CHAPTER NINE
SYLVIE
The maple-syrup-and-coffee aroma chokes out the stench of exhaust and garbage as I stroll back to my warehouse apartment.
I treated myself to lunch at this quaint stand-alone diner that feels like stepping back in time.
Red vinal booths. Chrome accents. Polished wood walls and ceilings.
And block windows. All in what looks like a railcar.
It always enables me to drop this century’s problems at the door.
Yesterday, I had a weird sensation of someone following me when I left my apartment, but in a sea of strangers, I never found anyone suspect.
It was probably just the aftermath of being on edge because E seemed unhappy.
He didn’t call out anything specific, and I opted not to share many details.
All that should matter is that I got the USB and left a look-alike in its place.
Job done. But he’s cooking up some scheme that clearly has him knotted up with either excitement or anxiety.
Since I have more than a week until my next job, I’m not going to be a sulking shut-in, imprisoning myself, so to the diner I went.
I’ve lived in this neighborhood for nearly two years, though I guess I’m a bit of a nomad.
It still makes a good home base, even if I purchased it during an epic woman-scorned tantrum.
With Danny’s corrupt cash flow. It’s the one city he said he’d never live in, so it was the perfect place to start over.
The midday sun caresses my face, the traffic and horns, buzzing conversations and far-off music lending a rhythm to my steps. I don’t take any of it for granted.
My father used to say, “The most valuable things to steal are freedom and time. But if you’re going to reach for something more, let it be for the sake of either family or prestige. Anything else is greed, and that leads to ruin.”
He stole because he could, because there was an artistry to it. My brand of thievery hasn’t specialized in that lately, but today, I’ll bask in the deliverance of the spring breeze, my taste of freedom and time.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I pull it out, I find that it’s Cash FaceTiming me.
We’ve been texting a little for the past few days.
Most of our conversations are pointless, which is kind of refreshing.
He always slips innuendos in there. Admittedly, they’re funny, though I’m not sure they align perfectly with the friend route he agreed to. Texting has felt harmless, but this?
I hem and haw about whether to answer, glaring at the device as if it were a bomb. The request glares back, bullying me into submission. So, I flippantly accept.
His face fills the screen, that suave smile of his in full force. “Before you answered, I pictured you on a train.”
If I’ve learned anything about this man, it’s that nothing he says is haphazard, and yet it all seems off the cuff.
His sleight-of-hand ability transfers to everything, even his communication.
While I am normally ten steps ahead of most people, with him, I’m barely keeping pace. Not that I’ll ever admit that.
“So sorry to disappoint you.” Much to my regret, flutters erupt as I drink in his mussed hair, ocean blues, and open-collared button-up. “Why a train?”
The Walk signal illuminates, so I merge with the herd of folks prowling the city after lunch and cross the street. My feet patter the cobblestone, historic cast-iron buildings hugging my path and my heart thumping more than I’d like.
“Nothing about seeing you could ever be disappointing, Sly, but trains have a certain mystique. They’re a great place to make memories. Nostalgic and … intimate.”
How the hell does he turn the simplest subjects into something erotic?
“Oh, yeah? Have you made a lot of memories on trains?” Why would I ask that? What if he volunteers a spicy anecdote?
“None. Yet.” The latter word drips with his unruffled flirtation, declaring what’s in store. “But I can envision … clearly … making some with you, which is probably why I had that glimpse of you answering from one.”
The man is relentless. And so damn sexy.
Since I need to keep us on a platonic track, I briefly lift my sunglasses to narrow my eyes at him in subtle admonishment. “It reminds me of that slogan: Friends don’t let friends ride trains alone.”
“Exactly.” He chuckles. And winks—the bastard. “Remember that. There’s nothing better than letting your friend take you for a ride.”
I practically scripted that one for him.
A girl beside me giggles, reminding me that (a) I’m out in public and (b) Cash’s charm transcends the constraints of a screen enough to bewitch a passerby.
“What do you want, Noire?”
“You’re blushing, Palmer. It’s not that hot in New York.”
I gasp and narrowly miss slamming into three men in suits. “Excuse me.” I lift my palm in apology, skirt around them, and turn back to the menace on my screen. “And how do you know my location?”
“You just passed the Tribeca skybridge. Beautiful neighborhood.”
All right, I guess I can give him that one.
Although I’m certain he’s tracking me somehow.
That might even be why I had that sensation of being followed.
