Charles is aware of all of this, and is fighting panic. He knows I'm not one to suffer fools like this Roger, and can tell I'm about to verbally eviscerate him any moment.
"I appreciate your vote of confidence in my decision, Roger," I say. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to visit the restroom."
I do my best to tamp down my irritation—I'm here as a favor to Charles, that's all. I got free drinks, a lovely viewing of the opera, and a rather sumptuous dinner out of it. I can tolerate Roger for a bit longer. I just need a moment to regroup my patience—not a trait I'm overly well known for.
I use the facilities and take my time washing my hands and touching up my makeup. A pair of women a few years older than me enter the bathroom, bitching about their husbands. Which is my cue to make my exit; the thought of marriage or commitment makes me queasy.
I'm nearly to the table when movement on the sidewalk outside the restaurant catches my eye. A man crosses the street at a dead sprint, doing an action movie-worthy vault-and-slideover the hood of a taxi. Four men in jeans, T-shirts, and body armor follow him, armed with full-on machine guns. I stop and watch it unfold, fascinated—New York never fails to entertain, that's for damned sure.
The man is dressed in a tan suit with a black button-down, no tie. The suit, I can tell even from a distance, is impeccably tailored to his stunning Adonis physique. Black hair, a bit too long. A sharp jawline, heavily shadowed with stubble.
Horns blare as the man barely avoids being hit by a cube van. I hear a sharp but muffled rattle, and the windows of the restaurant shatter. People scream all at once, fleeing their seats. Before I can blink, I'm caught up in a crush of humanity carrying me toward the exit. I can't even try to fight it—I can only try and keep my feet and not be trampled. I've left my shawl on the back of my chair, which I feel a burst of annoyance about—it's cashmere, and a favorite. At least I have my Chanel clutch with my phone and wallet.
And then I'm outside in the cool evening air, being elbowed and jostled as the crowd flows out of the emergency exit. Trash stinks in the alley, and horns blare and sirens howl. Another burst of shots rings out, and someone screams. There's a crunch of metal on metal—a car crash.
The crowd carries me away from the street where the action is, thank god, and I find myself on a small cross-street, where orange parking cones block off a truck unloading goods; a vent spews swirling clouds of steam. I can hear sirens and shouts and screams, still, but it's distant.
The crowd has thinned, and I'm no longer being swept along. I stumble back against the stone of a building and catch my breath, let my hammering pulse stabilize.
My phone buzzes; I pull it out, answer it. "Charles? I'm alright."
"Oh, thank the good lord. I lost sight of you in the mayhem. Can youbelieveit? Automatic gunfire on the streets of Manhattan. It's like something out of Hollywood. Where are you? I'll come to you."
“I…” I look around, but I can't see the signs. "I don't know. The crowd carried me quite a way. Look, Charles, I'm really alright, I promise. I'll catch a Lyft."
"Brys, darling—"
"Charles," I snap, letting my voice harden. "I'mnotyour darling. I can take care of myself. I’mfine. Go home to Shauna. Take that blathering, chauvinistic dick, Roger, out for more drinks and close the deal. Thanks for the lovely evening, though, really. I mean it. I needed a night out, so thanks for forcing me."
Charles chuckles ruefully. "You're on speaker, Brys, and he's next to me."
"Oh. Right." I clear my throat. "Well, I don't take it back. Roger, you're an ass. But Charles really is your best bet. Cowper and Danforth can take your chipset and really run with it. You'd be a fool to pass on this deal."
"Noted," Roger says, his tone wry. "And since we're being forthright, I can see why he dumped you. You're all hard edges."
I laugh. "Not taking the bait, Roger. Charles, goodbye. And thanks again."
"Of course. Message me when you're home safely, please. With this insanity outside, you know I'll worry."
"I will," I assure him, and tap the red phone icon to end the call, shoving the device into my clutch as I head for the nearest major thoroughfare.
It's calmer here, only the usual traffic rushing back and forth, clusters and clumps of pedestrians flowing past me as I summon a car from my phone—four minutes until Akhbar H. arrives in a black Lexus IS.
I only register the sound of running feet at the last second—too late. A hard body slams into me, sending me flying. Or, I would have gone flying had a powerful hand not grabbed my wrist and kept me from hitting the ground.
The owner of the hand yanks me upright, and I smack hard against a chest, which feels an awful lot like a very rugged cliff face, if said cliff face was warm, smelled of sweat, and had the firm give of thick muscle.
He spins me, walks me backward. I can't even manage a stammered protest, still stunned from being knocked into so abruptly. Beneath the scent of male sweat is the layered nuance of extremely expensive cologne. Hard hands brace my waist, lift me clear off the ground, and then hard cold brick presses against my back, left bare by the low, swooping lines of the expensive—and somewhat revealing—dress I'm wearing.
Dark eyes find mine, close, large, deep, unreadable. "Play along," he says, his voice a sinister, silky-smooth snarl.
He shifts, and the heavy, warm weight of his jacket settles on my shoulders, blocking out the cool night air.
Shouts ring out. "OVER HERE!"
"HE WENT THIS WAY!"
"CHECK THE ALLEYS!"
