the car, I slide behind the wheel and put all such deep, bothersome thoughts out of my head. Some things aren’t good to dwell on. This is one of them.
Pushing the start button on Cash’s BMW, I pull out of the parking lot and turn back toward his condo. I need to work out two plans, down to the last detail. I can’t afford surprises. One of them has to succeed.
* * *
After a few hours spent researching on the computer, I’m very ready for a break, even if that break involves a tuxedo and a bunch of rich assholes. I don’t give a shit about them; it’s Marissa I’m looking forward to spending time with. And I’m not even going to pretend my motives aren’t one hundred percent selfish.
The tension between the two brothers makes me nervous. I feel like, at any moment, they might tear into each other in a very physical way. And there would be nothing I could do, of course. I mean, they’re both humongous. There was a reason Cash never needed a bouncer at his club when he was working. He never came across anyone he couldn’t handle. Or any two or three he couldn’t handle. He told me that himself. As Nash, of course, but still . . .
I’m relieved and strangely encouraged when Nash bites his tongue and ignores Cash’s sharp response.
“So what time are we talking about here?” Nash asks, turning his attention back to me.
“I’ll have to find out the details, but last year I attended this same charity event and they structured it like an auction. Kind of a fun, gimmicky thing. It started with bidding on hors d’oeuvres then on to seats around tables featuring certain local celebrities. It started at seven thirty, I think, so I’m guessing somewhere along those lines this year, too.”
Nash takes his cell phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen, presumably to find out what time it is. He nods and looks back up at me. “That’ll be fine. I’ve got some things to do in the meantime. Pick you up at seven?”
“That sounds good. If you’ll give me your number, I can text you if the time is different.”
He punches some numbers into his phone and I hear mine buzz an alert a few seconds later. He doesn’t look at me again as I reach for my phone but addresses Cash instead.
“Can I borrow your car again?”
“Can you drop us back at the club?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be okay the rest of the afternoon?” Olivia asks me.
“Of course. I’m going to go through my closet for a dress and then give myself a spa day, I think. You know, decompress before I have to deal with Daddy and all his cronies.”
Olivia doesn’t look entirely convinced. “If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m positive. You two go. Enjoy your day.”
“I’ll be back here to stay tonight.”
“Olivia,” Cash begins in warning.
She tosses him a withering look, and he sighs and turns away, shaking his head.
“We’ll be back here tonight. I don’t want you staying by yourself until this is over.”
“I told you I’d stay,” Nash growls from his spot near the front door. He didn’t move very far into the room. “Don’t you people listen?”
“See?” Cash says to Olivia.
Olivia turns her skeptical gaze to me. “That’s up to Marissa.”
A quiver works its way through the lowest part of my stomach when I think of the way Nash woke this morning. Of course, he’ll likely sleep in Olivia’s bed if they aren’t in it.
Likely . . .
“That’s fine. We’ll be fine. I’m sure no one would dare come through that door with him in the house.”
I say it in jest, but it’s probably ninety percent true. Only the scariest of criminals might not give Nash a second thought. Of course, those are the ones we’re all worried about.
“Damn straight,” Nash murmurs from his spot.
I grin at Olivia when she rolls her eyes. “See?”
“Well, I’ll check back in with you later, anyway. I won’t be working a shift. I’ve got some homework I need to get done, so . . .”
“Please stop worrying about me,” I plead earnestly. The more compassion and kindness she shows me, the worse I feel about the way I’ve always treated her. And I already feel like a steaming pile of poo. “You’ve got your own troubles to deal with. And your own happiness to bask in. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Her smile is reluctant, but it comes. And I feel better for having helped put it there. It feels good to be this person, this pleasant, thoughtful person rather than the scathing bitch I was before. The girl no one really wanted to be around unless they had something to gain from it.
“Yeah, we have basking to do,” Cash reiterates huskily as he pulls Olivia to her feet and into his arms. He nuzzles her throat and she giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Okay, okay.”
