Chapter 10
ten
“Fucking finally.”
Well, I am late.
My smirk feels bleak as I drop into the barstool beside my friend, thumping his slumped shoulder. “Hello, Xander. Good to see you, too. Thanks for waiting.”
“Don’t start with me,” he grouses. “And, by the way, you’re buying. I’ve been sitting here for two hours, so I’ve been drinking for two hours. Which I can’t afford because I’m broke as shit. And I don’t want to hear any complaints. Your shoes cost more than my car.”
I flip the menu over, wondering which whiskey he’s volunteered my wallet for this time. Knowing Xander, it will be the best one they sell.
“You don’t have a car,” I remind him.
“And you have twelve. Hence, you’ll be picking up the tab, and I’ll”—he waves his hand to snag the bartender and lifts his empty glass—“have another.”
If I had to describe Xander in a single word, I’d probably go with direct.
I could also say he is a motherfucking asshole with questionable morals, minimal emotional intelligence, and the sort of self-serving social skills indicative of a psychopath.
He can charm a room full of superiors within an hour…
then turn around and stab every last one of them in the back while he scrabbles up their shoulders to reach his ultimate goal.
He also happens to be one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.
He grew up in trailer parks and homeless shelters, with an education cobbled together from dismal public schools and whatever resources he found at bombed-out local libraries across the Midwest. Still, he graduated from high school two years early and joined the Army, hellbent on finishing college during his five-year stint.
In the end, he did one better. While I completed my criminology degree, Xander got his undergrad and started medical school. Now, he is a second-year surgical resident at Columbia Presbyterian.
A broke, pissed-off one, apparently.
He hates dealing with other people’s feelings and only allows himself one sort of sentiment: anger. I can’t decide if his reptilian range of emotion will make him a good, level-headed surgeon or a sociopath with a literal license to kill.
But Alexander Carmichael is also, for better or worse, the only friend I’ve managed to keep over the years.
“The cars aren’t mine,” I point out. Though, I did recently purchase an Aston Martin for myself. I don’t mention it to Xander, since he can barely afford to feed himself on his resident’s salary. “But, yes, these are nice shoes. Armani. And I’ll buy. You can owe me.”
He knows I’m full of shit. I’ve never called in a single debt against him, and there have been plenty. “I owe you fuck-all,” he returns calmly, sipping his new glass of whiskey.
“You did save my life,” I allow.
“Twice.”
My teeth grind at the memory of him digging shrapnel out of my shoulder… and, on another occasion, my lower back. “Twice.”
Neither of us likes to talk about our time overseas. It wasn’t exactly Call of Duty, but our unit got caught in the crosshairs a few times.
I clear my throat, banishing the memories. “Anyway. You know all you have to do is ask, and I’ll gladly add you to the payroll. I doubled our team, and we’re still short.”
Obviously. Based on the fact that some assholes assaulted Alice today. And now they have her personal information.
My teeth grind, residual frustration rearing up in my chest. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that woman. If she won’t let me protect her, I can’t properly protect Grayson and Ella, either.
Not to mention how I would feel if anything happened to the stubborn, quick-witted little wedding planner…
Xander snorts. “As if I would abandon the promise of a surgeon’s salary to be one of your bitches. In four years, I’ll be running the whole neurosurgery unit. The dinosaurs they have running the place right now are jokes. I’ll kick their asses the second someone gives me a shot.”
He has a point. My job pays well, but I’m the only one on my team making millions. Grayson insisted I have an “executive” salary when he promoted me. Barnes, my second, makes nearly what I do, though.
The cranky old man started as an MI6 agent.
After retiring from the British intelligence agency, he worked as private security for the Stryker family for decades.
I have no idea how much money the man has or where he hides it, but he lives in a studio apartment on the river and hardly ever strings more than ten words together at a time.
Despite the fact that I am easily half a foot taller and twice as broad, I get the distinct feeling the distinguished Englishman could kill me with a bendy straw if he wanted to. Every single piece of personal information about him in any database is redacted.
Nearly four years after meeting, I still don’t know the man’s first name. Or maybe his last name. It’s unclear which one “Barnes” is.
My own glass of whiskey arrives. I ordered whatever Xander has, and it turns out to be a glass of Blanton’s single-barrel bourbon. Expensive as hell, as I suspected.
I knock back a smooth, smoky mouthful, peering around the room, surprised that a dingy college bar up in Morningside Heights would even offer such an expansive selection.
Xander sighs. “I’m supposed to ask you how it’s going, right? That’s the social norm here?”
I smirk into my drink. “Yes.”
“Fuck. Alright. How’s it going?”
After the second time Xander dug bullets out of me, we made a pact not to bullshit each other. So, because it’s him, I blow out a breath and admit, “It’s fucked.”
