A week later, I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing Dan and Kat’s marriage ceremony at the courthouse. It was satisfying to see my friends finally embark on the relationship I always knew they were destined for—not to mention it was also a huge relief to hear the I dos that signaled I was officially off the hook for helping Kat out of her predicament.
Bonus: I was in possession of one hilarious wedding video of my friends macking on each other with complete abandon. It was going to come in handy the next time I wanted to bust Dan’s balls. After the macaron bomb prank, he had it coming.
The next day, after a reportedly long, difficult labor, Janie and Quinn welcomed baby Desmond. Once word got out, all the staff in the residence were wearing happy smiles and talking excitedly about the baby.
On our way into the building, Charles, our doorman, asked, “Are they bringing him home tomorrow, Mr. Thompson?”
I didn’t know.
As we passed the desk Larry said, “I bought him a teddy bear. Do you think the baby will like teddy bears, Mr. Thompson?”
I didn’t know.
In the elevator, I wondered aloud how many days old a baby was before they opened their eyes. Ken said babies weren’t kittens and, oh my God, wasn’t I an uncle, how did I not know this?
One thing I did know: Ken was so fun to mess with.
Dan left for his Australia trip that night, and Kat moved into his apartment. We spent several hours together over the next week. And though she’d tried fishing for information about the mystery man I was seeing, I still resisted telling her about him. It wasn’t normal, and I didn’t understand why—besides it being a habit to keep people out of my business—I kept up the secrecy. Checking the hallway before we left the apartment and exiting the elevator first to scan the lobby was becoming tedious. The longer we were together, the more ridiculous my efforts seemed. I needed to just rip the Band-Aid off and let everyone know we were a couple. But, honestly, the unveiling of Ken to Ernesto didn’t exactly go well. I was still annoyed and avoiding him, and I didn’t need more of that same judgment from anyone else. Maybe it was for the best that I kept Ken under wraps for a bit longer.
On Friday, I went up to the penthouse with Kat and Stan to see Janie and the baby. Quinn let us in, and since it was the first time I’d seen him since Desmond’s arrival, I shook his hand and congratulated him. He gave me a terse, thank you, then stalked back to stand by Janie’s side. I didn’t know why I was disappointed, but I was. Quinn had never been given to chitchat or small talk, and he looked haggard, to be honest. I got it. He was tired, probably unsure and slightly nervous about having a tiny human to take care of. And, I bet my bonus, he wasn’t keen on visitors coming in to gawk at the baby or tiring Janie. Still, he gave Kat a tiny smile and later, pulled Stan aside for a conversation.
Elizabeth was also there, and she kept giving me…looks. Knowing looks. Squinty-eyed, suspicious looks. Those looks turned devilish when she said, “So, Steven, what have you been…doing…lately?”
Ken would have been so proud of me, my face was blank—not one muscle betraying anything when I answered, “You know, stuff and things.”
“Stuffing things?” she asked wryly, cupping her hand around her ear like she was hard of hearing.
I glared at her, but it was completely ruined by the small smile playing on my lips. I gave my head a little shake and turned back to Janie, who was cradling her son. The baby had been sleeping since before we arrived, so I hadn’t had a chance to see his eyes. That thought spurred me to pull my phone out and send Ken a text.
ME: This kid hasn’t opened his eyes once. He’s six days old. I think you need to go back to medical school. :P
I didn’t get a text back until almost seven, long after I’d escaped the penthouse and Elizabeth’s gaze.
DKM: Shh, my degree is in veterinary medicine. They haven’t caught on yet.
I smiled at his goofy response. Who said DKM wasn’t funny? He was a riot.
DKM: I just picked up my race packet. I need to be out the door by 4:30 tomorrow morning to catch the shuttle, so no sexy time tonight. I need to conserve my energy.
The half-marathon he was running was the next day. He’d been excited about it all week. I understood his excitement and competitiveness, but no sex? This was crazy talk.
ME: Sure, sure. But wouldn’t a blow job relax you and help you get to sleep faster? I mean, if you’d rather do your breathing exercises, that’s fine too…
His response was almost immediate.
