Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(17)
Author: M. Leighton

I power the phone up and scroll through the list of contacts until I find Dmitry’s number. I text it to a second phone, that of a burner that also resides in the locker. One of several burner phones, actually. Someone in my line of work and with my family history can never have too many. I get them with no GPS and very limited . . . everything. I can use them, then trash them, leaving no trace that could ever lead back to me.

After another casual assessment of my surroundings, I secure the locker and drop the key back in my boot. I take the burner phone to an empty bench and hit the send button.

It rings several times before a familiar gruff voice says three short, heavily accented words.

“Leave me message.” A beep follows.

“It’s Nikolai,” I begin. It’s the name Dmitry gave me from the moment we met. I had to be someone other than Greg Davenport’s son, Nash. I had to be someone else entirely. “I, uh, I need to talk to you. It’s really something I’d rather discuss in person, though. If you can make it to the place I first met you, about the same time, in two days, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Dmitry.”

I hang up, knowing he’ll understand my message perfectly. And I know in two days, he’ll be there if at all possible. The boat shouldn’t be pulling out for another week or so, so it should be no problem for him to get there.

Punching a few keys to erase all traces of the text and the call, I get up and walk toward the exit, nonchalantly dropping the phone in a trash can as I pass.

As I make my way back to Cash’s car, my mind flickers back over the past seven years’ worth of conversations with Dmitry. He told me dozens of stories involving him and Dad. Nothing too scandalous; just mischief they got into in the early years. Evidently they both got into the business about the same time.

They made their way through the ranks, my father eventually going into the money-laundering side, Dmitry into the smuggling side. They remained friends and confidants, which is why Dad had Dmitry as an emergency exit strategy. It’s not that he would’ve risked our safety with a smuggler; it’s just that he trusted Dmitry above all others.

And now I’m about to trust Dmitry. And I’m about to ask for his help. It’s a big favor, one that he might not be willing to grant, but it’s worth asking. Things might’ve degraded to where he’s one of three or four linchpins on which our only shot of making this right depends. Only time will tell, but I have to start somewhere. I have to do something. I need a plan A and a plan B. I can’t let this go. And even though Cash said he has no intention of letting it go, I don’t trust that it’s as important to him to see this through. At least not as important as it is to me. I just don’t trust anyone that much. Not even family. I’ve been on my own too long for that to change. Maybe one day. But I doubt it.

My conscience prickles. Here I am, hesitating to fully trust anyone when I myself would be considered by most to be untrustworthy. I’ve become so driven, I let very little get in my way, especially if it’s a matter of something like “right” standing in the path of what I want or need. The life that I was forced into is one of survival of the fittest with a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude. It’s hard to shake those habits and make a smooth return to the civilized world.

A pair of bright blue eyes watches me from the back of my mind. My conscience stabs me again. I wonder what she’d think if she knew everything. Everything I’ve done.

Especially the things that involve her.

Unlocking the car, I slide behind the wheel and put all such deep, bothersome thoughts out of my head. Some things aren’t good to dwell on. This is one of them.

Pushing the start button on Cash’s BMW, I pull out of the parking lot and turn back toward his condo. I need to work out two plans, down to the last detail. I can’t afford surprises. One of them has to succeed.

* * *

After a few hours spent researching on the computer, I’m very ready for a break, even if that break involves a tuxedo and a bunch of rich ass**les. I don’t give a shit about them; it’s Marissa I’m looking forward to spending time with. And I’m not even going to pretend my motives aren’t one hundred percent selfish.

I need a delicious, feminine body to lose myself in, to bury my troubles in. Even if it’s just for a little while. And although I could probably find any number of willing partners, she’s the one I want. For many reasons, one of which, I’m sure, is the fact that she’s a spoiled little rich girl.

I know I could probably go there right now and have sex with her, but I’m enjoying this little game we’ve got going on that’s leading up to it. It’s another form of distraction, and I welcome it. I don’t mind getting all dressed up to continue playing just as long as she doesn’t start expecting more. I’ve already warned her about me. I hope she’s not fool enough to ignore that warning.

I tug at the snug collar of my crisp, white shirt. I’ve worn a tuxedo exactly one time in my life. My junior prom. I don’t remember it feeling nearly so constrictive. As I shrug my shoulders inside the perfectly cut material, I realize it’s not the suit that’s suffocating me; it’s life.

I’m not adjusting nearly as well as I’d imagined I would. I had this vision of landing back in real life as if no time had passed, as if nothing had happened and I was the same guy I was when I left. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is called denial. Ain’t she a bitch?

I’m a few minutes early when I reach Marissa’s door. I try the knob, but it’s locked.

At least she’s got some kind of brain!

I could use the key on Cash’s set, but I don’t. I ring the bell instead.

It takes her a couple of minutes to answer. I guess beauty like hers takes time. And when she flips the lock and appears in the open doorway, I realize it’s worth every second.

Damn, she’s gorgeous.

Marissa’s tall, lean body is wrapped in a black dress that was made to hug her. From where the strap sits on only one shoulder to where the material loosens just past her knees and falls to the floor, it fits her like a second skin. Every sleek curve is perfectly delineated, and the strappy heels she’s wearing make her legs look that much longer.

Her blond hair looks like a platinum wave gushing over her one bare shoulder, and her skin glows like liquid gold. But it’s those damn eyes that get me. Vivid blue orbs that look both innocent and seductive all at the same time. And she’s always watching me with them. Curiously. Intently. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s imagining. If she’s remembering . . .