Chapter Twenty-Two
Nixon
"Quit fucking with the air," I demanded, swatting her hand away from the controls.
She'd been having temperature ADD for the past hour and a half, leaving me sweating through my shirt or covered in goosebumps.
I guess it was nervous energy on her part or something.
It was the first night we were in her black SUV rental, hiding out in the backseat like she had apparently done when she had managed to fool me while still stalking Michael. The tint was dark, dark enough to get tickets if we happened by any moody cops.
We'd managed four nights in a row of not staking him out, either lost in each other, or busy with the Mallicks, and her work. But she got antsier by the day, her nervous energy sparking off her skin, making her short-tempered and jumpy.
I had been the one to suggest we do it in the end, thinking she wanted to but didn't feel comfortable saying it. Why, I had no idea, since I was definitely not going to judge her now that I knew the whole story.
If she spent the rest of her life keeping tabs on the man, I would understand.
I couldn't imagine losing Scotti to a situation like she'd lost Sammy. I didn't even want to try to put myself in those shoes. But those were shoes Reagan had to slip into every day, despite the pinching discomfort, the ache left in their wake.
"Sorry. I think I'm, I don't know, anxious," she admitted, grabbing the front of her shirt, fanning air up under it to chill her overheated skin.
"Because I'm here?" I clarified.
"No," she rushed to object. "Or maybe yes. Honestly, I don't know," she told me, shrugging her delicate shoulders.
"Why do you do this?" I asked, making her brows pinch together.
"You know why I do this," she objected, body stiffening.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "I meant, what is the goal here with waiting around every night? To catch him in the act?"
"I... I guess," she said, shaking her head, starting to maybe see how problematic that could be. The one night she had other plans could be the night he did it again.
"You're seeing the flaw in the plan, right?"
"I guess, yeah. But what the hell else can I do?
Storm in, accuse him, hope he confesses?
That would never happen. And even if by some miracle it did, he would never serve any time for that.
I want him to pay, Nixon. I know vengeance is probably a waste of time.
I understand that I might never actually feel satisfied with an ending with this situation. But I have to do something."
"Wouldn't you say it would be more time-efficient to cut out the middle man?" I suggested.
"I'm not following."
"We live in Navesink Bank. You can hire people to just about any fucking thing for you here. You have the money."
“Money to pay someone to do what? Kill him?" she asked, brows lowering.
"No. Well, yeah, if that is what you want. But that's not what I meant."
"What did you mean then?"
"For example, you have Quin."
"Quinton Baird. The fixer, right?"
“Right. You have him and his team. You hire them, they dig shit up, they bring it to the light, they make sure everyone knows what he has done."
"But he might not have any proof of anything."
"Fair enough. It's a risk you run. But it's an option."
"And the other options?"
"I don't know. Contact Hailstorm. See if Lo would be willing to contract her people out."
"To do what? I honestly have no idea what goes on at Hailstorm still," she admitted.
I'd been giving her a crash course on our unique town, on all the players and how they interconnected. She'd sit there apt over dinner, mouth parting, focusing like some nighttime action series was unfolding before her eyes. And I guess it was, if you thought about it.
"They're a little harder to peg down than Quin’s people or the Henchmen or whoever else is still hanging around town.
Basically, they do whatever they are hired to do.
Mercenary work, basic protection, extracting kids or spouses being held for ransom when the cops prove useless.
Whatever you might want to pay them to do because you can't get it done legally, that is what they do.
Among their philanthropic efforts where they just handle some people who shouldn't be free—or alive—anymore. "
"Okay, so you're suggesting I hire them to do what?"
"I'm suggesting you hire them to put a woman in the fuckhead's path, make it easy, dangle the bait. He'll probably bite. And then have someone catch him almost in the act."
"That sounds risky."
"Trust me, if you knew Lo, you would know that nothing she ever does could be considered risky.
They plan everything down to the minute detail.
They have backups upon backups. Nothing could ever go so wrong that a woman would end up genuinely hurt.
Her women are trained too. Really, the bastard wouldn't stand a chance. "
"Hmm," she said, reaching for the control again, turning down the air.
