30. LINC
THIRTY
LINC
I take a heavy drag of my cigarette, coughing a bit on my exhale before it tapers into a groan.
Ugh. Walking to The Window is the last fucking thing I want to be doing.
After hanging up from an hour-long talk with Desmond to catch him up on the shitshow that was last night, I’m running a little late. But I told him every detail I could think of. I did omit the fact that Paige is currently our third roommate for . . . well, I don’t know how long she’s planning on staying at the house.
She stayed in her room all day.
Hiding, probably.
I shake my head at the voice and try to focus back on my conversation with Desmond. He seemed surprised to hear she’s working there, but given the fact that he knows little to nothing of what happened between us, he seemed to only consider it an interesting coincidence rather than an earth-shattering event like I did.
Or Ellis for that matter. After our exchange this morning, I noticed that he seemed quiet before I left. Like he was memorizing every pixel in his laptop screen. If I know him like I think I do, he’s probably pooling some resources to see if he can get more information on the guys from the Veranda.
Something I’m hoping to get a little clarity on today. That is, if I’m not knee-deep in shit for hitting my boss.
Desmond seemed unfazed when I told him that, but who knows. This whole thing is fucking bizarre.
Just as I toss my cigarette out, I get to the back corner of the building and see Jackson out on the sidewalk. He’s pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and my eyebrows pinch.
I’ve only been here for a few days, but I’ve never seen the guy out here for a smoke break this close to opening the house.
He lifts his chin, pulling out a cigarette as he gives me a nod, which I think is meant to be a greeting, but then he leans his head to the side—a subtle movement requesting I join him . . . I think?
Going with it, I walk in his direction, shoving my hand in my pocket and jingling the loose change between my fingers.
The light clash of the sound helps. I focus on trying to catch all the coins as I pick them up and drop them inside my pocket, and the distraction is enough to steady my heart rate.
Even if I hadn’t hit him last night—Jackson’s pretty fucking intimidating. Dude looks like he could wrestle an anaconda. But from the small action I’ve seen him take, I think it’s his ability to stay level-headed that probably gives him the upper hand in fights.
He looked like he wanted to tear someone’s head off last night—whether or not that was me is still to be determined—but he didn’t. He simply diffused the situation.
But something tells me his anger doesn’t evaporate.
As I reach him on the far end of the sidewalk, I find myself absently glancing down at his knuckles, checking for evidence to see if maybe he spent two hours punching shit last night.
But of course, his knuckles are knobs of clean, unbroken skin—a visual aid of someone with actual control. I pull my own cigarettes out and light one up.
Why the fuck not?
“Cook,” Jackson says, a bit clipped but no more than usual.
I inhale, dipping my chin in a return greeting. Luckily, I don’t see any marks on his face. His eyes flit up to mine and I dart my gaze out toward the street. Not at anything in particular, but the eye-contact, the proximity, it’s making my skin crawl.
But I take a breath, then start to tell him, “I—uh . . . I’m s-sorry, about—”
“You know her,” he says decisively, letting smoke blow through his nose.
I can only assume Jackson doesn’t know about my hidden agenda for working here, so I’m unsure of how much I should divulge. But if he’s seen the tapes there’s a good chance he saw me mentally shoot off to the moon when Paige stood right in front of me—wrapped in leather.
The thought stirs, but halts as he clears his throat and finally, I nod, shuffling my feet.
“Is she okay? I’ve called her twelve times today. I swear to God, that girl—” He clenches his teeth with a shake of his head, blowing out a heavy breath, taking another drag of his cigarette.
Worried. He’s worried. It’s just being rerouted to frustration. I recognize it since I’m basically made of fucking detours.
“S-She’s okay. She’s with a friend,” I tell him. Only another beat passes before I finish what I was about to say, “I’m s-sorry I hit you.”
He stays quiet for a second, then clears his throat. “That happen a lot?”
My eyes squint, confused. I look over at him and his expression remains steady, his silver eyes sharp in the hazy sunset blanketing the street.
When I still look lost, he says, “I was—” he stops, then continues, “Ex-marine. I—uh . . . I recognize a blackout when I see one.”
My throat works to swallow. My free hand moves back to my pocket, fiddling with the change, while simultaneously taking a drag off my cigarette.
“Look, we don’t have to talk about it. In fact, I’m totally fucking good not talking about it. But, remove yourself from now on if you feel that slip. You have anything that helps it?”
My weight shifts uncomfortably, but I don’t think it’s because of him. It’s actually a really kind thing to do—to ask. I haven’t been around people enough that a need to address my . . . issues has ever come up.
I release the puff on my cigarette and then swallow hard. “Coins,” I tell him, jingling my pocket.
I keep the fact that sometimes nothing helps to myself. It’s nice that he’s asking at all—I don’t need him to know I’m a constant flight risk.
I can handle this.
Jackson’s hardened features stay firm as he nods. “Okay. Well, use your judgment.” He takes another drag himself, then says, “And if you see Blue, can you please tell her to call me?”
I nod again, taking a breath, grateful for the subject change. I flick some ash to the street and take a second to visualize my words, then ask, “What happened with the guys last night?”
Jackson’s jaw tightens. “We reviewed the footage and filed a police report. Beck is insistent that we get Blue back here before proceeding with anything else. He’d also like to speak with you.”
