Chapter Twelve

In the Range Rover, they rode in silence for a time. Nick wasn’t sure what was happening with his friend. Graves was staring out the window, rubbing his hip while Nick examined his black eye in his phone. He must think I’m crazy. Every time I see him, I’m getting in some kind of fight. Maybe that’s why he never called me?

The hair on Graves’s head, a short dark-brown fuzz with gray at the temples, was ridiculously distracting. Nick tucked his hands under his thighs to stop from reaching out and stroking it. This wasn’t the time. There was too much between them. Eventually, Graves seemed to rouse himself enough to talk.

“Do you w-w-want to come to the…” his mouth worked a moment before he finally said “ship?” He didn’t sound especially enthused. He was looking down at his hands, frowning.

Obviously, we aren’t going to talk about it. I should have stayed with Lena and Morris. What was I thinking? It hurt though, more than he would have expected. Leon’s remained a magical night in his mind. It had shifted his entire viewpoint about attraction and about his own ability to make other people happy.

“If it’s okay, I’ll just go back to Jeanne’s,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. The divider between them and the front was down and Nick caught Graves’s glance to Bishop in the rearview. The look made embarrassment curl in his belly. Wow. He really doesn’t want me around. Like he really took me racing only as a favor. I’m some charity case.

“Very well,” Graves said and told the driver to make for Jeanne’s. He shifted sideways to look at Nick, a slight frown on his face.

“What?” Nick said through clenched teeth.

“I’m trying to n-n-no coffee,” he waved the words off, going back to looking out the window. Nick wasn’t sure what was happening. Was Graves making fun of him?

“Thank you very much for the ride, Lord Graves,” he said. “But you clearly don’t want me around, and I’m not about—”

The naked distress on Graves’s face shifted Nick’s perspective. Hold on. It ain’t me; it’s the talking.

“Wait. Are you okay?” he asked.

But Graves wasn’t listening. He held up his hand, stopping Nick’s flow of words.

“Bishop, w-where is the other car?”

“It’s there, Boss, just at the light.”

“Bring them up. Now!”

Whatever was wrong with his speech, I guess it clears up when he’s giving orders. Nick touched his eye gingerly. Unless I’m hearing things, got hit too hard maybe?

Graves looked outside, shifting in his seat. He turned fully around, looking out the back, before turning to the other side again. Nick caught his unease but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“David, what is that?” he asked as they pulled to a red light.

“That’s what I am trying to figure out,” Bishop snapped. He was also shifting around and got onto his radio to talk to someone in Malay. “Something is wrong. Other car is stuck, coming around now.”

Nick had no idea what they meant. There was a public works crew packing up across the corner. They seemed to have tangled their ladders and a man in a sports car was yelling at them. A limo tried to get around and got stuck, leading to more shouting.

When Nick looked back, he yelped in fear. Graves had drawn his gun. It was scratched, worn, and fit his hand exactly. Bishop was now shouting into the radio.

“Nick, get down!” Graves threw himself to the floor, dragging Nick under him. He shoved him down tight, curling his body over and covering his head with one huge hand.

A staccato explosion of shots rang out in the street. The glass of the building by them shattered. The trapped limo was trying to pull away, half its windows blown out. Rounds stuttered and cracked against the glass, and Nick flinched. There was a scream outside, and something heavy thumped against the car. Nick made a hoarse sound like a frightened animal, his vision dimming on the edges.

“Get us out of the kill zone now, Bishop! What are you doing?”

“Boss, it’s Morozov! They have his car!”

“Anatoly can handle himself! We have Nick with us! Get us out!” Graves roared and the Range Rover bucked forward, smashing the car in front and pushing it out of the way. There was a scream of metal on metal and the squeal of tires. The sound was deafening. Gunfire was coming from everywhere. Graves was still holding Nick under him, but he shifted and grabbed Bishop’s radio. He issued terse directives, ending with “Help him to the safe room at the Excelsior!”

They veered sideways, jumping the curb, and smashing another car out of the way. Another screech and crash as the other car tried to back away, only to have the heavy Range Rover flip it over. They bumped over the sidewalk, another spray of snowflakes appearing across the bulletproof glass. The car rattled from the impacts. One more screeching swerve and they were on the highway again.