"Think about it," I suggested. "You want to sit here night after night for the next couple decades, we can arrange that. Pick up some new hobbies we can do in here or some shit. Knitting. Origami..."
"Please, please can it be knitting? Your brothers would love to see that picture."
"I'm just saying, think this shit over. You have options that could cut down on how much of your life you are spending in the backseat of a car," I told her, watching as Michael exited his building, going right into his car.
And, knowing him, going right home.
That was what he did.
He went home.
Occasionally, he went to a social function. What happened there was anyone's guess.
He never went to bars or clubs.
I couldn't help but wonder if he hunted for prey inside his circle, only striking on those he already knew, maybe the ones he thought he wouldn't get any push-back from.
If that was the case, it would make things harder, but not impossible. So long as Reagan could pay, Lo could get someone inside, could make sure she played the part perfectly, got in his path over and over until he felt comfortable inviting her to dinner. Then maybe back to his place.
And then we could get him.
But the thing was, he never fucking prowled after work. So Reagan had been losing most nights of her life to a mission that was never going to pay off because she had the wrong methods.
Seeming to sense I was onto something, she didn't even squish up between the seats, climb into the driver's, put the car into drive, move to follow him home.
She stayed put.
"I will think about it," she assured me, then fell silent for a long time, the only sound that of some guy rapping about boots with fur on the radio, volume turned low because after an hour, I had about had my fill of ass-shaking anthems. Though, to be fair, if we were in Reagan's apartment, I'd have cranked that shit up because then she would be the one ass shaking, and I always wanted to encourage that whenever possible.
"You know what?" she asked, turning back to me, pulling her legs up onto the seat, so she was half on her knees, cocked a little to the side.
"What?" I asked, seeing a mischievous little look on her face.
"I can think of way better things to do in the backseat than knitting. Or paper folding," she told me, planting her hands on my chest, moving to straddle me.
My hands slid down the deep gray t-shirt she had on, the material buttery soft, but not nearly as soft as the skin I would find beneath. My fingers sank into her ass, pulling her a little closer on my lap as her head dipped, not seeking my lips, but going for my neck instead.
That was all it took.
The press of her lips to the space where my neck met my shoulder, and my cock was hard.
It didn't matter that I'd had her on every damn surface of her apartment over the past few days, I still found myself hard just by a brush of her hand, or an ass wiggle, or a throaty laugh at something I said.
She wasn't in the mood for too much teasing, her hands already moving downward, working at my button and zipper even as my hand dipped under the waistbands of her pants and panties, palming her ass before moving lower, gliding between the lips of her pussy, finding her soaked for me like she always was.
She let out a husky whimper against my neck as my fingers thrust inside her, feeling the muscles squeeze around them as they did with my cock when I got inside her, a thought that made my cock twitch even as her hand finally got it free, stroked it once, her thumb moving across the head.
My finger fucked her as her lips claimed mine, priming her further, feeling her pussy press down on my palm grinding, seeking relief from the need coursing through her.
Impatient to be inside her, I pulled my fingers pulled out. Ignoring the whimper of objection, I reached for her pants and panties, yanking them down off her ass.
Frustrated with the small space, I grabbed her hips, tossing her down onto the seat, yanking her legs up in the air, freeing each ankle from her pants and panties, and tossing them to the floor before helping her back up.
I turned her, facing her out toward the dash as I pulled her ass down on my lap.
I fought with the condom for a long second before getting it on, feeling her wiggling against me, making the job harder.
I inched her up with one hand while gliding my cock to her pussy. Using my hold of her hip, I yanked her down, making her lose her shaky footing, taking me fully, a choked whimper escaping her at the sensation.
My arm anchored around her lower stomach, holding her right where I wanted her as my hips moved in circles inside her, feeling her walls clench me almost painfully, trying to get more, trying to get closer to an orgasm while I kept it slow, excruciatingly slow.
I loved the sounds she made when she was desperate. The deep, throaty moans, the husky pleas.
Eventually, they turned into this pathetic whimpering that damn near made me come every single fucking time I heard it.
That was how I knew she was close.