Choked Up (20 page)

I dreamed of trains and dead bodies until 6:15 a.m. I dressed in an Akris punto lace, snap-front shirtdress, with ankle boots. Conservative and very feminine, it showed only the tiniest fraction of my almost-healed devil's paper cut. I put on Stannis's Cartier earrings and went downstairs.

Frank Sinatra's “Brazil” blared through the kitchen speakers. Thierry rumba-ed his way around the kitchen island while Mom, perched at a bar stool in the kitchen, tapped her pen in time to the music while poring over a stack of legal docs. Flynn and Rory sat on either side of her devouring poached eggs, English muffins, and bacon.

Rory saw me first. “What the hell are yeh wearin', Snap?”

“Good morning, honey.” Mom threw him an elbow. “You look very . . . feminine.”

He snorted. “Stepford Wives on the cover of
Vogue
this month?”

“Summer Wind” came on. Thierry swept over and took my hand. “What would you like?”

“Green tea.”

He danced me over to the Keurig machine, reached over and spun the cartridge holder. Laughing, I let go and got out a cup from the cupboard.

“And to eat?” Thierry pressed.

“Zip. Breakfast date,” I fibbed. Stannis's driver was going to pick me up on the hour and my guts were too knotted up to eat.

“Oh?” Mom asked, all innocence. “I haven't seen Hank since the night you gave him the bum's rush in the middle of dinner. Perhaps I'll go late to the office.”

“Uh . . .”

“You'll have a helluva wait, Mom.” Flynn folded his arms across his chest. “Her brekkie date is with some Serbian named Stannislav Renko.”

I took my tea and the stool next to Rory at the enormous granite bar that ringed the kitchen.
Sometimes the best defense is the truth.
“Exactly right, Flynn.”

“What'd you tell the roughneck? You're perfect in every way, just not for me?”

“Cute,” I said. “Hank and I are still together.”

Rory gave a bark of laughter and flipped his dark hair out of his eyes. “Poor bastard ain't seen this yet, eh?” He flashed his iPhone at all of us, the picture of Stannis kissing me on the mouth at Tru full-screen.

I leaned back on the stool and threw my arm behind my head in a pinup pose. “Any press is good press, baby.”

“Maisie?” Mom asked.

“A mistimed photo of a European greeting.”

Mom cocked a brow and dropped her bomb. “The online snaps of you at The Storkling on ChicagoMag belie a certain sense of intimacy.”

Flynn and Rory started typing and swiping on their phones to see what they'd missed.

“And what on earth possessed you to wear that disaster of a dress to The Storkling?” Mom dropped her chin and shrugged. “A shock they put you online in that awful rag.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom. You bought it for me.”

“Hmm.” She tapped the pen against her mouth in mock thought. “I'm afraid I don't recall . . .”

“Jaysus.” Rory held his phone out to me. On ChicagoMag was a picture of me, Stannis, and Eddie Veteratti. “Is that feckin' Eddie V.?”

“He owns the club,” I pointed out.

Flynn dragged a hand over his face and said to Mom, “I know the year's been shite for the kid, but don't you think it's time for ROP?”

Mom sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Flynn, dear. Consider this—if you were to marry and have a child of your own, you could ROP at will.”

Rory laugh-gagged on his mouthful of orange juice.

The
Predator
theme played on my phone.
Hank.
“I need to take this.” I shot out of the kitchen into the hallway. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sugar Pop.”

Stay cool.
“It's so good to hear your voice.”
Aig. Not cool at all.

“Yours, too.”

Love-haze fragged the connection between my brain and mouth. “I miss you, Hank.”

“I'm out of reach for the next forty-eight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Call the office if you need anything. Stay safe.” He disconnected.

I banged my forehead against the wall.

Pasting on a happy face, I went back into the kitchen. The music was off and all the boys were gone. Mom's files were closed up and she was sitting at the table, her hands clasped loosely together. “I think it's time for a little ‘Come to Jesus,' baby.”

I slid into a chair next to her. “What's up?”

“Tell me about Mr. Renko.”

