Chapter 12 #3
“I can’t make that call and you know it.
I’m just here to get you and your treasure from point A to point B.
That’s it, so take me out of the equation.
I’m still being compensated fairly every week this lasts, just so you know.
My ordinary pay. I can survive until we wrap it up and Miss Wilkes releases my severance package. ”
Her mouth turns down sadly. “He really made us work for it, didn’t he?”
“Don’t know if Leonidas Blackthorn believed in death.
He held out until his final day, didn’t want any family around.
He wouldn’t let anyone throw him a funeral.
There’s a lesson in that, I think.” Like I need to remind her.
“I wondered about it, and the best thing I can come up with is, he didn’t want you to feel like it was the end.
And maybe you wouldn’t if you had to put in a little more work for him, same as your cousins. ”
Her smile widens, bittersweet.
“Stubborn old jerk.”
“He really was. All the advisors in the world, and he liked to do everything his own way. Even at the very end, he lived that old Sinatra song, ‘My Way.’”
For a wretched second, I’m back there in the library, the day I found Leonidas Blackthorn on the floor, barely conscious, barely moving.
I’d noticed him getting thinner the last three or four months, the doctors quietly slipping in and out of the house.
I called an ambulance immediately, wondering if he’d even recover with his pulse so weak.
While we waited, he had a second wind. A final wind, maybe.
He jerked up, grabbing my hand so roughly he nearly tore my skin.
“No more calls,” he whispered, his dark eyes so much stronger than his voice. “Holden, let me go.”
“Mr. Blackthorn, your family—”
“No.” His bony fingers clawed at my wrist desperately. “No sorry damn goodbyes. No point. Not one word until I’m gone,” he whispered.
I shook my head. “Mr. Blackthorn—”
A minute later, I let the medics in. A flurry of motion, checking his vitals and trading worried looks, loading him for transport.
He barely lasted two days.
Two days I had to fucking sit on the news, only confirming it with his lawyer. Not one word.
“…did that ever make it harder?” Cleo props her chin up on her hand.
Huh?
“Your job, I mean. Gramps must’ve been a terrible boss.”
I snort. “All the time. I’d work out his flights and his itinerary. I’d prep security, hire guys, put things in place, and he’d decide last minute he wanted to take a detour to see some historic marker or just drive through the sticks.” I roll my eyes. “Then there were his art trips.”
“Yeah?” She smiles curiously. “He must’ve made a million trips over the years to build up his collection.”
“Yeah. You think the egg was the only pain in the ass he ever went all in for? A lot of his prized possessions were picked up before my time, but he never stopped until he was a few years from the end and travel got rougher. Total security nightmare, some of the places he insisted we visit.”
“Where?”
I can’t quite meet her eyes, so I turn my attention to my half-finished wine.
“Rural Mexico. Libya. Little towns in Egypt with no cell service. Anywhere he thought there might be something amazing or precious, especially if it came with a risk of being destroyed.”
“Oh, wow. I never knew he was Indiana Jones.”
“Close enough. I kept him alive to see another adventure, at least.”
“Wow, yeah. After that, looking after me and one fancy egg shouldn’t be too bad.” She grins.
“You might think that, but it’s more than I bargained for,” I grumble, offering her a smile. “You’ve inherited his stubborn streak. That’s familiar and it makes this easier.”
“Aw, come on. New York wasn’t that bad.”
I stiffen. Is she serious?
It was only the end of the world in one kiss.
I don’t know if I should even answer.
“Possibly the most dangerous trip of all,” I deadpan, playing dumb.
Her grin widens.
I have to look the hell away from how bright she looks. The opposite of me, sweeping in like a low, unsettled thunderhead.
The illusion of safety, that’s always the real danger.
Whether it’s roaming, armed men and no central authority in some unstable country, or sharing a bed with a girl who’s worse than touching fire.
And Cleo, wanting to see the best in everyone, wanting attention, she’s exactly the kind of client who has trouble written all over her. She jumped on Fairfax’s offer, despite my instincts telling me he’s suspicious, and I’m positive he won’t be the first.
Her laughter fades and she twirls a finger in her hair. The light in her eyes turns somber again.
“I appreciate you listening,” she whispers. “And for sharing, too. You probably knew PopPop better than me. I made it back here his last few years way less often than I would’ve liked.”
“Knew him pretty well, but he wasn’t family.”
She nods, weighing the words.
What does family mean to her?
With her granddad and her father at opposite ends of the spectrum, it must be crazy complicated.
“I know you don’t want to influence my choice,” she whispers. “And I appreciate that, even if sometimes I wish you’d just tell me to tell Fairfax to pound sand. I know that’s what you prefer.”
“And you know by now it doesn’t matter,” I say gruffly. “Your choice. No one else’s. If this job lasts three days or three months, I’ll stick around.”
She sighs. “Yeah, well, thanks for listening again.”
I nod, wanting to add something stupid like I can do a lot more than listen.
But I won’t. I shouldn’t pretend.
Still, I can’t help wondering what the hell she’ll decide in the end. There’s real uncertainty in her eyes whenever she brings it up.
How long does this curse consume us until we’re free?
How long will I have to fight myself off her like a deranged chimp?