Graves pulled Nick up and shoved him onto the seat. He didn’t say anything, his face closed off and furious. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and made a call, mostly in Mandarin, ending with “We’ll get them next time.” Nick couldn’t understand the words. Graves’s voice was strange—from down a long tunnel.

Nick was slipping away, his heart pounding. His mouth was dry, and he was panting like a dog. His whole body shivered, flooding with adrenaline. Reality seemed to shimmer around him. The crashing sounds, the smell of burnt rubber, the shouting… He couldn’t breathe. Everything was getting blurry. His vision narrowed. He reached out, pawed at Graves, clutching his collar.

Graves hung up his phone and cursed, reaching out and gripping him by the shoulders. But it was too late. He was falling, falling far out of reach.

“Nick? Nick, talk to me, darling. Are you all right?” The endearment went unremarked. Nick couldn’t speak. He struggled to breathe. His body fell further away, cold and clammy.

“H-help,” Nick whispered, his voice slurring.

The road wasn’t slippery.

I misjudged the distance.

You hit them, hit the driver door. You ran them off the road.

It was an accident.

You killed them on purpose.

I didn’t. He swerved and tipped.

You pushed them over the embankment.

I didn’t.

You did. The whole back end of the van crushed. It crunched and smashed and the little boy—

You killed me; you killed my mommy.

It was an accident. I lost my temper.

Nick’s vision darkened, the road superimposed over the inside of Graves’s car. His legs were kicking as he ran. Where is the van? Where? I have to find it! It was down the embankment, wheels spinning and engine still squealing and revving. Nick skidded down on his heels and ass, getting to the driver’s side door. He yanked it open and the stench of blood and fuel washed over him. He grabbed at the driver—high-pitched screams came from the back seat—the driver was stuck, impaled on the steering column—Nick pulled harder; the driver’s body began to flail and thrash, splattering blood everywhere. The boy in the back was screaming, screaming. Nick looked and saw the crushed body, the little red jacket turning black with blood, wide O of a screaming mouth. He was missing his front tooth. Just a little kid— The smell of gasoline and the blood sizzling when it—

Nick jerked backward, arms up…and caught Graves around the neck. Solid. Real. He held on like a drowning man. The crunching and smashing and screaming receded. He drew in a sucking gulp of air. And then another.

“You are safe, Nick,” Graves’s voice was right in his ear. The big man was kneeling beside him, his face slowly swimming to the surface of Nick’s vision.

“Stay with me, darling.” His deep voice reached the thrashing panic in Nick’s head, forcing him to the present, to focus on where he was.

“You’re in Singapore, Nick. You’re safe.”

“I’m…” I am here. I am safe. I am here. I am safe. I am in Singapore. I am safe. I am in Singapore.

Graves’s hands were warm, heavy, grounding him. Nick clung to his neck, their foreheads pressed together. He shuddered, coated in sweat. Breathed. In. Out. Reality, blessed reality, came back into focus.

He gasped for breath, panting, and shaking, teeth chattering. He was kneeling on the floor of the Range Rover, bouncing slightly as they rolled through the marina’s gates.

It dawned on him that he had his hands around the back of Nelson Graves’s neck in a white-knuckled grip. Graves had a hand on each shoulder and his forehead pressed against Nick’s, breathing with him, repeating “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Nick pulled back as if burned, falling against the door of the car even as they rolled to a stop. He felt sick.

Nick’s phone went off suddenly, and he jumped. He stared at it like he had never seen it before. He was still panting for air. Graves leaned forward and plucked the phone from Nick’s cold fingers.

“Jeanne? It’s me. Someone tried to off Anatoly Morozov in a public street. Meet us at the yacht.” Nick could hear Jeanne’s voice faintly, the worried French. “No, I am taking him with me. You come too. All right, yes.”

Nick wanted out of the car. Right now. Out. He fumbled at the door and almost fell out when it was hauled open by Bishop. The old soldier was growling into a radio in a language Nick didn’t recognize. Graves was suddenly there, his arm around Nick’s shoulder.