“Good. It’s all worked out then. Let’s go,” Cash says, taking Olivia by the hand and towing her toward the door. As she passes me, she impulsively bends down and winds one arm around my shoulders, hugging me to her.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she whispers in my ear, giving me a light squeeze. I reach up to return her hug, feeling the warmth of her personality more than ever.
And to think, if it weren’t for a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I could’ve gone the rest of my life missing out on someone as wonderful as Liv. That would’ve been the biggest tragedy of all.
“I am, too,” I whisper back. From the couch, I watch the trio leave. The last thing I see is the black pools of Nash’s eyes when they meet mine as he’s shutting the door.
I feel the complex heat of them long after he’s gone.
ELEVEN
Nash
I thought when I finally got to come out of hiding, when I finally got to live, I’d never have a reason to go back. Ever. To any part of the life I’ve had for these last seven years.
But I was wrong.
Of course, I never imagined that Dad would want us to give up the fight, that he’d be content to rot in prison and let Mom’s killer go free. But then again, he’s known who killed her all along.
My stomach clenches at the thought of Duffy. My fingers ache with the remembered desire to wrap my hands around his throat and look him in the eye as I squeeze the life out of him.
But Duffy’s just one man. Even though he’s technically the one who killed my mother with that bomb, whether he intended to or not, he’s just one of several who were ultimately behind Mom’s death and all the hell that followed. My thirst for revenge won’t be satisfied until they’re all dead or in prison. Maybe Dad knows that. Maybe that’s why he wants us to give it up. Maybe it’s a lifelong pursuit, trying to get to the bottom. Or the top, rather.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not giving it up. Not ever. I can’t. It would kill too much of me, of who I was and who I am, to let it go. So I’ll see it through. No matter what it takes or how long I have to fight, I’ll see it through.
After dropping Cash and Olivia back at Dual, I drive the quick trip across town to the train station. I stopped there on my way into town and got myself a locker. Having no roots to speak of makes it a little more difficult to keep important things safe. Even some people with roots choose locations such as these to keep valuable things out of harm’s way. Like Dad, for instance. It was at this very train station that he’d stashed his bag of goodies.
My smile is wry and a little hostile when I think to myself that it’s probably a good thing only one of us boys followed so closely in Dad’s footsteps. I just always assumed if either of us turned out to be a criminal or turned out to possess criminal tendencies, it would be Cash. I think everyone assumed that. In a way, I guess Nash really did die the day of the explosion. The guy he was and the guy he would’ve grown to be are dead. Both of them. Gone forever. The question is: Who am I? Who rose to take their place?
Pushing those troubling thoughts aside, I find a place to park in the lot outside the station. Glancing casually over my shoulder, a habit I doubt I’ll ever break, I make my way into the building and over to the small stand of lockers to the left. I’d picked a locker number I’d remember easily. Number four thirteen. Mom’s birthday. April thirteenth.
As always, when I think of her birthday, I think of the day she died. As if that’s ever far from my mind. But sometimes it’s more . . . poignant. The guilt of surviving when I should’ve died, of being the douche on the dock filming a topless girl rather than on the boat where he should’ve been, eats at me. She shouldn’t have been alone. She shouldn’t have died alone. I should’ve been with her. But I wasn’t. I was spared. And look what’s become of me. The world would be a much better place if she’d lived and I’d been the one blown to bits that day.
But that’s not the way it worked out. So the least I can do is bring the culprits to justice. One way or the other.
I pull a small key with an orange top out of my boot. It’s nondescript. If someone were to ever find it, they’d never know where it came from or, if they happened to figure it out somehow, what locker it fits.
It slides easily into the lock and I turn it until the door pops open. Inside is a black bag with a few emergency supplies and a couple of phones. One of them is very important. Like the one Dad had left us, it has all sorts of numbers that I might need at some point. I had hoped I’d never have to use any of them, but I kept them for a reason. Because things rarely go as planned. Dammit.