I blew out a breath. I'd left my tea on the counter. The lack of caffeine had my brain rattling in my skull like a BB in a boxcar. “He's a friend. A very good friend.”

“How did you meet?”

“He, um . . .” I rubbed my forehead. “Some mutt was hassling me on my route and Stannis helped me.”

“A felony assault and you didn't report it?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but it was pointless.

Mom reached over and tapped the top of Jeff Mant's handiwork. “You really think you did the right thing not reporting that?”

I sat up straighter to prevent my shoulders from sagging in relief. “That mutt won't be bothering anyone anytime soon.”

The corner of her mouth turned up in dissent. “While I'm sure you have your reasons, not pressing charges was ill-advised, irresponsible, and frankly, disappointing.”

I sighed. “Until you walk a day in my parking enforcement agent boots—”

“About that,” she said, “awfully dressed up and late for work today.”

Aiiigh.
“I'm taking a personal day.”

“To spend with Mr. Renko? What does Hank think of him?”

I raised my palms. “They haven't met yet.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Invite Mr. Renko in, please.”

“That's his driver, Mom. I gotta go.” I gave her a hug, then grabbed my purse off the counter in the back hall and opened the door to the waiting Mr. Raw Chicken. I slipped past him and down the stairs to the driveway.

I could feel Mom watching me from the window. Refusing to look back, I waited at the car for him to open and close it for me.

Inside, I sank into the deep leather seat, feeling like I'd just been strafed by a fleet of Luftwaffe Stukas.

“Hey,” I said as we neared Stannis's penthouse. “Stop at the Circle K.”

Raw Chicken glared at me, but did as he was told.

He pulled up next to the air machines, the nose of the car pointing at the street, tail at the open alley. Raw Chicken was well-trained.

And because he still really gave me the creeps, I let him get out and open my door.

My heels clicked smartly across the cement as I passed the gas pumps and entered the convenience store. I made a beeline for the refrigerated glass wall and walked the walk of the eternally hopeful.

Hopeful they carried it. Hopeful it was in stock. Hopeful it was cold.

I cleaned out the row. By the time I got to the checkout, my arms were shivering from the nine frosty cans. I virtuously resisted the siren's call of a sleeve of powdered-sugar Donettes, swiped my credit card, and replied, “Yes, I'd like a bag,” to the semiliterate, e-cig–smoking lottery ticket seller who believed a single plastic bag thinner than a fly's wing would sufficiently transport 144 ounces of liquid gold.

I clutched the bag to my chest, weaving my way out of the crowded store's glass doors.

A minivan full of children didn't have time to let me cross and pulled in front of the pumps.

I trotted on the toes of my Weitzman booties toward the Range Rover, stutter-stepping around an oil puddle.

Bits of concrete leapt up and stung my ankle.

A split second later the sound.

Dropping the bag I threw myself behind an old Mercury. Gravel shredded my palms. Blood thundered in my ears so loudly, I couldn't hear the cans of Amp clattering and rolling across the parking lot.

“Get down!” I shouted at the full parking lot. “Gun! Everybody down on the ground!”

Everyone froze and looked at me blankly.

A bullet nailed the bumper of the Mercury. Followed again by the echo of the gunshot.

Idiots.
“Police! Everyone get down!”

That seemed to work. Everyone moved. A little, at least.

Raw Chicken pulled the SUV up tight to the back end of the Mercury. He reached back and swung the rear door open. I crab-ran to the car, managing to snag an energy drink as I threw myself into the back of the car.

“Get down!” he shouted.

I hit the floor as he backed down the alleyway, tires squealing, and whipped a reverse U at the next block. He took a one-way the wrong way before peeling onto Lake Street. He drove us in a figure eight for the next ten minutes.

There was only one person I knew of who wanted to kill me. And Hank had neutralized him.

“You are unhurt?” the driver asked gruffly.

“Yeah.” My hands stung and my shoes were thrashed.
Dammit.
I popped the top of the Amp and took a heavy swallow. The carbonation burned my throat and nose, but it felt good in a “glad to be alive” sort of way.

Confident we weren't being followed, Raw Chicken pulled over and called Stannis. “She is unhurt. Shot at, but unhurt.”

