Peace.
The moment I get out of his office and make it to the parking lot, I pull out my phone and send the email I’ve been longing to send since me and Trevor made this deal.
Subject: All or nothing.
The list is complete.
–Michael
Michael
Now
Subject: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
Is there any reason why, hours after you finish what we’ve been working toward for years, that you’re currently standing me up on the celebratory dinner? (We have a lot to discuss about what we need to do next…)
Also, I’ve slept better over the past few days than I ever have in my entire life: 10 hours. What about you?
–Trevor
Subject: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
A certain flight is getting in an hour earlier than expected, so I’m on my way to the private airport…I’ll need a raincheck. (I personally think we should both step back from the game for a little while, live a little)
Yes, I have. 8 hours.
–Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
What fucking flight, Michael? There’s no target or research on the books right now. (That’s not what you were saying three and half weeks ago…Were you lying to me?)
Stop taking twenty minutes at a time to email me.
–Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
It’s a flight for my wife. By the way, she says hello. (No, I’m just thinking that we may be able to go in a different direction. I’ll have it planned out once I help Meredith handle her father and her aunt…Did I tell you about that ?)
–Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Next Moves + Sleep in NYC…
You know what? I take back everything I said before. I think you may have actually found someone who’s just as batshit crazy as you are. (No, you didn’t tell me that you unknowingly married a goddamn vigilante…)
Let me know when I’ll get to meet her…
–Trevor
Meredith
Now
A week later
Michael is standing outside his car—armed with a bouquet of black roses, the moment I land in New York City. Per his instructions, I’m wearing oversized shades and a medical mask, concealing who I am just in case someone on the ground staff may recognize me.
Once I make my way down the steps, he walks over to me and pulls down the mask, kissing me like his life depends on it. His hands grip my waist as he kisses me deeper, and I feel his cock hardening against my exposed thigh.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I whisper that I missed him. That even though it’s only been a week since we’ve seen each other, I never want to spend that much time apart again.
He looks at me with his eyebrow raised, his lips still touching mine. “Is this the part where you expect me to say some romantic shit to you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” he says, slowly pulling away from my mouth. “You won’t be apart from me that long ever again. I miss you, too—I especially miss the fucking. Better?”
“Good enough.”
“Have you thought about whether you want to return to being Meredith Thatchwood yet?” he asks.
“I want to be Meredith Anderson,” I correct him. “But I don’t think it’ll take eleven weeks. I’ve been thinking about ways to cut down that time.”
“Oh?” His lips curve into a smile and he looks like he’s struggling to hold back a laugh. “It’s something better than what I suggested on the phone last night?”
“I made a few adjustments, added a few more things that’ll really hurt their reputations.”
He stares at me for several seconds, and then he smiles. He presses his hand against the small of my back and helps me into the front seat.
Clasping my hand over the gearshift, he heads back to where our relationship started: Manhattan. Fahrenheit 900.
The more he drives, the more I realize how happy I am to be back in this city, but there’s an uneasy feeling in my chest when he turns down Fifth Avenue. When I catch sight of my father’s newest row of leasable condos. Hurt, I look away and try to focus on something else.
What I see next is even worse.
It’s a digital billboard in Times Square that features my father’s face and a scrolling quote in bright red.
“Leonardo Thatchwood thanks you for your vote!
Thank you to all the wonderful people of New York for the support!
Reserve your “Victory Party” tickets at thatchwoodtakesnyc.com”
Before I can turn my head away in disgust, a different ad appears on the big screen—a bright and pretty one for Gillian’s upcoming book.
Or, so I think.
The words “Release the damn book! Sincerely, Your Goddamn Fans” scrolls right under her face, seconds before the words, “Author Missing in Action” are stamped onto her forehead.
Laughing, I look over at Michael. “When will it be possible for me to see Gillian again?”
“Whenever we finish the job.” He slows the car, steering it into the alley next to Fahrenheit 900. “Put this on,” he says, handing me a sweatshirt. He waits until its over my head, and then he gently pulls the drawstring to cover my face even more.