DKM: You make a compelling argument…
DKM: I’ll be home soon.
By 8:30, Ken was out like a light, dreaming sweet dreams. I, however, was restless, so I got up and watched television for a while, checked my email and opened my physical mail.
I had two brightly colored envelopes in the pile that looked like greeting cards or birthday cards. My birthday wasn’t for a few more months, so I was curious. No return address on either and my name written in the same handwriting wasn’t a good sign. I had my suspicions about the sender before I opened them.
The first card, in a pink envelope, showed a photo of a lipstick-wearing gorilla smiling widely, displaying impressively scary, yellow teeth and fangs. The smile looked deranged, and even though nothing about this situation was funny, I laughed.
Above the gorilla were the words, “IT WOULD BE TOTALLY BANANAS…” When I opened the card, the printed message ended with “…IF YOU WERE MY VALENTINE.”
“He’s a lunatic,” I whispered. Did this guy have unused Valentine’s Day cards hanging around his house? Did he stock up in February so he could woo men year-round?
“ROSES ARE RED
VILETS ARE BLUE
LOSE THE GUY
OR I’M GONNA HURT YOU”
Crazy and stupid, what a combo…
I grabbed the next card. It was in a neon orange envelope, with a drawn picture of a corgi under a word bubble with the phrase, “HEY CORGEOUS” printed in shiny block letters.
Inside, the handwritten note started on the left side, in decent handwriting, but as it got closer to the bottom, the words became sloppy.
“I’m sorry, come back to the Male and we can talk about it. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Forgive me. I love you. Why do you want to make me jealous? I’m not nice when I’m jealous. Ditch him and we can start over. I promise I’ll be better. I won’t hurt you I promise. I won’t hurt you unless you try to hurt me again. If I see you with him again, I’ll know you are trying to fuck me up and I’ll fuck you up, do you understand? I’LL FUCK YOU UP SO HARD NO ONE WILL RECOGNIZE YOU! Meet at our place on Saturday. I love you.”
The pain behind my eye was coming back. Every time things started to seem like they were settling down, King had to pop up. Maybe this was going to be his modus operandi. Maybe I’d get cards or letters or pictures every few weeks until he got bored. I hoped he got bored very soon, because this was getting old.
I had to hide the cards. If Ken saw them, he’d go to Quinn. I knew he would. He said he would. But…Quinn wasn’t in a particularly generous and understanding mood lately, nor was I his favorite person on staff. If he found out I’d let a nutcase into his building—the same building where his wife slept, he’d be furious.
I told Ken he’d murder me and throw me into the lake, but that wasn’t the worst thing he could do, honestly.
He could fire me.
Quinn had never warmed to me. I knew it, I felt it. But he’d put a lot of trust and faith in me and that had been enough.
I looked around at the apartment. It was luxurious, no doubt. But it was also home. This apartment, this building, it felt like home in a way no place had since childhood. Cipher Systems wasn’t just my source of income, it was a career that fulfilled me. My coworkers were my friends, neighbors, family. If he fired me, I’d lose everything.
With these thoughts swimming in my head, I took the cards and stuffed them into a magazine then tucked the magazine into the bottom drawer of my desk in the spare room. I wanted to throw them away, tear them to pieces, but part of me knew that the day might come when I needed them as evidence. I hoped that day would never come, but I had to be smart about it. I’d deal with this when I could, when I needed to.
I still didn’t have anything law enforcement would care about, so what was the point in making a stink? There wasn’t one.
Ken wouldn’t see it that way.
Just to prove my point that Cipher Systems was a kick-ass, awesome family to be a part of, I got to be in a posse on Tuesday evening.
A posse in a showdown with the enemy, Caleb Tyson.
Ken arrived home after going to the gym and headed straight for the shower. I forgot to pick up my mail from Larry on my way up and decided to dash down and grab it to make sure there were no new greeting cards from King.
When I approached the concierge desk, Lawrence handed me the mail.
“Here you are, Mr.—” He cut his sentence short, glancing quickly at the entrance of the building. A flash of worry crossed his features, but he quickly masked it as he swept up the handset of the desk phone and dialed.