“No,” Nick slurred, his mouth struggling to form words. He shook Graves’s arm off but gripped the huge shoulder instead, steadying himself.

“Don’t touch…” was all he could manage. Please don’t touch me. God, oh God, I’m gonna be sick. Oh, Jesus. He turned and fell over, retching and coughing. His hands and knees burned where they smacked the pavement. The street lights over the marina swung like pendulums. Graves caught him around the shoulders again, and Nick threw up what felt like everything he had ever eaten. He staggered to his feet, and his knees gave out, but Graves had him in a steady grip.

“What’s wrong with our Nick?” Bishop’s voice, blurry and distant.

“Just a bit of a shock. I’ll take care of him,” Graves said, his voice also far away and strange to Nick’s ringing ears.

“It’s all right,” Graves said softly, leading Nick up the ramp to the yacht. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

*

Nick’s fear and confusion slipped away under Graves’s practical, even clinical care. Graves waved away his stewards and peeled off Nick’s clothes, batting his hands away when he tried to resist.

“Stop it,” he said. “You’ll fall over.”

He pushed Nick unceremoniously onto the shower bench and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature with a practiced twist before leaving Nick alone. Nick sat stupefied a moment, letting the water clean off the sweat and stink of fear. He folded over, recognizing the physical reaction from so strong a flashback. His muscles ached and his limbs shook with adrenaline withdrawal. He felt embarrassed and sick.

And, as always, there was grief. Grief for the family he had killed. Always. They were there in his mind, on his conscience, always. So he cried, wrapping his arms around his head and rocking his body until he calmed. He had murdered three innocent people. A family on their way somewhere, minding their business. Was it any wonder he was cursed like this? He didn’t even question being caught in a shootout in a public street. Of course, he was. These things happened to him. Every terrible thing that happened to him was because of this simple fact: he was a murderer. It didn’t matter how far he fled, or how many times he reinvented himself. There was no happy ending for him, no way out of his own head.

It took most of the hot water to pull himself together. He felt drained and empty, as numb as he had in the early days. But numb was all right. Numb would allow him to be around people and not react, or show any signs of what was wrong with him. Numb was hiding.

Nick emerged from the shower to find a T-shirt and a pair of shorts on the toilet seat. The shorts fit, but the shirt was so big it could only be Graves’s. It smelled like pot and good coffee and Nick breathed deeply as he put it on. He paused there, the shirt over his head, pressed against his eyes.

His first thought was me. Getting me out. The first thing he did was cover me. I was never in any danger. Not with him. Not with him and Bishop and Russ.

This was an idea Nick wasn’t used to. Something that had never happened to him. He pulled the shirt down, unsure what to do with the idea of someone protecting him.

He found the man in question waiting for him outside the bathroom, holding a bottle of water. He had changed out of his suit into shorts, old and worn, that hung low on his hips, below the hard barrel of his belly. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and had apparently only started buttoning it since it hung open except for one button on the bottom.

As much as the glimpse of Graves’s big chest with its soft brown hair should have distracted him, not to mention the flash of a gold ring in Graves’s nipple, it was the sight of his legs that stopped Nick in his tracks.

Graves’s left leg ended midthigh, the right midshin. And while his right leg looked ordinary enough, the prosthetic at the base was a gleaming shin and ankle with a complete foot, articulated down to the toes. The left whirred slightly as Graves shifted, looking impossibly futuristic. It had a mix of carbon fiber and metal; Nick had no idea what he was even looking at. Graves’s shorts covered part of the cap, though Nick could see it was painted with the same kinds of markings as his tattoos. The skin above his waistband was a mosaic of scars trailing all the way up his hip. Even as Nick stared, Graves pulled his shirt closed, looking away and shifting again. It was clear the scars bothered Graves almost more than the missing limbs.

“How did you lose them, Graves?” Nick asked. “I never asked you.”

“A landmine, as close as I have ever come to dying, and that is saying something,” Graves said ruefully. He buttoned a few more buttons and tugged the hem of his shorts. “You can ask Bishop about it—he was there.”

