Chapter Eight

Nick walked around the show in a quiet buzz, drinking a gin and tonic. Jeanne had been introducing him as her “special assistant” all night. While his contribution had only been doing whatever Jeanne told him: “A little more to the left; no, back again. Good. Go get the blue box,” Nick was still proud of the end result. There was the art—the large pieces by Margo’s husband as well as many smaller arrangements of whatever had caught Jeanne’s eye that added to the atmosphere. But the design museum where they had set up had also contributed other pieces, things Jeanne thought fit the look—and Nick had helped her arrange those as well.

He understood now why Jeanne and Roger had insisted on buying him clothes. The circles Jeanne moved in were nosebleed-inducing in their social status. Luckily, Nick didn’t have to dress to quite those heights. But still, he was glad for a good suit. And I have an even better one coming. A real deal bespoke suit. Me.

“This is a new life for you, Nick,” Jeanne had told him as she helped him tie an honest-to-goodness bow tie. “You can completely reinvent yourself if you choose.”

Now he was relaxed and happy, content to be just the assistant, in the background, unnoticed by anyone. Almost anyone.

“Well, well, Nick Erickson. Aren’t you looking glamorous!” It was Lena. Nick hugged her and immediately dragged her off to the side.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “It’s so good to see you!”

“I love these things,” Lena said. “A chance to go out and schmooze with the fancy people. How are you doing? Is it great? Do you love it?”

“It’s amazing,” he said. “God, Lena, I can’t believe how lucky I got.”

“Peterson was pissed,” she said. She made no effort to hide the satisfaction in her voice. “There was nothing he could say or do. I mean, even if he admitted he was firing you—he would have to say why. And his Excellency isn’t about to come down on someone for socializing with his poker buddy.”

“Yeah, he wanted me away, but quietly,” Nick said. He didn’t want to dwell on it. “How is Morris? And Robbie?”

“They are great. Come out with us next week? There is that little dive bar the Marines go to. It will give you a break from all this.” She flicked his bow tie.

“Hey, hey,” Nick said, straightening it. “Don’t mess with it. I have no idea how to retie it. But yeah. I love that idea. We don’t have anything going on next week.”

“Okay I have dinner reservations so I gotta run,” she said. “But we’ll call you to set the date, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Nick said. He couldn’t stop beaming.

It was a great party. There was plenty of booze, and it appeared people were buying—just as Jeanne had predicted. Halfway through the evening Nick caught a glimpse of Graves. He laughed to see that, indeed, Graves had a gorgeous woman on his arm and was clearly laying on the charm. They came in through a blizzard of camera flashes, Graves pausing on the red carpet like it was something he did regularly.

That must be the countess in the castle. Jesus. Look at her! The woman was tall, with impossibly long legs and black hair in an updo that showed off her long neck. Her skin was pale, features Slavic. She and Graves looked like the cover of a magazine. A fancy one where people wear watches and shit.

Deciding he didn’t care at all, not even a little, Nick went to straighten one of the vases. One thing was becoming clear for Nick: he wanted to keep working for Jeanne. He loved the way the rooms looked, the way the art was placed. He wished he knew more.

He was standing by one display, trying to make heads or tails of it when a man stumbled into him. Nick was turning to help him, when he realized it was Geoffrey Peterson.

“You,” Peterson said. “I should have known you’d be here.”

“I’m doing my job,” Nick said defiantly, but his heart sank. Peterson was here? Was he here to snitch Nick out? Would he tell Jeanne?

Some of this must have shown on his face. Peterson shifted so his bulk was between Nick and the room.

“She doesn’t know you’re a child murderer, does she?”

“I didn’t—”

“Maybe she should know, Daddy Warbucks isn’t here to save you this time.” He glanced behind him, then turned back to Nick.

“What will you give me not to tell everyone in this room who you are?”

“What?” Nick couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what was happening. It was like one of his nightmares. He glanced around, expecting to see the boy in the red coat.

“What do you want?” he croaked. I have nothing. Nothing he wants. There is no way out of this!

Peterson gave him a slow up and down that made his skin crawl.

“I know all about what Daddy Warbucks is into. Did he tell you he procures for John Young? Yeah. Now how about you and me go to—”

“No,” Nick said, drawing up his fists.