I stiffened when I saw the large group coming through the glass doors.
A man in a bespoke suit entered and was immediately flanked by two uniformed police officers. Behind them were ten identically dressed men, all muscled and watchful in a manner that was a dead giveaway they were security.
Their presence was conspicuous and alarming. I had a bad, bad feeling about this.
Before the group could reach the concierge desk, Damon intercepted the leader.
“What can I do for you gentlemen this evening?”
“You can start by getting out of my way,” the man said, glaring up at Damon. “We’re here on official police business, and I have to speak to someone who isn’t a mindless goon.”
“Hey, asshole!” I took exception to his treatment of Damon. Whoever this person was, he wasn’t going to get far in here with that attitude. Fuck this guy.
I heard Larry place the handset of the phone down on the receiver and clear his throat. “Officers, maybe I can be of service to you.” He flicked his eyes to Damon, and I saw him issue a subtle nod.
Damon stepped back and allowed the group to proceed to the desk. I stayed rooted to the spot directly in front of Larry, unwilling to concede any space to the man. It was deliberately antagonistic, but he’d pissed me off.
“I demand you release—” he started to say to Larry but stopped when he realized I wasn’t getting out of his way. He looked to me and snarled, “Move.”
Instead of stepping out of his way, I leaned into the counter, draping my arm along it, making sure I was taking up as much room as I could. “So, this is police business, huh?” I asked. “Are you a detective?” I swept my eyes down his form, in an obvious perusal. “That looks like a suit a detective might wear.”
Oh, and didn’t that just piss him off. I smirked, knowing he’d take offense. His suit was tailor-made and of the finest quality. There was no way a Chicago detective could ever afford what he was wearing. Insinuating that his suit looked cheap got him right in the ego.
“I’m not a detective,” he replied stiffly. “I’m the CEO of—”
“But I thought you said this was police business,” I interrupted. “If you’re not the police, who are you to make any demands?”
He wasn’t a lawyer, wasn’t the head of a government agency. The way I figured it, cooperating with him wasn’t necessary. If these police officers wanted something, they were going to have to speak up.
“I have a court order!” he snapped.
“For what, exactly?”
One of the officers side-stepped me and gestured for Larry to move down the counter.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the man said, deliberately pushing his cuffs back to look at his watch. It was a Rolex, and he made sure I saw it.
Behind me, I heard the officer say Kathleen Caravel-Tyson.
I whirled around, startled. The cop looked at me curiously, so I wiped my face of expression.
Kat.
They were here for Kat, and this slimy, entitled asshole was Caleb Tyson. I should have made the connection. Over the years I’d seen a few pictures of him, but, boy oh boy, those snapshots had no way of conveying the sheer and immediate repugnancy of his aura. He was Vile Level: Mr. Burns Meets Patrick Bateman.
Kat’s ‘Uncle’ Eugene hadn’t been overstating this clusterfuck, obviously, because here her cousin stood, prepared with a court order, police backup, and his own hired muscle.
Kat and Dan had their certificate—had irrefutable proof of their marriage—but I still didn’t want Kat to have to be a part of this or be afraid. The spectacle of security-overkill and police presence was meant to be intimidating. It would be for the best if Dan could handle Caleb alone. I knew he was back from Australia but had no idea if he was in the building.
Please say Kat’s not here, Larry, I begged silently. Please, Please.
“There is no one in the building by that name, officer,” the concierge replied smoothly.
“That’s impossible!” Caleb said, pushing by me to get in Larry’s face. “I have a witness! What about Kat Tanner?”
Unperturbed, Larry repeated, “There’s no one in the building by that name.”
Caleb pounded his fist. “Bullshit!”
The officer raised his voice to interrupt whatever tantrum Tyson was about to unleash and asked, “Is there a lease or tenant registry you can search?”
“Yes, sir, but I can tell you, you won’t find any Tanners or Caravels on the list. And the only Tyson is a seventy-year-old widower.”
Damn, Larry was good. I wanted to reach over and give him a big kiss on his weathered cheek. Feeling cheered, I leaned close to Caleb and said, “Looks like you’re shit outta luck, Detective Douche.”
