4. A Question For A Question
A QUESTION FOR A QUESTION
brYS
I'm not sure what just happened, but Jakob is white as a sheet, shaking, and looks shell-shocked. The phrase "looks like he saw a ghost" comes to mind; I always assumed that was an exaggerated statement, but Jakob really does look like he's seen something beyond the pale.
I don't think he's even aware of me for a moment or two.
"I'm not a good person, Brys," he says, his voice low, distant. "I never have been."
A block slides past, two. What does one say to something like that?
His fist is white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his brow furrowed.
I have a billion questions.
"Who was she?" It's the one that tumbles out.
"Someone from a past life." His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, but we're stuck in traffic, and the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalks is a surging river. Whoever she was, she's long gone.
"You look like you've seen a ghost." Again, it just sort of pops out unbidden.
He snorts at this, for some reason. "An ironic turn of phrase, considering." His speech pattern, here—his tone of voice, something indefinable about him—shifts.
Tightens.
Hardens.
Formalizes.
"I don’t know what that means," I say.
"No, I don't suppose you would. How could you? You'd have to be privy to some deep, dark, dangerous secrets if that made any sense to you."
"Another delightfully cryptic statement," I say. "But then, all I know about you is that you claim your name is Jakob, and someone named Poo is sending gaggles of killers after you, and now me simply for being seen with you, which only happened because you tried to hide behind me."
"There are several incorrect elements to that statement," he mutters.
"So enlighten me."
He makes a turn, and then we're joining a merging line of cars headed for a bridge to the outer boroughs. "I wish it were that simple."
"It is," I say. "You open your mouth and start talking."
His gaze is incendiary. Burning with a glut of emotions too complex to comprehend. "If I gave you even a fraction of the truth about myself, Brys Bennet, you would jump out of this car and take your chances with the killers."
"That sounds like an exaggeration," I say.
Those dark eyes cut sideways, land on me, and then flick away, back to the slow-moving traffic. "It is not."
"You may as well just start talking," I say. "I'm not going to give up until you do."
He exhales softly, a short puff through pursed lips. "Brys…"
I lean an elbow on the console and stare at him. "Yes, Jakob?"
"This really is a situation where the less you know, the better."
"Bullshit. We were past the point of culpable deniability when you took me home to change clothes so we could go on the run. You owe me answers, mister." I pause for effect. "Plus, I simply do not believe that lacking information is ever a net positive."
We inch closer to the bridge—at this point, we'll get there sometime tomorrow.
Jakob says nothing for a long time, and I let him wallow in his silence. Every once in a while, he glances at me, but I can't parse his expression. Speculative? Considering? Wary? Scared?
I think there's a bit of fear in there, but I know a man like he seems to be would never admit to fear, even to himself. Or maybe especially for himself.
"I wouldn't know where to start, to be honest."
"Why are there men trying to kill you, and thus, by association, me?"
"I know something…incriminating…about someone who doesn't like to leave any loose ends lying about."
I huff. "If you're just going to be vague, you might as well not say anything at all."
He groans—either annoyed, regretting opening his mouth, or both. "The details would do you no good."
"But it would assuage my curiosity, which is starting to feel like an existential rash."
He eyes me, amused. "An existential rash?"
"Yeah, you know. Itchy and burny to the point of obsession."
"I suppose I do know a bit about obsession." Another sigh. "His name is Roberto Pugli. On paper, he's a high-level executive for Interpol."
"The international police force?"
"They're an investigative agency, not an enforcement one, but yes."
"And in reality?"
"He's one of the most violent, notorious, dangerous, and impossible to convict criminal kingpins on the planet. He's a drug trafficker, an arms dealer, a human trafficker, a murderer, and one of the most sociopathic and evil human beings to ever live."
"And he wants you dead?"
"He has for a long time."
"Because you possess incriminating evidence of his nefarious deeds?"
"Correct."
"Is he cold and calculating but charming, or impulsive, erratic, and emotionally reactive?" I ask.
He glances at me. "Psychopathically, then, if you wish to split hairs on the man's specific mental disorder." Again, I'm detecting a distinct shift in the way he speaks. It's subtle but noticeable.
"If, as you say, he's wanted you dead for a long time, why is he just now attempting to render you deceased?"
"I was out of reach until recently."
"How can you be out of the reach of a supervillain?"
"By being dead." He doesn't even have the decency to look at me when he drops this bomb.
"Excuse you?"
A sigh. "It's a long story."
"We've been over this, Jakob."
