22 Aubie
THE USUAL DISTRACTIONS AREN’T WORKING. When I convinced Jerome to take me clubbing, I’d hoped the thrill of the hunt would push other things out of my head.
That was the plan, anyway.
And now here I am, two mojitos into salsa night at SPREE listening to some drawn out rant about why you should never plan a trip to Bimini in June, blah, blah, blah.
I don’t even remember inviting the twink over to our table.
He was just suddenly there, and while, sure, he’s cute in a cuddly puppy sort of way, I’m not a dog lover.
I’m too self-centered to be a pet parent or a babysitter.
Jerome is off dancing or fucking in the bathroom. You know, the kind of stuff I should be doing.
The kind of stuff I used to do without a second thought.
I want to pinch myself to see if I’ve been body-doubled.
I’m sitting in a flesh heaven and all I feel is boredom.
And I especially don’t want to hear any more of Puppy Boy’s bitching.
Jesus fuck, kill me if I ever sound that needy.
I stand without excusing myself and head across the room toward the exit. I need some air.
The sidewalk is crowded with people waiting to get into the club, but I wander down the block to find a quiet place to hover.
What the fuck is wrong with me? This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em is my motto. No one gets under my skin.
Until now.
Why did he call out to me? Why did he stand at the back of the house and watch my set after he told me we were not to be? Hiding in the shadows. Thinking himself invisible. But I felt him there, like I always do. Some weird awareness that creeps over me. It’s pissing me off.
I need my routine back. I need to be able to lose myself in some sweet anonymous ass for the evening.
Not this…pining.
Because that’s what it is. Like the worst addiction ever. I don’t even like the guy. Can’t stand to be near him.
Crave him to my bones.
Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t give me his number. A lucky stroke that I don’t know where he lives. Yeah, he told me his address the night I gave him a ride, but I didn’t commit it to memory. Not with him sitting right next to me. I was doing good to drive the fucking car.
Now I wish I had.
And what would come of that? Show up at his door so he can tell you to go to hell?
Maybe.
He did call out to me. He could have ignored me. Let me leave without saying anything.
But he didn’t. And his eyes damn sure weren’t telling me to go away.
“Got a light?”
I shake loose from my head and focus on the well put-together man standing in front of me. Darkly handsome, dressed in a suit and topcoat, he seems out of place on this block of entertainment venues. I seriously doubt a man like him would forget his lighter.
“Sorry,” I say. “Don’t smoke.”
“Oh. I just assumed, since you were out here…”
“Nope. Just needed some air.”
Now piss off, I don’t say. Can’t a guy get a little privacy? Apparently not, because he keeps talking.
“Is it that crowded inside?”
I meet his eyes. Yeah, he’s good looking.
Bordering on mouthwatering, with his wavy black hair, square jaw, and warm hazel eyes.
Any other time I’d be all over that, even if it does go against my aversion to corporate suit types.
It’s been my experience that they all eventually figure out who I am and try to use me to get an introduction to my father.
It’s a dance I’ve been caught in a number of times. Not a fan.
Tonight? No, he’s not doing it for me and that has me wanting to kick my own ass. I start to turn and walk back to the club when he calls my name.
Yes, I heard that right.
How does he know my name?
“You are Aubie Gauthier, aren’t you?” he presses when I turn.
I give him a more critical appraisal. Just because I hate my father, doesn’t mean I didn’t learn a thing or two from him. One of them was the ability to spot a con.
I don’t bother to disguise my contempt when I ask, “Who wants to know?”
His eyes widen at my tone. “Wait. Let me explain–”
“Save it. I don’t know how you know me, but I’m suggesting you walk away. Now.”
Without the weight of my father behind them, my threats aren’t worth much, though he doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he assures me. “I just thought you and I might be able to help each other.”
I study his expression. Sneaking up on me on the street means he knew I was here, and the how of that has me on high alert.
I had enough kidnapping threats when I was a kid–some real, some manufactured by my father as ‘lessons’– not to be wary of strangers who get too close.
Jean-Pierre Gauthier may be legitimate on paper, but don’t let that fool you.
Take away the designer clothes and the blue breeding and he’s just another gangster.
And with that comes real gangster enemies.
Back when I was too scared to be anything other than a dutiful Gauthier spawn, I was taught some things.
How to handle a gun. How to defend myself–Tai Kwon Do, Krav Maga, bare-knuckle boxing.
