Chapter Nineteen
Nixon
Much like her office building, I found myself surprised by Reagan's home.
Not the sprawling, perfectly manicured mansion that I was sure she could afford.
Nope.
She lived in the top floor of a warehouse that had been turned into apartments about a decade before, still made of its ugly metal exterior, still with real glass windows that likely made heating bills insane, with those black window dividers, with the lifted bottom to make room for a parking garage.
Which, while likely convenient for the tenants and their guests, was dark and creepy and a great place to get mugged.
Mugged because it wasn't even in a decent area of town.
No, if anything, it was a sketchy area full of crumbling houses, shady-looking storefronts, and a bunch of guys just standing around looking up to no good.
My first thought was one of unexpected protectiveness.
I wasn't really that guy.
Yeah, I gave a shit about the women in my life. My sister. My extended family. But I never felt like it was my job to tell them where to live, where to frequent, how to conduct their lives.
But as I drove into the unguarded parking garage, I envisioned storming up to her place and demanding she move the fuck out and over to someplace safer.
Yeah, that shit would need to be analyzed. Later.
One thing at a time.
I parked next to her Tesla, wondering what other car in the lot might be hers, what vehicle she'd been using to thwart me all week.
Locking my car, I moved toward the back entrance, feeling rage bubble up when I found the lock broken, letting just anyone walk in off the street.
Yeah, it worked in my favor, but I couldn't help but think of one of those Machine Gun Kelly lookalikes out front deciding to go see what kind of trouble they could get into in the apartment building.
And finding themselves at Reagan's door.
The anger was still bubbling in me as I rode up the elevator, as I came to stand in front of her door, as I hit the bell.
It only amplified when she opened the fucking door without asking who it was.
"You need to call your fucking landlord," I declared as soon as the door was open.
Reagan stood there changed out of her more formal work clothes, wearing a simple light pink and white flower-patterned one-piece thing that chicks liked to wear. The ones that were short of the thigh, so much so that if they stooped down, their asses hung out the back.
I suddenly wanted to find a reason to make her bend over.
And I couldn't help but realize that with an outfit like that, if you slid it off her shoulders, it would slip right to the floor in one movement.
Fuck.
No.
I had to focus on one thing at a time.
"Ah... why?” she asked, eyes squinting.
"The door to the parking garage is broken," I told her, hearing something akin to an accusation in my voice. How can you be so careless? Don't you know you're something worth protecting? I didn't know where that possessive inner voice came from, but it was now a part of me, apparently.
"Oh, yeah. It's been like that since I moved in," she said, shrugging a shoulder.
"You live in a shitty area, Reagan. You can't leave things unlocked."
"It's not that bad," she insisted, shaking her head. "There's a lot of gentrifying going on. When I was looking around, the real estate agent told me this was an up-and-coming neighborhood. A lot of developers are snatching up the old buildings, turning them around."
"Yeah, fucking great. There will be a Whole Foods and Starbucks on every corner. Won't do you any good if you get mugged when you leave your apartment building."
"Are you always so paranoid?" she asked, lips twitching.
"I'm not paranoid. I see a threat. I point it out. That's not paranoia. That's basic observation skills."
"Nixon, what are you even doing here?" she asked.
"We need to talk about some shit."
"I think we've done enough talking."
"No, we've done enough sniping at each other. This is different."
"I'm not entirely sure you can have a whole conversation without snapping at someone," she said, but her lips were curving up like she maybe found that trait endearing.
The fucking freak.
"I can try," I told her, feeling my own lips curl up. "No fucking promises, though."
"Everything alright, Reagan?" another female voice asked, making me turn to find her in the apartment across the hall, the two of them each getting half of the massive space. She was well into her sixties with a shock of long gray hair and bright blue eyes.
"Hey, Allegra. Yes. This man is here to give me a stern talking-to," she told the woman, eyes dancing.
Allegra’s eyes moved down and up my body slowly before settling on my face for a long second. Then, turning back to Reagan, she declared, "And maybe if you're lucky, a spanking." Her eyes went wicked, her brows wiggling as she backed into her own apartment, closing the door.
"See?" Reagan said, smile big. "I don't need a working security door. I have Allegra."