"I answered your question, Brys." His tone is hard, sharp.
Good thing I'm used to dealing with men with overblown senses of self.
"And in so doing raised, ohhh, at least a hundred more."
"A quid pro quo, then." He shoots me a look, dark eyes as unreadable as ever. "One question for one question."
"You have a deal, sir," I answer.
We've moved six inches in the last twenty minutes. Good thing this isn't a car chase.
"You may start," he says.
"The only caveat I'll put in here," I say, "is that your answers must be thorough and complete and direct. No vague nonanswers."
He growls softly. "Fine."
"The woman back there," I say—he immediately tenses, his shoulders lifting toward his ears, his jaw turning to granite, "your entire demeanor shifted the instant you laid eyes on her. Who is she to you? And don't say 'just an ex' because it's obviously way more than that."
He huffs—technically a laugh, but really just a wordless noise of irritation. "Right for the jugular, is it?"
I shrug. "How'm I supposed to know? You saw some lady on a street corner and turned all tense and angry and formal."
He glances at me. "Formal?"
I nod. "Yup. Until you saw her, you were…looser. Not just in terms of tension, but…speech patterns. Mannerisms. You're all…" I sit up straight enough to make Miss Manners proud. "Uptight…Erect.” I point at him. "No crude jokes."
He narrows his eyes. "Crass humor is the purview of the simple-minded."
I laugh. "See? Like that."
He frowns thoughtfully, scratches his jaw. "Her name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro Ryder."
"That's a mouthful." I blink as my mind summons bits of memory. "Wait…Isabel Ryder. She founded the Minnie Centers and A Temporary Home…she's a philanthropist, isn't she?"
"Something along those lines, yes. I doubt she would refer to herself as such, however. She's far too humble for that." When I offer no remark, he eyes me. "There. I told you who she was—is."
"I obviously meant who is she to you."
"That is not what you asked."
I laugh. "It's like that, is it? Squabbling over wording?"
He hangs his head for a second. "She's an ex."
"Jakob. Stop stalling."
"You're asking me to…" he shakes his head. "You don't know what you're asking."
"No, obviously not. Thus the reason for the question."
Another long silence—the line of cars has moved several whole feet and is creeping along steadily, now. The bridge is in view.
"I don't know how to explain who she is to me. There's a lot of…context…that's required."
"So contextualize me, hot stuff."
He arches a wry eyebrow at me. "Hot stuff?"
I shrug. "Just go with it."
A shake of his head. "Isabel is…was…" Another head shake. "No. It's impossible."
"Jakob."
"You're pulling on a single thread, but that thread is part of a Gordian knot. There simply isn’t a single, pat, easy answer."
"She's really not just an ex, is she?"
His gaze, when I meet it, is heavy. "No, she isn't." A frown crosses his features, then. "I don't have anything so prosaic as just an ex."
"What a strange thing to say."
He shrugs. "I'm not a simple man, Brys."
"So I'm gathering." I sigh. "Fine. I'll take pity on you for now. I'll ask a different question. But you're not off the hook forever. I'm going to ask that question again. So, you know, be thinking about the answer."
"It's my turn." He shoots a sideways look at me, thoughtful and deep. “Why are you single?"
"Who says I am?"
"You haven't so much as mentioned a boyfriend, fiancé, or husband. I feel like it would have come up if one existed, especially after that kiss."
"Which one?" I mumble.
His answering grin is superheated. "Exactly." The grin fades a bit. "So. Why are you single, Brys Bennett?"
"Because I don't have a boyfriend."
He snorts. "Remember your caveat? No vague nonanswers."
“You want the deep, uncomfortable truth?"
"Clearly."
"What was it you said about going right for the jugular?" I shift in my seat, starting to regret this game already. "Because I'm just not girlfriend material."
He looks at me without speaking for a long moment, absorbing my answer. "What does that mean?"
"Ah-ah," I say, wagging a finger at him. “One question, one answer."
He rolls his head on his neck and then nods. "Yeah, yeah. Your question, then?"
I consider. "You don't have anything so prosaic as just an ex, you said. Elaborate on that."
"My life has not lent itself to dating, as you'd know it. For the most part, it's simply due to the fact that I've been too busy. I've been an entrepreneur my whole life. I was worth almost twenty billion dollars at one point."
My mouth goes dry. “What?" He's wearing expensive clothes, yes, but…worth billions?
He just shrugs.
"Okay, but at one point? Did you lose it in a game of cards or what?" I stab a finger at him. "And don't give me the one-question-one-answer bullshit."