He opened one eye and said, "I'm sorry. What happened. Targeting you. I'm really, really--"
I put my finger to his lips. He made a face and said, "Just wanted you to know--"
"Do you honestly think I do
n't? I understood the risks before we got together. How many times have people tried to hire us for the same thing? If you need to make a statement to a man, go after his wife, girlfriend, lover. We've discussed this. And discussed it . . . and discussed it . . . and discussed it, which mostly consists of you telling me and me saying, 'I get it.'"
He made that face again, the one that said he'd like to say it again. Apologize again. Deeply and profusely apologize because he wasn't sure how else to deal with it. But it's not as if it'll make him feel better. Self-recrimination only drags you down into the tar pit of self-blame. I know that as well as anyone. So does he, which was why, after a moment, he nodded and reached for his Snickers bar. He couldn't quite reach it on my side of the bed, so I opened it, and then gave him the Coke.
"Recharging my batteries?" he said.
I smiled. "I don't think we'll have time for that."
"Make time."
He took a bite of the bar, chewed and then settled in.
"You want to know?" he said. "Details? What happened over there?"
"I always want to know, Jack. It's a question of whether you're okay with telling me and if not, I understand. Since you're offering, though, I'm guessing you are. So, yes, tell me what happened."
He did. Until now, I'd only known that he had gone to do a job as repayment for a debt owed to someone who'd helped him get his start. It was no coincidence that Jack had been in Ireland when this all went down. His old colleague had double-crossed him.
Jack told me exactly who Cillian was and what he'd done for Jack in the old days. Then what he'd done to Jack now. He told the story matter-of-factly. Just business. But I knew this hurt. Jack was a man of his word, treating his colleagues and clients fairly. And I got the sense Jack had really looked up to Cillian, that thirty years ago he had hoped for a relationship that might mellow into friendship, and that hadn't quite happened--Jack had permanently relocated stateside--but he'd still felt a nostalgic bond there. Which Cillian had blown to hell.
Worse, while Jack never said it, I knew he'd have to kill Cillian. I would gladly do it for him, but I knew enough not to even offer. Instead, I leaned over and kissed him and he pulled me on top, and I set about doing what he would allow--showing him that I understood and I cared.
12 - Jack
Nadia was sitting up in bed, munching on Skittles, occasionally tossing one his way, grinning when he caught it, which he always did. Before he met her, Jack couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten candy. Real candy--the kind that's pure sugar and chemicals. It was a reflection of the side of Nadia that first made him fall in love with her. The vulnerable side. The innocent side. The genuine side. Not childlike, but open in a way he hadn't been himself in so many years.
Nadia never had any shame in admitting her love for candy, and she'd light up when he bought it for her, the way other women might light up over diamond rings. He'd get that same look every time, no matter how often he showed up with candy in his pockets. A grin that wasn't so much for the candy itself as for the gesture--genuine surprise and joy that he'd gone out of his way to get her something, even if it entailed no more than stopping at a shop. Such a small thing, one that explained so much about Nadia.
He watched her, sitting naked in bed as she talked between candies, and he knew he loved her. He hadn't said the words. He wasn't sure how to, because he never had, not even when he'd been fifteen and dating a girl whose name he'd long since forgotten and when he'd try to slide his hand up her shirt, she'd stop him and say, "I need to be sure," and he'd known she hadn't meant she needed to be sure she wanted sex, but that she needed to be sure he loved her. Except he hadn't. She was just a girl he liked, and he wouldn't lie about that, even if it meant getting sex before his sixteenth birthday.
But now he did feel that way, and he had no fucking idea how to say it. He'd started to, many times, after they made love, but that seemed the wrong moment, like she'd think it was just part of the afterglow. He'd considered saying it before sex, but what if she didn't say it back? He didn't care--it wasn't a test. But if he said it and she wasn't ready, she'd panic and then feel bad and . . . yeah, definitely gonna spoil the mood. But when the hell do you say it? And why the fuck was it so hard to figure this out? He wasn't fifteen anymore.
Just do it. Say it and then say something else, fast, so it doesn't hang there, waiting for a response. Say it and then . . .
And then say more. Not just, "I love you," but more about how he felt, which would take away any obligation because it would have moved past a response, and he'd get the chance to say more, because he had more to say, and that would be the opportunity. Get the words out. All of them.
"Hey," he said, and she gave him that breath-taking grin that made him understand the meaning of that overused phrase because that one really did take his breath away.
"Hey," she said back.
Okay, keep going. You've got her attention. Just go. Three, two, one--
"I--" he began.
"I've been--" she said at the same time and then stopped. "Sorry. Go ahead."
"Nah, go on."
She hesitated, but he motioned for her to continue, and she said, "I've been thinking about Cillian and the cartel and this whole setup. Besides being hellishly complicated, does it bug you at all? Any of it?"
"Yeah," he said, and he exhaled the word on a breath of relief, almost as great as if he'd actually gotten those other words out. He'd been thinking this himself--that it bothered him--but he'd pushed it aside, feeling like he was just being paranoid.
"Yeah," he repeated. "It does."