“Steven,” Quinn said abruptly, approaching the desk.
I straightened, took in his stony expression, and stepped away from Caleb.
“A word.” The order was accompanied by a tilt of his head toward the seating area.
We stood by the settee and Quinn’s eyes surveilled the room, taking in Caleb’s watchful security personnel. His jaw ticked, a telltale signal of his leashed anger. “Don’t try to help,” he said under his breath, making sure he wasn’t overheard. “You might do more harm than good, so don’t say anything.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked back to the concierge desk.
“Don’t say anything, he says,” I muttered to myself, peevishly. What made him think I would say anything? I was a motherfucking vault and he knew it. And, don’t try to help? What the hell was that about? I was the only one in this room who witnessed the marriage. I was selected precisely to be the designated helper. I had video recording—on my person—that would shut this shit down in no time flat.
Whatever. Quinn was the boss. Stan was guarding Kat when Dan was gone, so that made this his concern. I agreed that the less said now, the better. We all had to have our stories straight and let Kat and Dan lead this show. Did I know what date Dan had finagled to have put on their official marriage license? No, I did not. Therefore, I wasn’t going to say jack shit.
Quinn didn’t need to pull me aside and verbalize the importance of playing it close to the vest. It was a given. At least, I thought it was. If he was worried about my discretion, then there was trouble. Discretion, confidentiality—these were paramount when working for Cipher. Not for the first time, I doubted his trust in me.
“I have a witness that says my cousin lives here, and I demand you produce her now, Mr. Sullivan.”
Tyson’s raised voice broke through my ruminations. This situation was becoming volatile. The longer Quinn prevaricated the more frustrated Caleb became.
I heard a voice come over a radio saying, “I have eyes on the target, over,” and Quinn’s posture went rigid. Caleb smirked.
One of the officers spoke into his radio, “Secure target and hold position. We’ll be right out, over.”
Kat was here. If luck was on our side, then Dan was too. If he wasn’t, then I was going to have to stand up and vouch for her marital status. I looked around the room to gauge the tension level. Damon was standing at his post near the elevator. His eyes were watchful, but other than his eerie stillness, he betrayed no hint of stress.
A message came through that Kat was married, and Caleb’s smug face morphed into outrage. He reached over and yanked on the radio at the officer’s shoulder. “She’s not married, she’s crazy. You can’t believe a word she says.”
“Target doesn’t look crazy to me, sir,” the static-crackled voice replied. “Nor does her husband…”
I relaxed my shoulders at this news. Dan was here. He’d no doubt have documentation to back up their story, and there was no way in hell he’d let her be taken into custody—not Caleb’s and not the Chicago PD’s.
As Caleb yelled into the radio, arguing with another officer, Quinn shook his head, casting looks at the police and security as if to say, can you believe this guy?
I smiled in spite of my earlier irritation with him. He let Caleb dig his own grave by thwarting and frustrating him until he let his emotions reveal himself to the police for what he was. It worked. The policemen were sighing and moving around like they were at the end of their patience with him too.
Quinn was such a badass. A jerk, yeah, but still a badass.
Finally, the officer whose radio had been commandeered by Caleb, wrested the handset from him and pulled him aside for what seemed to be a heated exchange. In the end, Kat’s cousin appeared to win the argument because he shouted, “Court order!” again, turned toward the door, and led his group outside.
I heard steps to my right and found eight more of our security personnel entering the lobby. The other guards, Damon included, moved forward toward Quinn, awaiting instruction. Voices came from the elevator and Alex emerged, making a beeline for Quinn. He was followed by his wife Sandra, Nico, Ashley Winston, and a giant of a man I knew, based on descriptive gossip, had to be Ashley’s mountain-man boyfriend, Drew.
As soon as Alex stepped next to Quinn, Quinn looked to the dozen men and said, “Let’s go.”
The rest of us let security proceed, but as soon as we were clear to exit, Sandra looked to me, pushed up her shirt sleeves and said, “I guess this ya-hoo didn’t get the memo that knitters have posses. Let’s go get our girl.”