Chapter 18
Whoever created the sleeves that hug around the middle of hot cups of coffee should get a high-five. This red eye I picked up for Grant at the coffee shop on the main floor is so blistering, I think my palm would melt off without it.
I pull back on the cylinder handle, allowing myself into Grant’s waiting area. Mrs. Rodkins only nods at me, exchanging a smile while I pass by. She no longer makes me wait or says, “He’ll see you now.” My visits to his office are too frequent for that.
For the most part, I come and go as I please, although Grant is usually the one requesting me.
This late morning, I’m here to gift Grant a coffee after his got ruined and made into a latte. We were on our way to work, a little pressed for time, so a new order wasn’t requested. He didn’t complain, but it was hard to miss the outward wince on his face. The sweetness of the drink was overpowering. Two sips in, and he was done.
Marching for his main office door, I smile at the drink, tug back the handle and—
“Fuck you,” Grant growls. “Do you know what I do to people who break the rules?”
The heat and searing anger I hear from him sends my heart into my throat. I’ve never heard him talk like this, but the words aren’t directed at me. Actually, I doubt Grant knows I’m in here.
He’s standing with his back to me, staring out the window, his cell pressed to his ear. It almost reminds me of the night I came in here right before he dragged me to the couch and fucked some of the fear out of me. The difference now is Grant seems deathly pissed, whereas with me, he seemed annoyed, if not turned on.
The seam to the back of his coat is stretched to its limit, and his free hand is clenched so tightly that I can spot a heated tremble.
“No.” The reply is the loudest I’ve ever heard from Grant. “You don’tmove narcs into the country unless I get a cut. Everyone else, no matter what the product—white lighting to kush—pay me for the things getting pushed under my operations.”
He grunts, shoving a hand through his hair, disrupting the pristine, inky strands. “You’re importing into the States solely because of me. No one wanted to barter with you, no one wanted your shitty supply of Matryoshka dolls, and anyone else would have had called the Ministry of Internal Affairs by now. Be thankful I’m contacting you first.”
My shoulders tighten, and I almost drop the cup. Grant moves drugs into the US?
“When you smuggle new things in under my name, I take a huge risk, so therefore, I gain a profit. That’s the deal you signed with me, and I can’t tolerate breached agreements. There will be—”
He’s cut off, and I faintly hear a deep male voice chattering over the line. The words Grant is receiving do nothing to pacify him. He knocks the side of his fist against the outside of his thigh, almost methodically, mumbling a “motherfucker” under his breath.
I shuffle my weight to the opposing foot, my eardrums roaring as I realize I shouldn’t be in here. Hearing any of this is a huge fucking mistake. Sleeping with him and finding out he deals with drugs are way different things.
My stomach twists into the tightest knot of its existence, panic lacing under my muscles, making them twitch. I need to leave before he turns around and sees me.
I’d bolt if it wouldn’t draw attention. As it is, I try to retreat by shuffling a step back, shaking knees and all.
A failure.
Something alerts Grant. He stiffens, then spins on his heel, whipping around to face me. His eyes are saucer wide, and at first, I don’t think he knows who to expect in here. After he recognizes me, that gaze quickly narrows, not shifting as his jaw tightens. He’s never looked at me like this.
Ever.
And a thick eternity crawls by while he stares at me like this, allowing me to become privy to every emotion crackling in his gaze.
It’s heated, it’s angry, it’s death in a glance, making my skin vibrate with pins and needles.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Pretending nothing was overheard is impossible. I know what I heard; he knows I’ve heard something. My legs sway back and forth as my head is fuzzy with panic, and I gurgle on my own heavy breathing.
Oddly, the lethal edge in his gaze dissolves into something softer, almost tender. His jaw slackens, and he grunts a “I don’t believe that” into the phone before extending his hand and pointing at the coffee cup. How he knows it’s for him, I’m not sure, but I’m never sure how he knows anything.
Also, I have no clue what changed, but I went from receiving a glare that made me want to crawl into a pit, to him ordering me closer—like nothing happened.
Still, it does little to erase the unease high-tiding in my stomach. I practically want to vomit from the anxiety while passing him the cup.
He takes a sip, and then places the drink down on the desk. I make a slight bow as my goodbye. If anyone needs Olivia Tucker, I’ll be in my office, keeping the trash can close in case my nerves finally toss out the contents of my stomach.
I shuffle back, but his hand shoots out, a silent yet direct order to stop. Automatically, both my feet freeze—cement probably couldn’t hold me in place as well as Grant’s wordless command does.
A curse, really. My swirling mind quickly makes the nausea in my stomach pale in comparison. What the hell is he going to say? Is he going to let me go after all? Fire me? Stop seeing me? Silence me? More than that, do I like him being involved in this kind of stuff? What do I want to do about it? Should I stop seeing him? Should I quit? I knew he had a reputation. I knew there were rumors about some of his affairs being a touch … unsavory?
But this?
Is it terrifying or hot that he can talk to an international drug smuggler like a common bitch?
Do I find it secure or hazardous that he rakes in money and power even in this way?
Fuck.
I don’t know what to think or feel right now.
I’m drowning in every said thought, but Grant’s voice is the only thing ripping it all away and forcing my attention to him as he holds eye contact.
“Consider yourself warned. Figure your percentages out, give me a cut, or you’ll find yourself in a Russian prison by the end of the year with not even a dropping of dog shit to fill your empty stomach.”
There is no goodbye.
He lowers the phone, taps the screen hard to end the call, and tosses the cell onto the desk. I blink, halfway rubbing my thighs together. Despite the dread weighing down my arms and legs, something about this side of Grant sends my hormones surging. It’s sexy as fuck, and while I know being drawn to something so dark is not healthy, I can’t even start to tamp down the arousal.
Grant’s loud sigh breaks through the air, adding more heaviness to the atmosphere. “Fucking Grimski shitters,” he mutters right before looking at me.
He says nothing for several beats, but his gaze isn’t harsh like earlier.
Even so, I stand at full attention, my palms glued to my thighs, anxiety making my knuckles throb like they’re bloodless.
At last, his shoulders sink, almost signifying tension for him is unwinding. I think I’m right by the way he leans his ass against the edge of the desk and picks up the coffee I brought him.
“Thank you,” he hums.