Page 42 of The Fallen Man
Call Me
Jackson looked at the napkin again as he got into his car.
Call for coat.
It was the least sexy pick-up line from the sexiest bartender slash model on the planet. Maybe she knew she didn’t have to try to get what she wanted. When he’d carried her out of the House of Amery, he’d been entirely aware of her ass in his hand, the warm curve of it that seemed to fit just right. Then the vultures had descended, stripped her naked, and left her freezing and horrified. He’d been both turned on and horrified on her behalf. Fashion seemed like a hard way to make a living. He’d buttoned her into his coat and found himself staring into a pair of big eyes that were pure amber gold, and just like in the alley, he’d felt like they’d connected. Then that friend of hers had assessed him, correctly, as a threat, and he’d realized he was manhandling a mostly naked girl in a parking lot.
Call for coat.
It was also possible that she hadn’t noticed a damn thing and just wanted to return his coat.
He’d tried to swing by the bar area after the show had gotten out, but everything was already broken down, and the staff was buzzing in all directions. He hadn’t wanted to detour anyone to find Katie. It felt like a dickhead rich guy thing to do. Evan and Olivia had disappeared earlier, which was fine. They hated public shit anyway—they always turned up their noses at the booze—but Eleanor had declared that some Deveraux had to attend, and it was their turn on the rotation. Although, tonight, at least Evan hadn’t complained once and seemed perfectly happy with whatever he was drinking.
Jackson was about to pull out of the parking lot when he saw Katie exit the building. She crossed the parking lot, probably heading toward the metro station a few blocks up. As Katie left the VAR property, a guy got out of his car and went toward her. She said something and detoured around him. He turned and walked after her, reaching out a hand to pull on her arm. She pushed his hand off and kept going.
Jackson reversed the car and pulled up in front of them. The guy was back at it, angling in front of her and blocking her path.
“Get out of my way!” snapped Katie, posturing up as the guy got closer to her.
“I just want to talk,” said the guy, his thick Russian accent triggered the memory of Chicago summers and the gritty, dusty feeling of his childhood.
“Hey!” yelled Jackson getting out of the car.
“Piss off,” snarled the man, barely glancing over his shoulder at Jackson’s approach. Jackson thought he was maybe five-foot-seven, but had clearly been hitting the ‘roid cycle. The tattoos on his neck said prison, the off the rack suit that had been tailored and nice haircut said decent money. The accent said Russian mafia, but that was a stereotype. He could just be an off the street asshole.
“Ebat’ ????,”snapped Jackson, taking a position comfortably out of reach, but close enough for trouble. The man looked him over more warily this time.Fuck youwasn’t the same in Ukrainian and Russian, but most Russians knew what it meant.
“This isn’t any of your business,” said the man, still in English.
“YA zroblyu tse svoyim,”said Jackson, then turned his attention pointedly to Katie. “Ready to go?”
“Yes,” she said, looking nervous. She made as if to step around the Russian, but he grabbed her bag. Jackson let out a snarl that surprised even him and took a step forward.
“Call me,” said the Russian, shoving a business card intoKatie’s purse before stalking away angrily toward a black SUV across the street.
Katie let out an angry breath and looked at Jackson as if searching for words.
“Russians,” said Jackson, shaking his head. “Am I, right?”
Katie laughed in surprise. He went back to the car and opened the passenger door. She hesitated.
“I don’t think he drove any further than the corner,” said Jackson and she shivered and got in the car.
“You don’t actually have to drive me home,” she said as he got behind the wheel. “I think you’ve reached your quota for rescuing me this week. The metro station is fine.” Jackson wasn’t about to leave her at a late-night metro station with a stalker watching her every move.
“I don’t mind driving you.”
“I live in kind of a shitty neighborhood.”
“All neighborhoods are shitty,” he said. “They’re full of people, and people are shitty. Some just tidy up better than others.”
“You’re a real believer in humanity,” she said, sounding amused.
“I believe,” he said. “I just believe that we’re usually shitty with periodic moments of grace.”
He wished he hadn’t said that. On the other hand, philosophy in the dark seemed like Katie’s thing.
“I can go with that attitude,” she said. “I don’t know what the car thieves in my neighborhood think, but if you park too long, maybe we can ask.”