He swallows, unconcerned. “Let me guess,” he drawls. “You had sex with a woman who isn’t your ‘soulmate’”—he throws up agitated air-quotes—“and now you feel guilty about it.”
That has happened many times in the past, but not recently. My last few hookups were women I met through Stryker she was a gorgeous woman who caught me in a moment of weakness.
One hour in bed definitively proved that we were incompatible.
I still want to cringe every time I think of that night and the regrets it left with me.
Xander reads the look on my face and scowls. “You know, they’ve done studies on this. Celibacy can increase your chances of prostate cancer.”
“Yeah, and banging every nurse in the tri-state area will increase your chances of getting an STI,” I shoot back. “You know I don’t like the casual bullshit. I like to be able to trust the women I take to bed.”
“You’re the most pitiful motherfucker on Earth,” Xander laments, shaking his head. “And way too noble for your own good. I say you put your conscience in a corner and stick your dick in something. Tonight. That’s my official, medical opinion.”
This is an old argument between us. I roll my eyes. “Jesus. I’ve got bigger problems here.”
I decide that the need for an impartial opinion outweighs the very slight risk associated with Xander knowing the details. He is a total recluse who didn’t give two shits about celebrity gossip or the Strykers’ world. And he’s a brilliant guy with a calculating mind.
By the bottom of my glass, I’ve explained the security situation. Xander nods along, his gears turning, hazel eyes squinting as he peers across the bar at nothing.
“More bourbon,” he declares, thinking.
I signal for another drink and wait for him to receive it before prompting, “Any day now, asshole.”
He knocks back a sip. “When did they hire the wedding person?”
“Planner,” I correct automatically. “Last week.”
Xander’s expression remains impassive. “And this subway thing was your first major security incident in months?”
I count back in my head. Carajo. “Yeah…”
Prior to Alice Moore’s stubbornness, our last threat was Grayson’s uncle, Ted, moving back to town—and the threat of his cousin, Daniel, being released from prison.
Both men will stop at nothing to harm Grayson, his father, and Ella.
But for the most part, while Daniel has rotted in prison, Ted has remained oddly quiet.
Xander’s smile is chilling. “So you’re telling me this wedding girl caused the first breach your team has had since autumn, but you’re not doing anything about her.”
I sigh through my nose, not liking the bent of his thoughts. “Wedding planner. But, seriously, this woman is…”
Lovely.
I bite down on the word, refusing to admit it. Especially to an ass like Xander.
It’s true, though.
The mousy, awkward woman who stammers and bites her nails and hides her blushes… She’s also kind. Dreamy in an artistic sort of way, with her head in the clouds.
The world isn’t kind to people like Alice. I’m not sure why that’s never bothered me before.
Xander raises one of his light brown brows. “She’s someone with access to their private relationship details, their addresses, their schedules. Plus, she profits from the publicity if her wedding shit goes viral.”
He’s right. It was the reason I had to investigate her in the first place; the more famous Ella and Grayson become, the more coverage their wedding—and Alice’s business—will get.
My gut tells me to trust her, though. And, more than that… “I think she’s in trouble, here.”
God knows what that paparazzi guy will do with her address. It’s possible that more people like him will start hanging around her building, trying to get in to see what they can find. Or attempting to corner her and extract information.
Xander shrugs. “So she’s been compromised. Whatever. Get a new planner and make sure it’s announced publicly that the Alice girl was fired.”
A thud whacks my stomach, the memory of her ashen face when her bank card declined playing across the forefront of my mind.
“No,” I deny, too quickly, then clear my throat. “She’s Ella’s friend. They’re not going to want to fire her without cause.”
“So you’re stuck with her as a risk, but can’t get her to agree to let you help protect whatever assets she has,” Xander puts in, ponderous. “Stubborn girl. Just my type. Does she have a husband? A boyfriend? A really smart dog?”
I swallow the urge to grit my teeth again, mentally running through the background check I conducted. “None of the above.”
“Great,” Xander chips in. “You can fuck her.”
My lungs stutter. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs again. “Date her, woo her. Whatever. You’re the romantic son of a bitch around here.
My point is, she’s single, and you’re single.
You both work for the same people. Would it be so crazy if you asked her out?
Pretended to take an interest in her and used that as a way to keep an eye on things? ”
Who knows if it’s the liquor or Xander’s bullshit? Either way, I find myself muttering into my glass, “I wouldn’t have to pretend.” I think about the mysterious paint staining her fingertips. The books that fell out of her bag when those men knocked her down. Her infinitely blue eyes. “She’s—”
Different.
Fascinating.
Beautiful.
All of those things are true, but none of them are reasons to invade her privacy. And after seeing the look on her face at Stryker she’s in this, now. Part of the Strykers’ world—part of my world. Which means she’s mine to protect.
Even if she makes me work for it.