“What? Does it remind you of prison?”

“I never—”

“Bullshit,” Peterson sneered. Nick shuddered. The chief of staff was drunk, flat-out plastered. He wasn’t even whispering. Anyone could hear, anyone could— Nick felt panic welling up. He needed to shut Peterson up, but if he did the right thing, which was to beat Peterson to a pulp, then nothing would stop him. Nick’s heart was pounding in his ears—his fists tightening, his legs shaking with the need for action for— Peterson put a hand on his shoulder.

“I said no!” Nick was twisting his body away, drawing his fist back to smash the man’s face when suddenly Peterson was bodily removed. Nick stumbled forward and saw that Nelson Graves had snatched Peterson up by the shoulders and thrown him against the wall. The man yelped in fear as Graves snarled something in his ear. Whatever he said, Peterson’s legs kicked helplessly and a wet patch appeared on the front of his pants.

“And I’m always watching,” Graves said, drawing back and forcing Peterson to look in his eyes. “So I am always ready to protect my own.” Dropped back to the ground, Peterson scurried off, looking over his shoulder with wide, fearful eyes. As he passed Graves’s date, she turned, her stilettoed foot happening to move in the man’s way. He tripped, bounced against her elbow and smacked onto the floor before scrambling up and running.

Graves turned back to Nick, his face worried.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, he didn’t,” Nick said. He was breathing hard, flush with adrenaline. He hated, hated, that Graves and this woman had seen him in such a position. Seen him sprawled backward and pinned instead of standing over the bastard’s unconscious body. Ten more seconds and I’d have busted his face open. Instead—

“I can fight my own fights,” he snapped. “I ain’t yours, asshole! I don’t need to be protected. Least of all by you.” Graves narrowed his eyes a moment, then sighed.

“Forgive me, I acted without thinking,” he said. The smooth English accent covered anger, or at least irritation. The two glared at each other a moment before Nick drew in a deep breath. He was being rude, something not in his makeup.

“Thank you,” he said through clenched teeth. He glanced over at the woman and gave her a nod to make sure she was included in the thanks.

“You’re most welcome,” Graves said. “Let me introduce you. This is Romanova Luckyanenk. Roma, this is Nicholas Erickson.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Nick said, shaking her hand. She had a grip like iron and seemed to be fighting a smile.

“You too,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You’re American?” Nick asked, worry snaking through him. What if she recognized him? He shifted his body away from her, glaring in the direction Peterson had gone.

“I really could have taken him,” he muttered. He shook his shoulders, trying to loosen them. Graves gave him a long slow look. It was disconcerting. He spoke just as Nick got angry all over again.

“Yes, you could have. I see that now,” Graves said. He shrugged. “But the DSS agents in his retinue would have beaten you like a drum, or simply dragged you off. Though perhaps that would have been a better time to interfere than when I did.”

Nick's face fell.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said. Suddenly he felt childish—childish and ungrateful.

“I am being literal by the way,” Graves said. “I really do see you more clearly now. You could certainly have handled yourself. I was too angry to notice.”

Eighteen months in prison, I fucking hope so, Nick thought bitterly.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked. Graves tapped his cane on the ground.

“I don’t meet many Americans. I forgot that you tend to swing first and think later,” he said. He grinned, his eyes crinkling until they all but disappeared. Behind his back, the woman rolled her eyes, throwing up her hands in exasperation. Nick bristled.

“What the fuck—” he said. “That’s rude as hell.”

“I mean it as a compliment,” Graves said, his smile gone. “You would have knocked Peterson flat and he would have deserved it. It’s a good quality. I served with a few Americans, I should have remembered. There was—”

“That doesn’t mean you get to talk to me like—”

“Oh for God’s sake,” the woman interrupted them. “Nelson, honey, pass me a smoke. Then I’m gonna find Anatoly.” She’s from New York.

Graves pulled out a gold-chased cigarette case from his pocket and handed her a joint, lighting it for her. When she took it, he stroked the top of her breast. His fingers slid into her dress, and he said something to her in what sounded like Russian. An apology maybe. She patted his face, a little harder than what seemed friendly.