I couldn't hear Stannis's reply, nor did I want to.
Jaysus Criminey.

“Rifle. Two hundred, two hundred fifty meters. No silencer.” Raw Chicken switched to Serbian. He said a few more things, then listened for a long while. “Yes, sir. My life.”

Stannis was waiting in front of the penthouse with a man a few years younger and a few inches taller than him. Swarthy, with a buzz cut, deep-chested with wide shoulders and a military bearing. He held a suit bag by the hanger.

Stannis opened the rear door of the Range Rover himself and climbed in the car. “Maisie, you are unhurt, yes?” He took my hands.

I sucked in my breath as I jerked them from his. “Scraped.”

He cupped my face in his hands and leaned in close. His blue eyes burned into mine. “I will kill who fired at you.”

The muscular man with the suit bag got into the front passenger seat.

“Who's this?” I asked.

“He is Kontrolyor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is Russian nickname.” The man twisted in his seat to smile at me. “Ticket Checker. I am the one that comes at the end. To make sure everyone is dead.” He pointed his fingers in the shape of a gun and pointed at the ground. “
Bap. Bap
.”

“Ticket Checker.” I smiled, a little stiffly, but a smile all the same. “How about Kon for short?”

He looked at Stannis, who nodded, before grinning at me. “Kon is good.”

Raw Chicken pulled up in front of the Ritz-Carlton. Kon got out, opened my door, and escorted me around the end of the car to the sidewalk.

“Shall we?” Stannis offered his arm, I took it, and we entered the hotel. Kon followed with the suit bag.

Too wound up over the shooting, I hadn't paid more than the vaguest attention to where we were going. Counting down the seconds until I could run to the restroom and call Hank, I assumed we were there for a meet.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

“Welcome to the Spa at the Ritz-Carlton,” said a woman in a black jacket with a gold name tag. “Mr. Renko, Ms. McGrane, we're so pleased you've chosen to spend your day with us.”

Kon handed the attendant the suit bag and took a seat in the lobby.

We started with side-by-side pedicures. Bourbon scrub and vinotherapy, respectively. Stannis selected a fire engine red for my toes. Exactly the color I would have chosen myself. It was an unusual and interesting feeling—being “kept.”

In a sick Scientologist sort of way, I could see how pleasant it was to release all autonomy and make no decisions.

Sheepy was a surprisingly comfortable state of being.

“I am very sorry for what occurred this morning,” Stannis said in a low voice.

“It's not your fault.” My words were automatic, but the thought behind them wasn't.
If Hank said Mant was dead, he was dead. But what if Mant had someone working for him?

Stannis squeezed my hand. “This was to be a happy day for you. For us.”

“A good scare reminds you that you are alive.” I squeezed back. “And a spa day is always a happy day.”

We chatted about music, eerily matching up on everything from LCD Soundsystem to Chet Baker. The more I knew him, the more I liked him.

The attendants quietly asked us to follow them to the manicure tables. I sat while Stannis confirmed the length of my new gel nails and selected a traditional French tip polish.

A private sanctuary, serene and seductive. There was no chance to leave a message for Hank between collagen masks and a bamboo and black sesame body scrub.

By the time we were escorted into the couples massage room, lit in low amber light, the shooting had taken on an ethereal, surreal quality. The clean scent of eucalyptus eased the pressure I hadn't realized I had in my sinuses.

I slipped out of my terry robe first, Stannis politely turning his back while I slid between the crisp linens on the heated bed of a massage table.

The music wasn't awful new age drums, but delicate classical. Two male masseurs clad in all white entered and introduced themselves. Mine asked, “Would you care for a cap for your hair?”

“No,” Stannis answered for me. “Would you mind?” He held out his phone to the masseur with one hand and his other hand to me.

“Not at all, sir.” Stannis's masseur took a picture of us holding hands and slipped the phone into Stannis's suit coat.

The masseur's hands on me were strong and capable. He started with firm, even pressure, working up to the knots in my shoulders. He laid into them with such pressure, my arms and fingers twitched and spasmed. “Hurt so good” took on an entirely new meaning.