He didn’t say anything else, merely handed Nick the bottle and put a large warm hand in the middle of his back while he drank.

Nick finished the bottle and did what felt like the most natural thing in the world. He stepped forward and leaned on Graves, pushing his face into the big man’s chest. His forehead fit right in the opening of his shirt, against his warm skin. He smells good. Must have showered.

Graves’s hand twitched, but then he wrapped his arms all the way around Nick’s shoulders, his breath warm in Nick’s hair.

“Thank you,” Nick mumbled. There wasn’t anything else he could add.

“I’m sorry for putting you in this position,” Graves said.

This position seemed to include everything from the car ride to the shootout to Nick’s flashback to the way they were standing. Nick didn’t comment. He wasn’t ready to share more with the boss yet. He straightened and took a step back. Graves hands slid back down his arms and let go, leaving a trail of goose bumps. He tilted his head to look Nick in the eyes.

“Jeanne is here. We’re already underway. Come onto the deck,” Graves said. “I think we could all use a drink.”

The last of Nick’s terror sank beneath a steady application of Jeanne’s affection and her deadly gin punch. The stars were obscured by clouds, underlit pink and orange by the city. Nick didn’t say anything, not ready to speak yet. Lying back on a deck chair, he listened as they talked about Anatoly Morozov and the attempts on his life and fortune. They seemed to be an accepted feature of the lives of the super-rich. Especially someone like Anatoly, whose palm oil plantations on Timor L’Est were being attacked by insurgents on an almost weekly basis. Graves mixed drinks, talking about various attempts he had heard of.

“You remember when that man came for me in Yangon?” Jeanne said. “Absolutely terrifying. Thank God, Jojo isn’t as easily distracted as some people.”

“I was looking at the hideous sculpture, as you told me to, ma chere,” Graves said, pointing the ice tongs at her. Nick smiled at this but didn’t get sucked into the bickering that followed.

Gradually, he realized the only person with any idea he had suffered “an incident” was Graves, and the man certainly wasn’t talking about it. Nick didn’t even tell Jeanne, letting everyone assume he was rattled by the gunfire and attack. He drew a shaky breath and let it out. He is protecting my privacy. I need to thank him for that too. Maybe this is part of that gentleman thing.

Nick watched sleepily as Tony sprawled on Bishop, the two kissing lazily. It was…strange…to see David Bishop so affectionate and sweet. Tony was also in shorts, and Bishop clearly liked them, sliding his hand up Tony’s thighs any chance he got.

Nick had to look away, staring out at the lights while he considered how he felt about it. Did he want the same? He glanced over at Graves, who had put his glasses back on and sat at the piano, tapping out some quiet songs. He had taken his prosthetics off and was peacefully stoned, balanced on the piano bench and talking to Jeanne. Nick let himself look, really look, trying to imagine it. Could he be with a man? Was that real? He sighed. It didn’t matter.

But he can’t. I mean. He has this multibillion-dollar shipping empire. I’m just some asshole who never even finished college. An ex-con. Nobody. And he’ll find out soon enough. The publicity for him? Head of a huge company has a…boyfriend? Like me? I don’t think so.

It made Nick sad. Which told him everything he needed to know about whether he wanted this to go any further. He rubbed his eyes, trying to understand himself. The adrenaline, the gin, his mind was actively avoiding thinking about what happened. Logic wasn’t exactly top tier at the moment. He wanted… He wanted what? Uncertain, he got up and made his way carefully to sit on the piano bench next to Graves. He didn’t look too closely why. The terror of earlier made it seem right to be tucked into the lee of the big man’s side. It was warm out of the wind, and Graves smelled like sweat and dope and Nick breathed it in. Enjoying it while he could.

He saw Graves’s prosthetics and picked up the shorter of the two. It was heavy and the ankle joint rolled in perfect articulation. Up close Nick could see how the foot could be replaced with other attachments. The foot itself was remarkable. Even the toes could bend.

“This is amazing technology, Graves,” Nick said. “Your legs are really cool.”

Graves slowed his playing, peering down at Nick over the top of his glasses. Jeanne snorted.