"Yeah, I'm sure she's real terrifying. What's she gonna do, stab a burglar with a knitting needle?"
To that, I was granted a laugh. "You're mean."
"You like it," I shot back, stepping forward as she moved out of the way, silently inviting me in.
Reagan's apartment was a lot like her office at work. Very stark white with minimal accents, most of them in neutrals. Whites, beiges, a hint of green here and there. Between the color scheme and the giant windows lining one whole side of the space, it was almost startlingly bright.
Apparently, Reagan wasn't one for giant couches you could sink into, for knick-knacks and clutter.
Whatever she did own seemed to be tucked away in closets or storage units, leaving the place utilitarian clean.
"What's with the weird fucking shelves?" I heard myself ask, realizing too late that I maybe should have found a nicer way to say that.
Thankfully, she just snorted at the wording as she moved over toward the wall, putting her hand on one of the many eight-inch white shelves staggered up the wall, leading up to longer shelves that lined the entire room.
"These aren't shelves. They're steps."
"Babe, you're small, but you’re not that small."
I got another chuckle at that, and I realized it was one of the best sounds I'd ever heard.
"They're clearly not for me. They're for Mal."
"Mal?" I repeated.
"It's short for Malicious Little Fuckwad," she told me, positively beaming at the admission. "He's a dumpster cat I picked up from the first week I started at the office. He both thinks he doesn't need me for anything but also expects me to wait on him hand and foot."
As if he realized we were talking about him, a massive gray and white extremely fluffy cat sauntered into the room, tail high in the air, side-eyeing me while also acting as though I didn't exist.
"He's got an attitude problem," she told me, smiling down at Mal as he whacked his backend into her leg before disappearing under the couch, though I wasn't sure how the giant fluff ball fit.
"Think you have a thing for that personality trait," I told her, smirking.
"Apparently," she admitted, giving me hope.
"Want something to drink?" she asked, waving a hand toward her kitchen, all white and stainless steel, the kind of clean that suggested she never used it.
The only item that pointed to her actually spending any time there was the big bowl of peaches on the island that separated it from the rest of the space.
"Is that your whiskey?" I asked, nodding toward her glass bar cart.
"You want to try it?" she asked, sounding pleased in my interest.
“Two-hundred-dollar a bottle whiskey? Yeah, I think I need to try that."
With her distracted by getting my drink, my gaze moved around her space, seeing a wide doorway without a door that showed me the corner of a king-sized bed with pristine white bedding covering it, with a white nightstand on the side, and plants hanging from the curtain rod in the window.
Again, very clean, very organized, and kind of impersonal.
Turning, I glanced at the wall where the door to the hall was situated.
And there it was.
Something very personal.
And entire wall of pictures in mismatching white frames.
All of them with her brother Luis and the woman from the picture in her office with the darker skin and stunning eyes.
I was wrong about her being a friend.
Because many of the pictures were the three of them at various ages through childhood.
Some with popsicle grins, some with missing teeth, some on vacation, some as teenagers, happy and light and carefree.
Others were clearly from adulthood, the three of them seemingly as close as my siblings and I had been.
The woman was her sister.
"I just made it neat. I don't know how you take it," she told me, voice tense.
Why? Because I was looking at her pictures? Because I was maybe starting to uncover something?
Clearly, if that was all it took to set her off a bit, then I needed to be very careful about easing more information out of her.
"Neat is how I like it. You're not having anything?" I asked as she handed me the glass then moved back a couple steps, dropping down onto the couch, reaching for Mal despite the cat’s protests to be left alone. Even from several feet away, I could see a few raised red marks from his claws.
The cat clearly hated her. Yet she had transformed her home into a feline sanctuary with stairs and catwalks and beds and a pile of toys. Hell, the damn thing had a water fountain instead of a normal water bowl.
"I'm more of a wine drinker, but I am not opening a bottle just for myself," she said, shrugging as she petted her ungrateful cat's head. "How is it?" she asked when I took a sip.
"Damn near worth the price-tag," I told her.
"Well, maybe when the price-tag comes down a bit, you will buy some for your personal collection."
"What? I don't get a free lifetime supply for giving you your brilliant new marketing strategy?"
"I will have to run the idea past my parents. Though, I would have to explain who you are to them. And that could get sticky."