Nick spun on his heel, angry and hurt and embarrassed. He headed for the doors before Graves could say anything else.

Outside. I need to go outside. What a piece of work that guy is. The wind blowing off the bay was fresh and gave Nick a chance to cool off, breathe deep. Calm himself.

“That was stupid,” he said. “He helped you, scared Peterson quiet. And you’re mad because he didn’t let you get your stupid ass sent to prison?”

Diplomatic Security Service, US Marines, the police, all of them. Nick would not have come out of that well. He would have lost everything this fragile new life had given him.

“Again,” he said, tilting his head up to the wind. “Stepped on my own dick again. Why am I so stupid?”

He turned back to the party.

I have to go find him. Thank him for real. Show a little class for once.

He was coming around the front of the building again when he saw a familiar shape turning the other way, heading down the road toward the waterfront. He was unmistakable. The size of him, the cane—Nelson Graves was easy to spot. But where was he going? Nick waited a moment but decided to follow.

If it looks like he wants to be alone, I’ll go. Otherwise, I’ll catch up and talk to him.

Along the road and down the path to the Gardens by the Bay—Graves was walking slowly, his rolling step closer to a limp. He seemed to be thinking, free hand stuffed in the pocket of his trousers, eyes down on the path in front of him.

As they got closer to the water, the crowds picked up, a mix of tourists and local couples and families out on the waterfront. The first time Nick had seen the park with its soaring towers of plants and futuristic buildings, he felt like a traveler to the future. Singapore, with its perfectly clean streets, its gleaming sky rises and trains that never ran late—it was a kind of utopia.

Until I realized that everything is illegal; they will cane you publicly if you cross the line, and it’s so expensive there is nothing to do if you’re broke.

Nick’s third week in Singapore the government had hanged a Malaysian man they claimed was smuggling drugs into the city for Red Sky. He had been carrying less than three ounces, and it had been the topic of every conversation in the embassy for weeks.

But still, the city never ceased to amaze him. There was a light show in full swing, the fountains and towers glowing and sparkling. There was music but it was hard to make out over the sounds of laughing children and people talking. Luckily, Graves was easy to follow, being so much taller than everyone. Nick stayed back; he wasn’t sure why. Something in him just wanted to watch for a moment, see what Graves did on his own without all the security and fuss that usually followed him around.

A cascade of blue sparks swooped overhead, making everyone gasp and laugh. Nick reached for the lights, already fading. When he looked back down, Graves was gone.

*

Nick spun in a circle, looking down every possible path.

How did I lose track of a six-foot-seven guy with a limp in a hundred-thousand-dollar suit?

He looked a little farther but then gave up and headed back to the road. Disappointed. That was the feeling. He had hoped…

What exactly? Hey, sir, uh, sorry I put my whole foot in my mouth. I think maybe you and I should start all over again. Hi, I’m Nick. I know you are some billionaire British lord guy but do you want to go eat ramen with a college dropout from Minnesota? I’m an ex-con, though, so if the tabloids see us be ready for that too. Okay?

“Moron,” Nick said and shook himself before stepping into the street.

It was like a replay. A roar of an engine, Nick turning, looking the wrong way again! And there was the Bugatti. Except this time it crawled slowly up beside him, the engine revving purely for show. The window slid down.

“Get in Nick.” The deep voice, the flash of a toothy grin—

“Oh,” Nick said, “it’s you.”

Inside felt like a private jet—all leather and shining chrome trim. It also felt like they were sitting on the ground. Graves had shed his tie somewhere in the interim. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a ring of tattoos low around his throat. He was leaning back in the seat, humming to himself.

The cockpit was clearly customized for its owner—more room, a bigger seat, and some kind of adaptive pedals—not something he wanted to bring up until Graves did.

“God, what a car. What is it? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Nick said.

“It is a Bugatti Chiron, and I decided I owed you a spin in her since she almost murdered you. I had the scrape taken out and the tires replaced,” Graves said. He rolled his head on his shoulders. The smile he gave Nick was crooked, not his usual confident shark grin.

“So you knew I was following you?” Nick asked.

“Of course,” Graves said and moved them back into the flow of traffic.

