31. Janet
JANET
Nico follows close behind me as I cut through the room toward the booth where Mike and Rosemary are waiting.
The music is low, the lights even lower, every table full of people leaning too close and pretending they don't have secrets. A couple kisses in the aisle in front of us, slow and careless, and I sidestep them without stopping, my eyes locked on Mike.
He watches me come.
Doesn't smile. Doesn't move.
Finishes his drink in one pull and sets the glass down.
He stands.
The room changes when he does. Or maybe I do. My body knows him before my mind can make a case against him — the width of his shoulders, the open collar of his shirt, the way his eyes hold mine like there's still something between us he can touch.
Nico slips him my gun like they do this all the time. Mike tucks it in the small of his back.
"Are you okay?" I say to Rosemary.
"I'm furious. Otherwise fine."
Nico sits with her.
Mike steps out from the booth.
"Let's go upstairs," he says.
"I'm not going upstairs with you," I say.
"We're going upstairs."
He mumbles it. Not for the room. For me.
I look at Rosemary and Nico at the table.
"Rosemary stays down here," Mike says. "With Nico."
"Five minutes upstairs. I have to tell you something, and you get your gun back and you can choose to leave with Rosemary. But you won't want to."
I look around the bar for anyone who might help. There isn't any. Too many bodies. Too much music. Too many mouths close to ears. No one is watching the right thing.
"He didn't hurt you?" I say to Rosemary.
She shakes her head.
"Let's go."
He walks to the elevator like there's no chance I won't follow.
I hate he knows that.
I stay three steps behind him.
My breath catches. A woman bumps into my shoulder.
I press my nails into my palm.
He reaches for the card reader. His hand shifts when he swipes the card, and the elevator gives a soft chime.
The doors slide open.
The sound reminds me of the first time I was here. His hands on me. His mouth near my ear. The easy pressure of him guiding me forward like my body had answered before I did.
He steps inside and turns, holding my eyes.
I step in after him.
The doors close.
The lounge noise disappears. Now it's the elevator hum, the small space, the gun at his back, and the heat of him standing too close.
I hold my breath. "Don't kill Rosemary; she had nothing to do with this."
His jaw moves once.
The elevator rises.
When the doors open, we're in his apartment.
I step out first, because standing close to him in that box is worse.
The room is dim. City light cuts across the floor in long pale strips. I glance toward the bedroom door.
It's open.
Dark inside.
I look away before I let a memory of what happened in there finish. I step away from him but not near the bedroom.
"I will not hurt you."
I say nothing.
He stands between me and the kitchen, jacket still on, my gun tucked behind him.
"Do you want a drink?"
"No."
He nods once, like he expected that.
"Why am I here?" I ask.
"Ryan killed Frank."
I already knew, but hearing him say it plainly still lands somewhere under my ribs.
"He wants you dead too," he says. "You're next."
My eyes widen.
My knees feel wrong beneath me.
"Can I sit?"
It hits like a punch in the ribs.
I sit on the couch.
"But I will not let that happen. I told him I would do it so I could buy you time."
"You told him you would kill me?" I say.
"To buy you time."
I look even deeper into him.
"Time to do what?"
"To leave, you have to leave."
I make myself breathe through it. In through the nose. Out slow.
His apartment smells like him.
"So what? I'm supposed to believe you? After everything?"
"You don't have to believe me." His jaw works. "If you want to live, you will."
"I should trust you? That's what you're saying?"
"He won't stop. Once he knows I didn't do it, that you're alive, he'll come for you."
The silence stretches.
"I'll have that drink now."
He turns to the bar.
I watch him pour the drink like this is some kind of date.
He brings me the glass.
My hands shake when I take it from him. His hand touches mine for a second. A second too long.
Neither of us pulls away fast.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Why do you think?"
"I have no fucking idea!"
His eyes move over my face. Not soft. Not safe. Something worse.
"You don't deserve to die."
“You just used me, lied to me, and ruined my career, that's all?"
I sip my whiskey a little too quickly. It burns my throat.
"When are you supposed to do this, murder me?"
"Probably Thursday." He rubs a hand over his jaw. "He won't wait long after Frank. He's already restless."
"I have three days."
"To leave. Go far away. Not one of your sisters or anyone you know."
I think about Karen's kitchen, playing basketball with Kylie.
I look at him offering me an exit from a fire he helped start, and I don't know if I want to scream at him or ask him why he didn't warn me sooner.
Tears well in my eyes. "For how long?"
"I don't know yet. Indefinitely. Or he gets arrested for something else. Or killed."
He's thought about this.
"Can I have my gun back?"
Mike reaches behind him and takes the nine-millimeter from the small of his back. He keeps his finger straight along the frame; the barrel angled down and away from both of us. He checks the magazine with the heel of his hand, draws the slide to see brass in the chamber, and lets it close.
No show. No flourish.
He sets it on the coffee table in front of me, grip turned my way.
I pick up my gun.