He shows remarkable composure considering I told him he owned this operation, then shoved my way on board when I decided slaking some bloodlust might work as a better distraction than staring into space.
“Think that’s enough?”
Kyree meets my gaze evenly, walking the fine line between confidence and respect. When he answers, there’s no recrimination in his voice. “We want to send a message not destroy them.”
It’s a fair enough observation. Given what’s happening down in Christchurch in the aftermath of Baxter’s daughter being abducted, the MC gangs might get the wrong idea and think we’re trying to wipe them all out.
Singly, that’s not a problem but if they band together, or worse still, make an alliance with our other enemies, then we’ll be fighting on all fronts until someone emerges to a pyrrhic victory.
Right now, I wouldn’t mind. I have the stomach for the fight. But the cooler headed version of me that still nestles inside realises that won’t solve anyone’s problems.
I balance a broken chair on its side and rub the sole of my shoe against its leg, wiping away the worst of the mess.
“Where next?”
Kyree raises his eyebrow at my query, pursing his lips for a second as he glances back to the men jostling near the door. “Now we’re cleaning up. When that’s done, we’ll head out for a drink.”
It doesn’t escape my attention that he excludes me from that equation. Given my recent run-ins, I can’t blame him. Detective Seward mightn’t be a problem any longer, but I’ll always have to be more careful than others in my squad.
With my back to the rest of the crew, I push a wad of cash into Kyree’s hands. He nods as he disappears it somewhere inside his jacket. In return for my unexpected interference, at least he and his men can have a good time.
When I walk outside, I get a message to let me know my driver is on the way. Another few minutes and I’m heading back to my apartment, ready for another afternoon and evening of too much silence.
Until this past week, I’d never noticed it before; how quiet the place gets after Agnes and the maids leave for the day, but it’s not just that. There’s the absence of Crimson’s perfume, the scent of her body wash, the floral notes of her shampoo.
I miss hearing her voice, even when she wasn’t speaking to me. Want to overhear her talking to Agnes or laughing over a private joke. Hear her snap back a sarcastic retort when a remark hits her the wrong way. I miss the hum under her breath when she concentrates on something. The sound of her breathing as it elongates into sleep.
I reach out to touch her a dozen times a day, and every time comes the pang of loss when she’s not there.
The last couple of nights, I’d pulled Warren into the den for a drink just to break up the evening; a situation that had Montgomery breathing down my back, suggesting that intoxicating the guards wasn’t in line with his security protocol and if I was going to stir up shit, perhaps keep it to departments other than the one he heads.
It’s only late afternoon when I arrive home. Early enough that soon after shucking off my shoes and changing into a tee, the bell rings with a delivery. Warren sees to it, then calls up for permission when it turns out to be more than a one-man job.
Curious, I meet him at the lift well, frowning at the large chair that he’s manhandling out of the cubicle. “There are more,” he says followed by a grunt when a roller wheel catches on the edge of the doors, knocking back into his stomach. “Where do you want them?”
I pull off the delivery tag and read the instructions. The receipt shows they were charged to my card and the added note suggests they’re for my office.
“How many more?”
“Two more for the office, a dozen other small pieces, and the guy says there’s an entire lounge suite that’ll need to be taken up the stairs.” Warren’s glance in my direction is a pointed reminder he’s a bodyguard, not a furniture mover. “Am I okay to let the guys up? They’re not armed, and I’ve already taken their phones.”
I shrug. “Sure, if you think they’re safe.”
I retreat to the sideboard and pour myself a finger of scotch, then stand against the wall of the living room as tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of furniture is moved into my apartment.
The office chairs are black faux leather but a replica that feels better than the original. One seat is slightly larger than the other two, and my throat tightens as I realise that’s to give me an advantage during meetings. Adding height in case my natural assets weren’t enough.
They’re the only monochrome coverings that arrive, however. Everything else is a riot of colour that looks extraordinarily welcoming against the bland colour scheme of my carpet and walls. When I test out the new sofa, I can’t believe the difference.
It feels like a firm caress, something I wouldn’t mind lounging on for hours. The bean bags can be relegated back to the den and the old couch can be burnt at the stake for all I care.
By the time the movers finish, half the furniture in my apartment has been replaced. The new stuff is more than liveable, it’s welcoming. My house finally looks less like a showroom and more like a home.
I pull my phone out to text Crimson a thank you. I even type in an invitation to come and see how transformational her choices were.
Then I stare at the message, reluctant to send it. Without knowing if she’ll welcome the text, I find it impossible to press the button.
But if she’s tracking you, that must mean she’s interested.
