Chapter 6 #2
I look back at my boss, the man I used to look up to. The one who now it sometimes takes all my strength just to look at. “If you’re in trouble, we can help.”
Lionel puts a hand to his jaw, then rethinks it, pulling his hand away and laying it on his lap. He shakes his head, uttering no words. Then, to my utter shock, he says grimly, “We’re in a bad place, boys.”
Ford shoots me a look. I give an imperceptible shake of my head. I don’t know what this is about either.
I pull out a chair at the table and sit down next to him, across from Ford. “What are you talking about, Lionel?”
He sighs. “Some of our big-ticket clients haven’t come through in quite the way we wanted over the last year.
Our accounting team—” He squints at the file on the desk as if it’ll give him the words he needs.
“They say we can keep going on the operating funding if we stick to domestic clients for the next few years to keep costs down. And if we trim down some of our biggest operations. Like All-Ways Construction.”
That’s the operation Ford and I are working on.
Money. It’s a money issue. It makes sense—it checks all the boxes for why he’s been telling us to tone down our surveillance on Creelman.
Why he’s gone ballistic over what happened at the restaurant.
Still, something about it doesn’t fit perfectly.
But it could just be I’m still stuck on the issue of Sasha Macklin.
“Wait, so what if a client needs protecting outside the US?” Ford asks, his face lined with deep concern.
“If a client needs protecting outside our borders, we’ll connect them with our foreign partners.”
“For domestic operations, we could easily miss something if we’re not covering all the bases.” Ford leans back in his chair, clearly worried.
I know I should be, too. And he’s right. But I can’t quite put my finger on what feels off.
We’ve never had to worry about our bottom line.
The whistleblowers we’ve protected have all given us information that ended up on front pages around the world.
Lionel had the presence of mind early on to set up a literary and film agency to ensure the resulting tell-all books and blockbuster film deals are brokered by this arms-length corporation.
Not to mention reward money for turning up missing and wanted individuals all over the world.
There hasn’t been a single client we’ve worked for since Lionel founded the company that I’d consider unsuccessful.
“Now, I know I shouldn’t have said anything,” Lionel says, “but I wanted you two to know that if I’m telling you to back down on certain people of interest, it’s because I’m tightening our belts, nothing more.
Some operations have bled us dry recently, so we’re going to be conscientious moving forward.
Maintaining the reputation of McCrae Macklin’s not making headlines.
Our client says the executive meeting where we’re going to get the intel that’ll finally incriminate these assholes isn’t for another couple of weeks. ”
I rub my eyes. They feel like I’ve got sandpaper in them.
“Go home, catch up on some sleep. Some…what do you call it, forest bathing?”
My mouth quirks. Not quite a smile, but it’s funny hearing Ford say it.
When I was in Japan last year, I learned there was a word for the thing I’ve been doing for years—escaping into the woods.
They called it forest bathing—spending time in the trees as a form of therapy.
It was even prescribed by doctors to overstressed city dwellers.
“I could do with some trees,” I admit.
Ford smirks. “So you’re saying I’m right.”
I grunt. “Didn’t say that.”
The server comes back with our sandwiches.
Ford picks up half of his, rolling his shoulders as if eating a Reuben is going to be a full-contact sport. “You’ve got to show your face at your other business from time to time, don’t you?” he asks before taking a giant bite.
He’s talking about the Rolling Hills.
“They’ve got it covered. I just need to make an appearance for the occasional board meeting.”
When Mom passed, she added an addendum to her will, saying she wanted all five of her kids to run the Rolling Hills resort together.
We all rose to the challenge, though I’ve never taken on an on-site role.
I oversaw maintenance for a while, but I now sit on the board to fulfill Mom’s wishes.
Only Cass—my oldest sister and CEO of the hotel—and Jude are still there full time.
Fuck, it would feel good to be home, even if it did mean dealing with a bit of resort stuff.
But the thought of leaving Sasha here in the city? I can’t do it.
“Creelman’s not going to give up on her,” I say, tossing down my napkin. “I don’t care if he hasn’t mentioned her to anyone. When he thinks something’s his, he doesn’t give up.”
“I can look out for her for another week, Griff.” His voice is kind. “Besides,” he says gently, “Sasha might not want your round-the-clock surveillance.”
Her words come back to me. How she had all these men trying to control her—myself included.
I trust Ford with my life. He’s saved mine more than once and vice versa. But by the look on his face, I know he sees I’m still not considering leaving.
“What is it about her that has you so riled up, Griff? She’s not your usual type.”
I frown, running a hand over my newly shorn head. Ford’s the only person who knows my history. Knows I’m not a sucker for a pretty face and that I don’t get off on playing rescuer, either.
“I just get the feeling that there’s more to her than people give her credit for. Her family’s fucking AWOL. Jude and Nora—and hell, Cap—I feel like they’re the only people who really care about her. But they’ve got complicated shit going on with their long-distance family situation.”
Ford wipes his mouth with a napkin and tosses it on his cleaned off plate. “You’re not giving up on her by taking care of yourself.”
My eyes snap to his. That’s what she used to say, and he knows it. “Fuck you.”
“She was right, you know. Maybe if—”
“Don’t fucking say it, Ford.”
We’ve been over this before. I don’t make mistakes when I’m tired.
I’ve learned how to exist on no sleep, no food, no everything.
Ford knows that. But maybe if I’d taken better care of myself on that operation three years ago, Lionel and I wouldn’t be in the position we’re in now, where he still believes what happened on the darkest day of our lives could have been prevented.
Where he still blames me for not being able to protect the person most important to us both.
The thing is, sometimes, I don’t think he’s wrong.
In the end, I agree to the week off. What choice do I have? Ford’s right about Sasha—she wouldn’t want me following her around like she’s some kind of inept child. She pretty much told me to fuck off outside the restaurant, even as I felt the gratitude in her arms as she held me at the end.
My insides shift around as I think about that moment again, heat spreading like it does every time I repeat it in my head.
I have to tie up several loose ends at work before heading out, and by the time I rip out of the parking garage at the apartments McCrae keeps for us in the city, it’s after six.
Even taking the main highways, it’ll be four hours before I get home. I should have eaten something before leaving, but my favorite café back home, Betsey’s, stays open until midnight. I can already taste their late-night burger and a crisp beer on my tongue as I pull out onto the highway.
I only make it a couple of miles out of the city before my Bluetooth rings in my ear.
I can’t tell who the call is from. Under normal circumstances, I’d ignore it. But it’s not normal circumstances right now. I know Ford’s been doing some digging on Lionel’s money situation. Maybe he has news.
I tap my earpiece. “Yeah.”
But it’s not Ford.
“Griffin?” comes a female voice. “Shit. I should have known this was your number.”
My stomach tightens, and I gear the bike down, pulling into the slow lane. It’s Sasha. She called the emergency number on that card.
“What is it?” I demand, my heart already thumping harder than it was a second before.
“I…I think something’s wrong.”