Page 39 of Volt
“I’m sure it is. You guys have never stiffed me before.”
I shrug. “We pay for good work—and discretion.”
“And from me, you get both.”
“Appreciate it, Leonard. As always.”
“My pleasure.”
Adam and I both head back to the van. I’m ready to get home. I plan on taking a hot shower then sleeping until noon tomorrow. If not later. These late-night surveillance ops are killing me. I’m suddenly feeling a hell of a lot older than my twenty-six years.
Chapter Sixteen
Fallon
It’s closing in on three in the morning and I’m sitting on Blake’s porch, waiting for him to come home. But then, I don’t know if he’s going to be coming home or not. It’s been well over a week since we last spoke, and I’m more than a little nervous sitting here. For all I know, he’s already moved on and is out with somebody new. Maybe he’s even bringing her home. Talk about awkward as hell.
The more I think about it, the more I realize what a bad idea this is. After going this long without talking, I can’t just show up at his house like this and expect everything to be all right. I mean, we only had a couple of nice conversations and one really good night. What can I expect of him? Yeah, this is a horribly bad idea.
I get to my feet, intending to walk to my car, which is parked in his driveway, when I hear the roar of a motorcycle engine drawing closer. It freezes me in place. My heart is thundering in my chest, and my veins are flowing with a white-hot adrenaline that makes me tremble. Too late to disappear into the shadows of the night now, I suppose.
The headlight splashes over me as Blake pulls into his driveway. He sits astride his bike looking at me for a moment from behind his yellow-tinted glasses. I don’t know what he’s thinking but he doesn’t seem overly pleased or excited to see me. It sends a cold chill through me. But he pulls his bike in closer to the garage and cuts the engine then dismounts. With his back to me, he takes off his helmet and gloves, apparently giving himself a minute to figure out the politest way to tell me to fuck off.
But then he turns around and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stares at me with a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s then I notice the bruises on his face and the fact that his nose is swollen. I’d say it’s from a bar fight, but something tells me it’s from something else. Something that maybe I don’t want to know about.
“It’s been a little while,” he says.
I nod. “I’ve been meaning to call…”
My voice trails off as I listen to my words and hear how lame they sound even to my own ears. I wring my hands together at my waist and look at him, trying to figure out how to speak again since I’ve apparently lost the ability.
“It’s late,” he says.
“Yeah, I got off my shift at the Grizz about an hour ago,” I say. “Listen, can we talk inside?”
“Sure,” he says, his voice colder than a glacier.
He walks to his door and unlocks it then steps aside and lets me go in first. The first thing that strikes me is how clean and organized his place is. Everything has a place and everything’s in its place. This is a man who is fastidious about his home, and I suddenly feel like an absolute slob. The second thing that strikes me is that this is definitely a guy’s place. I’d venture to guess a woman has never lived here. Either that or he was very thorough in erasing every trace of her.
The living room is set up like a man cave. Oh, it’s got nice furniture—sofa, love seat, bookcases, coffee table, end tables, and all the trimmings. But against the far wall is a flat-screen TV as large as a movie theater screen and what looks like every single gaming system ever made. And in front of the TV are a pair of large plush beanbags. The TV is flanked by a nice pair of what looks like cherrywood bookcases and the one on the right is filled with video games—all of them sorted by game system and then alphabetically. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Blake has a few OCD tendencies.
And the thing that makes me smile is that I see he wasn’t kidding when he said he was kind of into art. His walls are filled with pieces I know well. Prints obviously, but I see he’s got Caravaggio, Kandinsky, Munch, Goya, and others. His taste runs a little bit to the darker side of things which makes me understand why he was interested in my work.
“Beer?” he asks brusquely as he closes the door and heads for the kitchen.
“Yeah, sure.”
His tone is so abrupt it takes me off guard and reinforces the notion that this was a really bad idea. It’s like he’s not even the same person I met at the Grizz. I hear the clank of bottles in the kitchen, and a moment later, he comes out and hands me one.
“Have a seat,” he says.
I take a seat on the couch, and he drops down onto the love seat as if he wants to stay as far away from me as he can. I guess I can’t really blame him. To go this long without so much as a text message, let alone returning any of his calls, is a pretty shitty thing to do. And I feel bad about it. That’s why I’m here tonight.
“So… how are you?” I ask.
It’s a stupid thing to ask, I know. But I’m trying to get used to speaking again since I felt like I was struck totally mute out in the driveway. Being able to force words out, even as lame as that, is a good first step toward finding my voice again.
“I’m doin’ all right, thanks,” he replies. “You?”