I wasn't sure when exactly I started crying, but I couldn't stop. The masseur kept working and I cried harder, silently soaking the towel that surrounded my face. I turned my head and opened my eyes.

Stannis's electric blues stared back at me. “Is good,” he mouthed and winked.

 

Stannis gave me twenty minutes to shower and dress. Which sucked, because I could have easily spent an hour or two in the posh locker room in my zombified state of relaxation. With only the tiniest window to try to contact Hank, I decided to skip washing my hair and took a fast four in the shower.

I called his office. “Mr. Bannon is not available,” said his secretary in a sensual purr.

“I need two minutes from him. Now!” I hung up and prayed. Then I opened the suit bag.

The ombre Halston Heritage strapless dress with a sweetheart neckline. High-heeled sandals in bags at the bottom. Stannis had packed for me. Which, while it was a lovely thought—as the last thing I wanted to see was a reminder of that morning—it meant we were going out. And I hadn't done my hair. I looked in the mirror. A complete and total nightmare. Slicked with massage oil, the best I could manage was a fast French twist.

I zipped the cocktail dress back in the bag, put on my shirtdress and evening sandals, and tossed the Weitzman ankle boots in the garbage.

I had to ask for more time.

“C'mon, Hank,” I muttered under my breath in the empty locker room. “Please.”

Predator
sounded on my iPhone. “Hank?”

“What's the scrape, Scotch Tape?”

“That choke coil . . . It's been extinguished, right?”

“Hold.” He disappeared for thirty seconds, then came back as if he'd never left. “Clipped. No longer live. Hold.”

I put makeup on with one hand for a minute before he returned and said, “Why?”

“No chance it was . . . er . . . connected to another . . . sparker?”
Cripes. I need a course in basic electricity.

“No.” His voice turned to ice. “Report.”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “A crow walked over my grave.”

“Hold.”

Four minutes later, makeup finished, phone at my ear, I collected my things and moved toward the door of the locker room.

Hank came back on. “You okay?”

“Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“You need anything, call Ragnar. He's ready and waiting.”

“Everything's fine.”

“Sure. Keep your head down.” He hung up.

I slipped the phone into my jacket pocket and went out to the lobby to beg Stannis for more time. He was on the phone. Speaking Russian. I caught the words
Chyornyj Yastreb.
Black Hawk.

Stannis looked up to see me, gave me the finger and thumb “okay” sign, and said into the phone. “
Da. Ty pravy. Beda v moyom dome dolzhna zhit
.” He turned and walked a few steps down the hallway.

I sat down next to Kon. “Russian, right? What did he say?”

He shrugged. “The trouble must live in his home.”

A new attendant in a black dress stopped in front of me. “Miss McGrane? This way, please.”

“Uh, look, I came out because I need time to wash my hair.”

“That won't be necessary, Ms. McGrane. Mr. Renko has arranged for a special service.”

I stood, handed Kon the suit bag, and followed the attendant into a private salon room.

“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” She held out a thin black cotton robe for me to put on over the shirtdress.

“Sure.”
Why the heck not?

She opened the bottle in the room. Bollinger. A good year, too.

I sat down and she fixed a nylon gown at my neck. I sat, drinking champagne and feeling pretty damn terrific. Hearing Hank's voice was the capper. I was utterly relaxed, my nails looked pristine, and my hair was about to be blown out and straight-ironed.

Hard to feel the yips when you look like a million bucks.
The attendant was letting me take my time, apparently. A few moments later Stannis and a man with a shaggy mane of dark hair entered the room. I blinked in recognition. Jo' Paris, the famous stylist.

He came over and shook my hand. “Ready to be the best version of you?”

“Yes?” I said warily.

Jo' ran his hands through my hair, examined several strands before speaking in French to the attendant, who disappeared into another room. Jo' followed her.

Stannis came up behind me, smiling at me in the mirror. He put his hands on my shoulders and said softly into my ear, “My sister . . . Her hair was melted copper.”

“You are my
Vatra Anđeo,
” he said. “My fire angel.”

I smiled weakly. “Yes. I am.”