“All those years you acted like you were nothing.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “Why would you do that?”
So losers like you would stay the fuck away, I muse.
“I have my reasons.” I take out a hoodie and sweats, quickly covering my body in baggy fabric. “We’re supposed to be meeting Natasha at the firing range at…”Shit. “In ten minutes.”
“Just chill, baby girl. I got my car out front. I’ll drive us.” He scoops a pair of jeans off the floor and jerks them over his lean hips. A metal chain dangles from the pocket to the belt loop, and he quickly pulls on a white tank and a plaid overshirt-jacket.
I run a brush through my long hair, whipping it into a ponytail.
“How did you manage to park your car out front?” My loft apartment is in the part of Hell’s Kitchen that never has street parking available.
“Get on the parking payola, and they’ll save a spot for you.” He pours us each a go-cup of coffee. “Let’s hit it.”
No telling what he’s told the guys running the lot across the street. They probably think we’re sleeping together, which makes me ill.
Grabbing my black bag from under my bed, I slip my socked feet into my Adidas slides and follow him out the door, down the stairs, coffee in hand. He slaps the hand of the guy at the booth, slipping him some amount of cash, and they give him the keys to his late-model Subaru. It’s sporty enough and completely impractical for this town.
“We should’ve hailed a cab.” I settle into the passenger’s seat, surveying the traffic. “It’ll take longer than ten minutes to get to Chelsea, and there’s definitely no parking there.”
“Just drink your coffee and leave it to me.” He lays on the horn at a cab taking too long in the intersection, and I sip my drink.
I’ll give Rick credit. He makes good coffee.
We’re moving slower than I can walk, and he glances at me. “You were pretty shit-faced last night. Why you drinking so much? I heard they put your name on a bottle of vodka at Gibson’s.”
“So sphincters can ask why.” It’s a childish response, and he blows air through his lips, shaking his head as he looks out the window.
Gibson’s is the underground cigar bar in the Financial District that serves as the unofficial headquarters of the “RDIF Investment group,” which serves as the legitimate front for our organization. I grew up in it, but Rick came on the scene about five years ago.
“Why are you still hanging around anyway? You’re like one of those vultures picking at the carcass.”
“I remember when you were sweeter.”
“I was never sweet.”
He remembers me as a scared teen doing my best to blend into the scenery, but I’ve spent four years training my body and learning how to navigate the dark web. I’m building a file, so when I find what I’m looking for, there will be consequences.
Another abrupt stop, and I’m ready to get out and walk. Between my throbbing head and his driving, I’m nauseated. Setting the coffee in a cup holder, I roll down the window to let the cool breeze blow around us. Fall is creeping in on little cat feet, and I’m ready to bundle up in wool and textures.
“Don’t barf in my car,” he snaps.
“I’m not going to throw up.”
Iwouldlike to know why Natasha is summoning us on a Saturday morning at this hour. It had better be something important.
We finally reach the stately old building, and Rick pulls up to the curb. “Go in and tell her I’m parking. That way she won’t go off on her ‘no respect’ rant.”
I check the traffic before hopping out and circling the front of his car. The entrance to the antique store is two stately brass doors withDezer Buildingprinted in gold lettering on the transom. The exterior looks like it could’ve been a bank in a previous century, but inside it’s just a run of the mill Army surplus store.
Assorted camping gear is arranged in the front. Old military coats hang on mannequins, and plaques with assorted sizes and types of bullets adorn the walls. The shelves are crowded with taxidermied animals, and a sign taped to the glass reads,Making good people helpless won’t make bad people harmless.
Everything is covered in a layer of dust, and it smells like old paper. I nod to the old guy at the register before following a narrow hall to a flight of stairs leading underground where an old parking garage has been converted into a firing range with stalls for individual practice.
Metal clips are attached to mechanical wiring along the ceiling, transporting the black and white paper targets of male torsos back and forth.
Natasha has a pair of black headphones around her neck. Her hair is dyed red these days and styled in a French twist. She’s wearing tan slacks and a black turtleneck, and she’s not smiling. “What took you so long?”
I glance at the digital clock overhead. “Give me a break, Nat. We’re five minutes late.”