And I don’t think he minds me knowing. I’d bet that his train suggestion was because I ate lunch in a restaurant modeled after a railcar.
Bold. Before I can press further, a video sent from him pops up on the screen.
“What’s that?”
He sips a cup of coffee as he wanders through what must be his apartment—a sliver of Art Deco opulence. “That is what you saved me from by letting me be your Cinco de Mayo plus-one.”
“You really have a skewed vision of how permission and invites work.”
He ignores that and slants his head. “Watch it.”
I’m only a block from my apartment, so I indulge him and press play. Cash’s face assumes a small spot in the corner of my phone while the rest of my screen is filled with nonsensical mayhem.
Dancing. Singing. Some sort of race. And free-roaming chickens. But the focus is on the guy hitting a pinata—a penis pinata. Naturally.
The bat breaks loose, but the video rewinds and fast-forwards to the beat of “Mama Said Knock You Out,” with Maddox Noire making an impressive catch.
Again and again. A second later, that is upended by a beefy guy diving for him in slow motion, with a theatrical, “Noooo,” edited in as he slams into Maddox.
Headfirst. The collision is nearly as violent as one in an NHL game.
“Oh my goodness.” A ring of laughter pours from me. I swipe my key fob to enter my building and gape at the beaming Noire staring back at me. “Is your brother okay? What the hell was that?”
“That, my radiant friend, was the Underground, La Lune Noire’s employee haven. And all parties involved survived with minimal battle scars.”
“It looks like chaos.” I step into the elevator and press my floor. “Forget the collision. Are there always farm animals there?”
“At least once a month,” he quips, but I think he’s serious.
No wonder he was so easygoing at Peter’s party despite knowing I was on a job. They deal in darkness, but treat life like a celebration.
I can’t stop laughing. “Who the hell is in charge?”
“Maddox and me. Of course.”
“Well, that explains a lot.” I’m still trying to tamp down my amusement when the elevator spits me out. The ease of it all is a welcome surprise until I tromp down the hall, bumbling and twisting my ankle when I notice a letter sticking out of my door. “Shit.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I just … stepped wrong and hurt my ankle.” I examine the envelope and glance around the empty corridor.
I should hang up to see what I’m dealing with and whether the pit in my stomach is warranted, but in a strange turn of events, I feel safer with Cash on the phone. “It’s fine. Just give me a second.”
“Are you home? Go inside and put some ice on it …” He keeps talking, but I tune him out as I unlock the door and shut myself inside.
After I set my phone on my countertop, I tear open the envelope and pull out a small piece of paper.
You didn’t cover your tracks as well as you think you did. Get rid of him.
“Fuck.”
I flip the paper and the envelope over, but there’s nothing else. I’m going to be sick.
“Sylvie.” Cash’s voice finally garners my attention, and he sounds desperate. “Fucking talk to me, baby.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, realizing he can see part of my face. “I guess I hurt it more than I thought. It’ll be fine, but I’d better go so I can prop it up.”
“You’re pale. You must be in a lot of pain. I’ll come out there.”
He’ll come out here? Because I sprained my ankle?
“No, no, don’t do that. It’s nothing really. And … I’m going to Florida.” I don’t know why I shared that. I will probably be going now, but I certainly shouldn’t be telling anyone.
“Florida? For what?” Every syllable is rife with suspicion. He’s too perceptive. He senses that something more than my ankle is off.
“Cash, I gotta go. I’ll text you later.” I end the call—more abruptly than he likely appreciates, but I can’t worry about that—and I dial my mom. “Tell me Flora isn’t visiting you this week.”
Maybe that wasn’t the best opener, but my mind is a cyclone of dreadful theories, and I don’t think I can handle my sister right now.
“No, she’s back home.” She resists the sigh she undoubtedly wants to expel, but she’s as perceptive as Cash, so she doesn’t miss the urgency in my tone. “Why?”
“I got a weird note.”
“Got it where? Read it to me,” she demands in that motherly authority that somehow blends rage and compassion.
“It was stuck in my door.” My stomach jumps to my throat as I read her the note.
She mumbles a string of curses before finally gathering her thoughts. “Think it’s Danny?”
“Maybe.”
Other possibilities flit through my mind—Peter Fairfax, E, or any number of assholes I’ve clashed with. The fact that I have too many names to list of people who’d want to threaten me speaks volumes, but I don’t drag her into that unfortunate web. For all I know, this could be a courteous warning.