My eyebrows lift. It doesn’t shock me that Beck wants to meet with me. I assumed we would at some point, but I am surprised they’ve already filed a police report.
My knowledge about the world of powerful men like Beck is limited, but I do know one thing—they’re careful.
Desmond always says wealthy people need to exercise more caution than the average person—that success on certain scales is a balancing act—a vital one if you want to keep the upper hand.
But I wonder if that’s what’s happening here. Maybe they’ve filed a police report as a ruse to get Paige to come in so they could settle it all quietly.
I toss my cigarette out. Well, I guess that’s another reason it’s good that Beck wants to meet with me—because if Paige does decide to take the meeting, they’ve lost their goddamn minds if they think I’ll leave her alone with them.
Jackson tosses his cigarette too and a pinch of remorse squeezes in my chest. I shouldn’t be lumping Jackson in with Beck. Granted, I don’t know Beck either, but he did leave the most precious human in the world, alone and defenseless in a room with three men.
But from what I’ve seen of Jackson—he seems okay. Works hard, takes his job seriously —he’s called Paige twelve times today. He’s worried about her.
Something about that settles me, despite the fact that there’s something about this place I don’t trust.
Jackson turns back toward the building and murmurs, “Be alert tonight, okay?” The order is basically under his breath, and I have to remind myself that he’s talking to me.
Me. Alert. The guy who got an hour of sleep and what’s left of him is still standing outside Paige’s door. Imagining.
I am fucking wiped.
And I’m not done yet.
I push open the door to the storage closet and release a heavy exhale.
Luckily, it seems like a far less eventful night.
And I have tomorrow off, I remind myself.
One of the many reasons I was probably a shitty choice for this job is the whole consistent schedule thing. It conflicts with the very inconsistent way my brain shuts on and off.
And while the club itself seems to be less chaotic tonight, the whispers and following stares from other staff members has been a bit rough, mostly because the voices in my head are having a fucking rave.
I take a breath. There’s a chance I’m on edge. And truly, I don’t give a fuck what any of them are saying about me.
They can say whatever they want about Cook, but I almost lost my shit an hour ago when some twat was running her mouth about how Blue —Paige— probably scowled at the VIP until he lost his hard-on or something. I don’t know, it was some bitchy comment at Paige’s expense, and I . . . removed myself, as Jackson had suggested I do when I felt myself slipping.
I just want to be back at the house. Back with her. Even if she stays in her room.
And I know Ellis is right. I know I need to talk to her. But it feels like it will take me fucking years to visualize those words. Like last night. I tried to find more delicate words, but I . . .
My pulse ticks and my eyebrows flinch.
Fuck, I can’t believe I said it —like that— on a night where she was already in shock, recently traumatized. Goddammit. I just . . . I hope she’s okay.
She’s with Ellis, I remind myself.
Another sigh pushes past my lips and I shake my head, then grab one of the chairs to stack it into the storage closet.
I’ve spent four fucking years dwelling as a hermit and she comes crashing back into my life when I actually have to leave the house for something!
I grunt as I put the last of the extra seating into the closet, turning off the light before I step back out and lock it.
Walking back through the staff hallway, I head toward the dressing rooms to return the keys to the hub when I see Rio walking toward me, her light green robe billowing at her sides.
Her mouth pulls back and her caramel brown eyes are wide, but also like she might be about to laugh. “Hi,” she says, but also signs.
My eyebrows pinch, confused as to why she might look guilty. Her posture is still impeccable, but her chin is just slightly tilted down, and I wonder if she’s talked to Paige.
My nerves tick up, but then she smiles, signing, “How’s it going?”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I sigh through a small, nervous chuckle, then shrug.
A moment passes between us, I’m not sure what. Her presence just carries this . . . warmth. Not cozy, but it’s like a glow of knowingness. And strangely enough, my delirium finds it oddly comforting.
I think I find Rio comforting. Which is crazy because I don’t even know her.
She surprises me when she doesn’t ask me about Paige, but instead signs, “I thought of your name sign.”
It takes me a second to remember what she’s talking about.
Then I remember a few days ago when we met. She had asked me if I had a name sign.
It seems like a hundred years ago at this point.
The tired, heavy feeling of my eyelids lifts, eyebrows too.
Rio raises her right hand, just in front of her face, with her palm facing toward her. Curling her index finger and thumb into a loose C handshape, she swoops her hand farther away from her face. It’s the sign for “ watch.”
Using the same hand, she lightly taps her thumb to her forehead, then her chest, ending the name with the sign I recognize for “ man.”
Watch. Man.
My mouth stretches. A smile. I like it.
But my eyebrows pinch. I’m not sure if it’s rude to ask why she chose that name, but luckily, she doesn’t make me when she signs, “I’ve seen enough to recognize a man who’s paying attention.”
She signs it slow, pointedly. Her eyes meet mine in a way that seems like they’re alluding more to now in this moment, but there’s also a chance I’m sleeping with my eyes open.
Still, I give her a tired smile, and she pats my shoulder as she passes by. I flinch, but I think I’m too tired to fully react. Plus, her calming witchcraft seems to be keeping the unease from making it past a blip in my chest.
Checking my phone, I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I’m disappointed when I don’t see it, which makes no fucking sense.
My eyes instead find the time, seeing it’s almost midnight. Just a half hour left before I can head home.
And it can’t come soon enough.