Page 24 of Riot Reunion
12c.
The door looks normal. Unassuming. There are two spy holes, though.Two. One at head height and then a second at waist height. Why the fuck would there be another peephole halfway down the door? An alarming thought occurs to me—I’ve heard being shot in the stomach is one of the most agonizing, miserable ways to die—and I immediately step to one side, rapping my knuckles against the wood.
Silence.
I take a deep breath in through my nose, and then knock again, much louder this time. The door rips open, throwing a pillar of blazing yellowed light into the dimly lit hallway…and there stands Michael Aubertin. Slick as ever in a crisp, tailored black suit, the man who took Carrie in and cared for her when she needed help most casts a disapproving look over me as he straightens out the cufflinks at his wrists.
“There you are,” he says.
“Here I am.”
“I’m running late.” He disappears back into the apartment without another word. I assume I’m supposed to enter and follow after him? I do so, hissing out a string of curse words under my breath that would make my grandmother spin in her grave.
The apartment is ridiculous. Of course, it is. High-end, beautifully crafted furniture; a loaded bar cart. Stunning artwork. Plush charcoal rugs underfoot. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a spectacular city skyline. There is a distinctly masculine vibe to the place, though for some reason, it doesn’t feel like Michael’s vibe, per se. I cast a look around, searching out all of these people that Mason told me were up here, but there’s only Michael as far as I can tell. He doesn’t say anything. Just jerks his head toward a doorway, leading into another room. The guy is calm enough. That’s good, I think. Though, I get the impression that Michael Aubertin is always calm, no matter the situation. That’s what makes him so fucking scary.
I stay on his heels as we move through to a massive living room; a gilded chandelier hangs from the fifteen-foot-high ceiling, cut crystals casting a rainbow of light over the walls. A TV sits atop an antique-looking sideboard, the sound muted, the screen displaying some kind of anime show. And opposite, on the far side of the room, perched on the edge of a vast L-shaped sectional couch, sits a little boy.
He looks up, startled, when he registers that Michael has returned with someone. His liquid brown eyes meet mine, pensive and unsure, and I’m struck by the intelligence I find gazing back at me. He’s four, maybe? Five at most. A mop of unruly dark brown hair. Pale and fine-boned. He’s small, but there’s a tough set to his shoulders. With his back straight, chin held high, he looks to Michael and speaks in a high-pitched yet certain voice. “You said he was bringing pop-tarts.”
Michael ruffles the boy’s hair, smiling affectionately down at him. “I know. I promised, didn’t I?”
He nods, blinking owlishly up at the man. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Have I ever broken a promise yet?”
“No,” the boy concedes.
Michael finally turns around and meets my gaze properly. “The case, Dash. I’ll take it now, thanks.”
I look down at the hard case Genesis gave to me back at The Creston, a horrified realization coiling around my insides.
Pop Tarts?
Pop Tarts?
The fuck kind of game is this guy playing? Numbly, I approach Michael and the boy, offering out the case. My temper spikes when Michael opens up the damn thing, and yep, sure enough, there are a bunch of Pop tart packets inside.
Nothing at all except the Pop Tarts.
The boy claps his hand over his mouth, eyes bright with excitement. “Oh mygod,” he exclaims. “That’ssomany flavors!”
“Right? Genny hooked you up. Which one you wanna have first?”
“Chocolate! Chocolate!” The little boy bounces up and down on the edge of the sofa.
I can’t stop myself. I have to say something. “Seriously? You could have Doordash-ed Pop-Tarts. Or had that rude guy who drove me over here bring you some. What the hell?”
The little boy gasps, attention flicking back to me; he grins impishly. “Youswore.”
“Didnot.”
“You’re supposed to say…” He chews his bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth, “…H. E. Double hockey sticks.”
“That’s right, buddy. We get in trouble if we swear, don’t we? Should we give Dash a frowny face on the chart?”
The little boy considers me for a second, then shakes his head. “We will…give…” He holds up a small index finger. “He getsonepass.”
“Very magnanimous of you,” I say.