I hated all of it and the only reason I bothered was because I was also allowed to take dance and piano.
I can thank my mother for that. About the only thing I can thank her for.
“How did you find me?”
“Social media.”
My grin is not pleasant. “Wrong. I’m very selective about what I post on my socials. Never my location.” I step closer to him, curiosity making me brave. Or maybe stupid. “Lie to me again and I’ll make a phone call.”
I guess I’m not above channeling my father when it suits my purposes.
He takes a deep breath and levels me with a somber stare. “You know a Jimi Diego?”
My pulse stutters. “What about him?”
He seems to relax. “Good, you do know him. I had to be sure.”
“What has Jimi got to do with this?”
“He’s the reason I’m here. Well, him and Mason.”
This guy is starting to confuse me. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”
He glances around. “Can we go somewhere to talk? I swear I’m not looking to rob you.”
I may have a death wish, but my inner snark still jumps in with both feet. “You’d be the best-dressed mugger I ever saw.”
The corner of his lip curls up like he wants to smile. “I believe I passed an all-night coffee shop a couple of blocks over.”
I hold a finger up to him and pull out my phone, firing off a text to Jerome. He probably won’t see it, but my ass is covered.
ME
Heading out. Check in on me later.
It goes without saying, since we always check in when one of us leaves with someone, but a reminder doesn’t hurt. Especially since the circumstances of this meeting are already suspect.
“Okay,” I say after I pocket my phone. “Take me to this coffee shop. And you should know if you try to murder me, I’ll haunt you into your grandkid’s lives.”
“Noted,” he grins.
It occurs to me that I should get a name, seeing as how I’m putting my safety in his hands. “Who am I talking to?”
“Sorry,” he says, offering me his hand. “Ryan Oates.”
I shake his hand. It’s warm and soft, telling me more about him. He leads me down the block and around the corner. Foot traffic lessens the farther we get from the entertainment district. Four blocks later I nearly walk right past the narrow black storefront with the gold scripted lettering.
RESPITE.
Ryan reaches for the door and pushes inside, holding it open for me.
The first thing that comes to mind is an old apothecary shop one of my nannies took me to as a kid when we were visiting London.
Everything is dark wood and brass. The espresso machine dominates the back counter, a Victorian work of art.
A dozen tables are scattered around the intimate space.
There’s a small pastry case, but it’s obvious the main business here is coffee, and they take it seriously.
The back wall is lined with cannisters of beans, and it looks like they grind each cup to order.
I suck in a deep breath; the aroma is intoxicating.
“How have I never heard of this place before?”
Ryan smirks. “Do you ever venture away from the clubs when you’re down here?”
“Sounds like you have more than a passing interest in me.”
“It’s not hard. You’re kind of all over the place. You were the easiest one to find yet.”
I look at him. Easiest one to find yet? Who the fuck is this guy?
The barista behind the counter clears his throat for my attention. The espresso is calling my name, but I’d never get to sleep tonight. “Latte,” I say instead, and when he opens his mouth for details, I add, “Surprise me.”
Never let it be said I’m not adventurous.
After we get our drinks Ryan leads me to a table in the back corner.
It’s all very cloak and dagger, and not for the first time I’m getting hints of life back home when I was a kid.
It wouldn’t surprise me if my father had people following me.
How else would he know my every move? Because, as I informed Ryan, I don’t splash my life all over social media.
Now and then I may post a picture of my lunch or a nice sunset, but I don’t overshare.
Even if I wasn’t suitably traumatized by my youth, I happen to value my privacy.
Yeah, I like an audience when I take off my clothes, but I control that.
Don’t mistake private for sedate, however. Do I cause my share of scandals? Of course. But none of them are accidental. Despite what my father may think, I’m not a complete fuck up. Every knife I stick in his back is a calculated hit.
“Okay,” I say, savoring the first sip of what might be the best latte I’ve ever had. “Talk to me.”
Ryan slips off his coat and drapes it over the back of the chair before folding his hands in front of him and looking me straight in the eye. I’ve sat across the table from enough of them to recognize lawyer vibes when I see them. “Do you know a man called Ethan Lennox?”
Interesting that the name has come up twice in two days now. “I do. How do you?”
He blows out a long sigh. “He’s responsible for the death of Mason Beckett, my…partner.”
I think I see where this is going. “He killed him?”