“I wanted to apologize to you,” Nick said. “But I couldn’t tell if you wanted to be alone. So I figured I would follow a little and see.”

“I sensed something like that,” Graves said. “I owe you an apology of my own. You’re a good lad, and I decided if I was going to sneak off, I should take you along.”

Nick couldn’t help the huge smile that split his face as the car roared to life. Even inside, the thrum was like nothing real. He whooped and saw Graves was genuinely pleased at his reaction.

“Now,” Graves said, putting the car in gear. “On some nights there is a midnight race club. You have to be a member to know the dates. They close the Grand Prix Circuit for a few hours for private racers.”

“We’re going to race?”

“Yes,” he said. Again the shifting shoulders and toothy smile. “I hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah sure—but Bishop is going to beat my ass for letting you escape again,” Nick said, glancing in the mirror. “We going to be okay without your escort?”

Graves laughed at this, a real booming laugh that made his eyes disappear. He pulled up the far side of his jacket, and Nick saw the same gun he had glimpsed at the gala. A huge, well-worn thing in a shoulder harness. Nick’s belly did a slow loop. Holy shit.

“We’ll be fine,” Graves said. “I’m a big boy, and Bishop is a bloody old hen.” He dropped his jacket again and turned them out onto the main road. “Could we start over again, Nick?” Graves said after a moment. It was such an echo of what Nick had been thinking that he let out a little snort of laughter.

“I think we had better,” Nick said. “Jeanne will be mad if we don’t.”

“That is a good point,” Graves said. “And so will my team—they decided they liked you right away.”

Nick’s heart twisted at this. Graves had no way of knowing it, but it was the nicest thing he could have said to Nick. The idea that these…badass? (Was he that shallow? Yeah, yeah, he was.) These badass guys with their guns and ear pieces liked him? Bishop liked him? Hell, if he was being honest, he had to admit that Graves’s hand on the gearshift, with its gold rings and wide palm had…appeal? He felt like his life was being turned over every time he moved. It was hard to keep up.

They drove around a little, Graves clearly amused by the attention the car got. People took pictures with their phones but Graves shrugged it off.

“The glass is one way,” he said. “No one can actually see in. A little trick of Tony’s.” They drove along the shore, and up around Singapore’s beautiful downtown. The amount of people thinned as it got later until it was nearing midnight and Graves said, “It’s time.”

He pulled the car into a lot by the Republic highway, and Nick noticed other powerful exotic cars, off under the streetlights—with rich young men shouting insults and laughing. Nick and Graves got out, staying a little apart from the group. Graves leaned against the car to wait. Nick took in the empty highway and the informality of the setting.

“Wait, isn’t street racing illegal?” he asked. He felt the usual flash of anxiety about his parole before remembering—I’m in Asia. And I’m with Nelson Graves. He could probably shoot someone and it wouldn’t matter.

Graves laughed again, hand over his eyes—this time he couldn’t seem to stop, even when Nick shoved him—finally he had to put his face in his jacket.

“Stop laughing at me,” Nick said. “You asshole. I’m being serious!”

They pushed back and forth a little, until Graves threw an arm over his shoulder and leaned Nick against the car by his side.

“My hip can’t take this, Nick, stop,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Okay, old man,” Nick said and gave one last elbow. Their height difference meant it hit the side of Graves’s stomach, not his ribs, so he didn’t even seem to notice. Graves let his arm where it was, even as he pulled out his phone and sent a text.

“Just making sure Jeanne knows you’re with me,” he said. Nick didn’t answer. He was too focused on their relative positions. Nick had to admit, there was something…nice…about a man’s arm over him. Nick was honest with himself enough to admit he was probably so touch starved at this point he would hug a lamp post. But still… He shivered and leaned a little more tightly.

“Is this okay?” Graves asked.

“Yeah, uh, I don’t mind,” Nick said. It came out as a question.

“I noticed,” Graves said. “Are you coming on to me, Erickson? Feeling a little curious?”

“Me? I hear you’re the one with a weakness for freckles.”

Their eyes met briefly, and they both looked away. But Graves didn’t move his arm. And Nick didn’t move away.

More people were piling in, ordinary cars as well as a few more exotics. Finally a black SUV rolled up and Graves straightened.