It also contains another copy of the footage from the dock. There are a few other odds and ends stored on it. Things that could easily get me killed. Things about weapons and smugglers and routes I should know nothing about. But I do. There’s enough insurance here to save my life a dozen times over. Or cost it. Depends on who has the phone. And who knows what’s on it. Right now, it’s only me. And that’s how I plan to keep it. Trust no one. I’ve survived a long time on that motto. It’s kept me safe. Alive.
I power the phone up and scroll through the list of contacts until I find Dmitry’s number. I text it to a second phone, that of a burner that also resides in the locker. One of several burner phones, actually. Someone in my line of work and with my family history can never have too many. I get them with no GPS and very limited . . . everything. I can use them, then trash them, leaving no trace that could ever lead back to me.
After another casual assessment of my surroundings, I secure the locker and drop the key back in my boot. I take the burner phone to an empty bench and hit the send button.
It rings several times before a familiar gruff voice says three short, heavily accented words.
“Leave me message.” A beep follows.
“It’s Nikolai,” I begin. It’s the name Dmitry gave me from the moment we met. I had to be someone other than Greg Davenport’s son, Nash. I had to be someone else entirely. “I, uh, I need to talk to you. It’s really something I’d rather discuss in person, though. If you can make it to the place I first met you, about the same time, in two days, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Dmitry.”
I hang up, knowing he’ll understand my message perfectly. And I know in two days, he’ll be there if at all possible. The boat shouldn’t be pulling out for another week or so, so it should be no problem for him to get there.
Punching a few keys to erase all traces of the text and the call, I get up and walk toward the exit, nonchalantly dropping the phone in a trash can as I pass.
As I make my way back to Cash’s car, my mind flickers back over the past seven years’ worth of conversations with Dmitry. He told me dozens of stories involving him and Dad. Nothing too scandalous; just mischief they got into in the early years. Evidently they both got into the business about the same time.
They made their way through the ranks, my father eventually going into the money-laundering side, Dmitry into the smuggling side. They remained friends and confidants, which is why Dad had Dmitry as an emergency exit strategy. It’s not that he would’ve risked our safety with a smuggler; it’s just that he trusted Dmitry above all others.
And now I’m about to trust Dmitry. And I’m about to ask for his help. It’s a big favor, one that he might not be willing to grant, but it’s worth asking. Things might’ve degraded to where he’s one of three or four linchpins on which our only shot of making this right depends. Only time will tell, but I have to start somewhere. I have to do something. I need a plan A and a plan B. I can’t let this go. And even though Cash said he has no intention of letting it go, I don’t trust that it’s as important to him to see this through. At least not as important as it is to me. I just don’t trust anyone that much. Not even family. I’ve been on my own too long for that to change. Maybe one day. But I doubt it.
My conscience prickles. Here I am, hesitating to fully trust anyone when I myself would be considered by most to be untrustworthy. I’ve become so driven, I let very little get in my way, especially if it’s a matter of something like “right” standing in the path of what I want or need. The life that I was forced into is one of survival of the fittest with a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude. It’s hard to shake those habits and make a smooth return to the civilized world.
A pair of bright blue eyes watches me from the back of my mind. My conscience stabs me again. I wonder what she’d think if she knew everything. Everything I’ve done.
Especially the things that involve her.
Unlocking the car, I slide behind the wheel and put all such deep, bothersome thoughts out of my head. Some things aren’t good to dwell on. This is one of them.
Pushing the start button on Cash’s BMW, I pull out of the parking lot and turn back toward his condo. I need to work out two plans, down to the last detail. I can’t afford surprises. One of them has to succeed.
* * *
After a few hours spent researching on the computer, I’m very ready for a break, even if that break involves a tuxedo and a bunch of rich assholes. I don’t give a shit about them; it’s Marissa I’m looking forward to spending time with. And I’m not even going to pretend my motives aren’t one hundred percent selfish.