“I tell him this but he does not believe me, le con,” she said.

“How do they work?” Nick asked.

“Artificial intelligence, mostly,” Graves said.

“What powers them? Do you have to charge them?”

Graves gave him a tight smile. He shook his head.

“They are powered by the re-resist, re-re—by the movement. They are essentially bionic, respond to my nerves.”

“Let me see,” Nick said and turned sideways. Graves shifted a little and then pushed his left thigh to the side so Nick could see. His neck was dark with embarrassment, but he was staring at Nick, blinking in confusion. One hand was still tapping away, the other braced on the bench, forearm muscle bunched as he balanced.

Nick ran his hand over the cap and up Graves’s thigh. The skin was rough and smooth at once, the scars dipping and crossing one another. They were lighter in some places, darker in others, the reddish undertone of Graves’s skin clear where the scars stretched. They were broken up by small patches of whole skin, with hair and goose bumps, which chased up his muscled forearm as Nick’s fingers dipped between ridges.

“And they connect here?” He traced the caps and their steel rings. “These are electronic too?”

“Implants,” Graves muttered, pulling away again. His voice was rough, and Nick gave him a flat look.

“What are you embarrassed about? This is incredible tech. Incredible… It’s like something out of a science-fiction movie. Do people really care that you don’t have legs?” Nick said. Graves pulled his shorts down over his leg, clearly uncomfortable.

“Some people care a great deal,” he said. “Myself included.” Graves turned back to the piano and played again, the set of his shoulders warning Nick he was done.

Off duty, Russ and Charlotte came up from below and they all sat happily together around the deck. The stewards brought up snacks, crisp rolls, and steamed buns with different sauces. The lurid orange sky over the inky water was its own show. Refilling his stomach, Nick recovered enough to start talking, finally describing Leon’s to Jeanne. Apparently, Graves hadn’t shared the story with the horsemen either, based on the reactions around the deck. He rejoined them outside and paused with a hand on Nick’s shoulder. If it was an apology, Nick accepted it as such.

“I thought this was the dark alley I would die in,” Graves laughed. “Murdered and covered in old fish.”

“Then we see Nick tonight,” Russ said, refilling Charlotte’s glass with punch. “Causing a scrum in the dockside bar!”

“You should have seen him, Jeanne,” Graves said. “We were ready to help, but he didn’t need us. Brave as a terrier. Bishop and I looked like a couple of fish.”

“Oww—that’s true,” Bishop said. He turned to Tony, handing him his drink so his hands were free. “Our Nick grabbed this bloke by the tie, eh, and snapped his face down, like this! Smack! On the table. We shouted, cuz.”

“Tu meke!” Russ laughed. “And the boss’s face! Once we found them again, he was watching Nick like he never seen him!”

“They said I looked like a bull with a bee on its nose,” Graves said dryly. He winked at Nick though. Nick threw a piece of bread at him, then turned to Jeanne so she could look at his eye. It was completely closed, the pain a distant throb.

Nick wasn’t stupid. The talk of the fight, the story of Leon’s—all these turned everyone’s attention away from the attack. Away from Nick’s reaction. No one even discussed it. Graves had single-handedly moved the conversation into safer waters. To give Nick time, to give him space to join in without having to address anything he didn’t want to.

Watching out for me. Still. Without even making a big deal out of it. Just watching out for me. Watching my back.

He glanced over again, shifting so his good eye could see. Graves was talking to Tony. Drawing something out on his tablet. Nick took in Graves’s hands, the heavy signet gleaming against his creamy brown skin. The width of his palms and forearms. Now that those arms had been around him—Nick wasn’t a disinterested observer anymore.

I guess—this is what Morris meant—he isn’t in the usual categories. And Jeanne saying I am in a new life. Whoever I am now—notices. Likes to look. I wish I knew what it meant.

He let the talk flow over and around him. Graves stayed close to him, even as the others left. He and Jeanne sat on either side of Nick on his couch, speaking softly over his head. They spoke in French, something about a hotel, Nick thought. He was trying to puzzle out the words even as he drifted to sleep, the day finally catching up to him.