“Here we go,” he said. An old man got out with a girl on his arm. He said some things in Chinese, including a few questions directed at Graves. Graves responded in Chinese and answered one question by patting Nick on the shoulder. This drew a slew of comments from the other drivers, mostly in laughing Singlish. One young man said something about “pretty American boy” that caught Nick’s ear. He could only blush and stare at his shoes. Finally whatever needed to be discussed was done and people loaded into the cars. Nick watched as Graves straightened and stretched, his vest pulling tight against his chest. He dropped an arm on either side of Nick, boxing him against the car.

“Now listen to me closely, Nick,” he said. “You can either race with me or wait here.”

Nick looked over Graves’s shoulder and saw that a group of people were strolling up the hill together—presumably for the view.

“Is it safe?” Nick asked.

Graves smiled. It was like a cheerful shark, all teeth and mischief. Hello, Bruce! Fish are friends—not food.

“Are you joking?” he asked.

“I just… I mean…” Nick waved vaguely at the car. I don’t know how to tell you this man, but if we get in a car wreck you are going to have to kill me because I will not be able to take it. Something must have conveyed because Graves’s face softened. He squeezed Nick’s shoulder.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Nick said. “For no valid reason at all, I do.”

“Would I let anything happen to you?”

“No,” Nick said. “I’m safe with you.” And that was the final truth. No matter what else went on. Nelson Graves would never allow anything to happen to Nick while they were together.

“Then get in the bloody car.”

The next fifteen minutes—the clock didn’t lie—were the most terrifying and exciting of Nick’s life. He let out a squeak, a sound that shamed him to his core, when Graves dropped them onto Raffles Boulevard and the car leaped forward. It was so fast Nick could feel it in his chest. They hit the curve at Stamford Road and Nick was flung sideways, left and then right, before they dropped onto another straightaway and he was shoved back again.

Graves was saying something about torque and air pressure and algorithms—who knows what—but all Nick could do was hold on. The engine made an enormous breathy roar every time Graves pushed it. They went so fast, banking corners and flying down the deserted freeway—the city passed in a blur. Other cars maneuvered around them, but Graves gradually left them all in the dust.

“I love this car, Nick. God I love this car,” he growled as he drafted behind some low-slung red thing that Nick couldn’t identify. Graves snapped the wheel left, right, left, and the other car seemed to stop, dropping back behind them so fast Nick couldn’t even follow it in the mirror.

“Hang on; this is the tricky bit,” Graves said. He wasn’t even breathing hard, speaking in a purely conversational voice as he came back around the big curve to the tunnel and their starting point. “Learned this in Japan—don’t tell Bishop—he will kill me,” Graves said and jerked the wheel while doing something with the pedals. The car swerved sideways driving in a kind of angled slide that made Graves whoop with excitement. Nick laughed as they slid along, taking the turn as if they were on ice.

A shift and another hitch and the car leaped forward again, exploding through the tunnel and out to the other side where the spectators had gathered on the hill, cheering wildly and popping champagne.

They pulled to a stop, Graves’s face wreathed in a wide smile.

“What did you think of that?” he said. He glanced down and Nick realized he was gripping Graves’s jacket in a white-knuckled fist. He let go right away but not before Graves’s eyes squinted shut in amusement. He opened his mouth to speak when Nick’s phone gave a loud buzz.

“It’s Jeanne,” Nick said.

Graves sagged back in his seat, crossing his arms.

“What does she say?”

“She says someone named Anatoly saw you. She gives us twenty minutes, then she’s calling Bishop,” Nick said with a sigh.

Graves leaned his face on the steering wheel.

“I guess it’s back to being Lord Graves again. Well, it was good to get away with you, Nick,” he said. “Even if it was just for a little while.”

“Hey, you got money, right?” Nick said.

Graves gave him a look so flat it was two-dimensional. His brow cocked—the suit, the gold watch, the car, everything conveyed in a single look.

“I mean, sorry,” Nick stuttered, slapping his forehead. “I mean—if you have actual cash on you—I know a place to hide. If you really want to sneak off. I’m sorry. That sounds crazy.”

“It happens I have a few rupees at my disposal…” Graves said slowly, putting the car in gear. “What do you have in mind?”