Page 81 of Pretty Nightmare

He’s not American. I picked Andrik up in Romania about twelve years ago. He was just a gangly fifteen-year-old boy back then. But he’s a man now. Broad shoulders. A tattoo across his upper chest that says LOYAL in black Old English letters. Like he’s a gangbanger.

But he’s not a gangbanger, either.

He’s just the caretaker of this old French Quarter mansion. He keeps the new boys in line while they stay here and he plays backup for the ones who have heat and need a friend. He’s good with a gun and even better with a knife. You do not fuck with a man who looks like Andrik. Even when he’s smiling at you, he looks more like a high-ranking alpha wolf than a good-natured nobody.

No. Andrik wasn’t born into this world to be some nobody. So I was surprised when he seemed to be content with this job here. In fact, I was a little disappointed in that revelation.

But he doesn’t give me any trouble at all. And he’s saved more than a dozen men when I had to call him in to help them clean things up.

So. Whatever. Maybe he likes the semi-quiet life. He could make a lot more money if he were out in the field running his own team. But I like to let the boys dictate their own path if I can. And Andrik seems to have settled here.

“I’m stopping by to clean up,” I say. “Maggie’s upstairs.” His eyes drift up towards the ceiling, then back down to me. “We’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”

He nods, rubs his hand unconsciously across the nearly nonexistent buzz of hair on his head, like he took that comment literally. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Because I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

He opens his mouth to continue, but his eyes drift over my shoulder and I turn to see Maggie walking towards us wearing her white church dress and holding a brush in her hand.

“Hair time. As requested.” She thrusts the brush at me, then hoists herself up into the chair at the marble counter where Andrik was just sitting and twirls in the seat so I can have easy access to her hair.

“We can talk later,” Andrik says.

I start brushing Maggie’s hair. It’s still a little wet. “I told you to dry it, Magnolia.”

“I did dry it.”

“It’s still wet. And that means it will be wet when you take it out of the braid later.”

“No one’s gonna notice.”

“Don’t sell him short,” I say, cautioning her not to underestimate McKay. “He will notice. McKay understands how hair-braiding works.”

Andrik laughs unexpectedly. I would not call him friendly with McKay. But everyone in my organization knows of him.

I point the brush at Andrik and make the same caution. “You either. Keep talking, Andrik. She’s fine.”

He looks at Maggie, then shrugs. “OK. Well…” He sighs. “Nick Tate.”

My eyebrows go up.

Andrik nods his head at Maggie. “You want me to continue?”

Maggie snorts. “Hell, yes. Keep talking, Andrik.”

“It’s fine.” I sigh. “Spit it out.”

“We’ve been hearing rumors for a couple weeks now.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That he’s not dead.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Is there anything else, Andrik?”