Say the Word (35 page)

I glared at him.

“Relax, it’s refreshing.” His grin widened. “Take it as a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment if you agree to help me,” I suggested.

“I’ll agree to help you if you go out on a date with me,” he countered.

“I’m not going out with you.”

“Come on, it can just be a friends thing. If we choose to get naked afterward, so be it.”

“You’re terrible.” I tried to contain my smile, instead forcing a stern glare in his direction. “I think I preferred it when we were ignoring each other’s existence.”

“Don’t you need my help?” Bash steepled his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward. “You should be nice to me if you want me to get you into
Labyrinth
.”

“Y
ou really think you can get us in just because your family is on the list?” I felt the rush of banked excitement stirring to life within me.

“It’s worth a shot.” Bash leaned back in his chair and let out a deep breath. “A photographer and a journalist whose last column detailed the many attributes of Channing Tatum’s physique, up against the most powerful people in the world. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Have a little faith.” I laughed. “And it was Ryan Gosling, not Channing Tatum.”

Bash snorted. “My mistake.”

“So when are we doing it?”

“Baby, we can do it anytime you like,” Bash said, a familiar heat filling his eyes.

“Please, be serious,” I implored.

“Fine, fine,” he said, laughing. “I guess we can go Friday.”

“Friday’s no good,” I immediately countered.

“Hot date?” he asked, his brows raised and his eyes suddenly serious.

I laughed. “Oh yeah. Me and about three hundred
Luster
coworkers, affiliates, and sponsors, sipping champagne and toasting 100 years of success.”

Comprehension flared in his eyes. “Centennial.”

“You’re going?” I asked.

“Pick you up at six,” he said,
winking.

“What?” I stared at him. “I don’t need a ride, I’m going with Simon and Fae.”

“They’ll get over it.” Bash pushed back his chair and stood, reaching out to grasp my hand. “Those were my terms. I get you in, you go on a date with me. This is the date I’m choosing. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

I allowed him to tug me from my seat. “I never agreed to a date, and I most definitely did not agree to a public appearance. There’ll be cameramen at the curb, photographing important people as they arrive. You, sir, are considered important — though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why.” I stuck my tongue out in his direction.

“I see your insults haven’t improved with age,” he noted dryly. “And as for Centennial — take it or leave it, Freckles. You need me, not the other way around.”

I deliberated for a moment. “Can we at least avoid the curbside cameras?”

He grinned, sensing that I was about to give in to his terms. “I’ll consider it.”

“We still haven’t picked a date for
Labyrinth
.”

“Eager t
o see me again so soon, huh?”

“You’re hysterical.” I rolled my eyes. “What about Wednesday?”

“Tomorrow? No can do,” he said, shaking his head.

“Hot date?”

His grin turned wolfish. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

I would, actually, but I wasn’t telling him that. “Nope, couldn’t care less,” I said breezily.

He laughed.

“Thursday,” I suggested, following him out the door onto the street.

“Works for me.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and brought his face closer to mine. “Where are you going now?”

“Home.”

“Are you sure?” He leaned in, hovering close enough that if I raised myself the slightest bit up onto my toes, our noses would brush. “We could continue our business meeting at my loft.” His lips skimmed my cheekbone.

I pushed him away with a light shove of my palms against his chest. “Why do you keep
suggesting that?”

“Because one of these times, you’re going to say
yes
.”

“In your dreams.” I let out an amused huff of air. “I have to go, I have things to do.”

“Sure you don’t want a ride?”

“I’m sure.” I began to walk away, but stopped myself. Turning back, I stared at him for a beat. “Hey Bash?”

His eyes softened to that warm, glowing look I loved so much. “Yeah, Lux?”

“This was kind of fun.” I admitted, surprise clear in my tone. “I mean, not the Vera stuff or the part where you called me pigheaded and told me I was ‘out of my fucking mind’…” My smile was irrepressible. “But the rest of it.”

“You’re right — it was fun. You know what would be even more fun?” he asked, the warmth in his eyes beginning to build into a fiery heat.

“Nope,” I grinned full out, taking a step backward as he began to advance on me.

“There’s that pigheadedness,” he said, shaking his head at me. “Can I at least have a hug goodbye?”

“Nope. See you tomorrow!” I called, giggling as I dodged his embrace and
rushed down the sidewalk toward the nearest subway entrance.

“
Flying away again, Freckles?” Bash called after me.

Without turning around to face him, I held my arms aloft at my sides and pumped them up and down, mimicking flight as I walked further away from him. His laughter chased me all the way to the platform and back to Midtown, where I let it envelop me like a warm blanket I never wanted to remove and lull me into a sort of temporary bliss. I knew this holding pattern of friendly bantering and benign flirtation couldn’t last forever between Bash and me — sooner or later, real life would overtake the fantasy we’d shared in the café this evening.

It was as though, through some unspoken pact, we’d both agreed to set aside the past completely and live the life we might’ve had — two twenty-five year-olds on a coffee date, laughing and arguing good-naturedly as time ticked by and the world spun on without their noticing. We’d been isolated in that bubble of content self-deception for hours, our mirage so convincing we’d deceived even ourselves, for a time, into believing it might last forever.

It wouldn’t last — it couldn’t.

But for tonight, I’d hold the blanket Bash’s words had woven close to ward off the shadows of the past.

I was late.

My morning run had been painful — I’d been sincerely neglecting my workout regimen lately, and my sore leg muscles were paying the price. The
three-mile loop I typically flew through with ease was a struggle for breath, each cramping stride a punishment for my lack of discipline. By the time I made it home and hopped into the shower, I was thirty minutes behind schedule.

Hair still damp, I practically ran to the subway, stopping only briefly to grab a coffee from the food cart parked just outside the platform. I was in the process of dumping two sugars into the steaming brew when someone smashed into me from behind, spilling the entire scalding cup down the front of my blouse and eternally staining my outfit.

There was no way I could go to work like this — I’d have to go home and change, which would put me even further behind schedule.

“Goddammit!” I cursed in the loud, unabashed style I’d adopted since moving to the city, turning to face my assailant and unleash a can of whoop-ass on him. “Watch where you’re going buddy, it’s—”

“So sorry, miss.” The smooth voice immediately drew my attention. My eyes traveled from the shiny black shoes, up two navy, uniformed legs, and came to land on the gleaming chest badge and emblem. Shit — I’d just cussed out a police officer.

“No, officer, it’s my fault,” I apologized, raising my eyes to meet his. Another sentence was there, on the tip of my tongue, but it dried up when I realized that the face I was sta
ring at was one I recognized. I’d seen it before — infinitely pixilated on the screen of my computer, furrowed into a frown outside the 6
Th
Precinct station in the Village, illuminated by the faint glow of a cigarette on the docks of an old brewery in Red Hook. I’d seen it every day for the last week, affixed to my wall — that permanent gloating smile, seeming to mock me from across the room whenever I glanced in the direction of the mosaic.

Officer Santos.

“Are you alright?” His pressed lips turned up in a small smile. “Looks like you really doused yourself.”

I stared into his pale brown eyes, searching for something appropriate to say but coming up short. My mind was otherwise engaged, reeling as I tried to calm myself. All of my mental resources were occupied by one thought — this was no coincidence.
Santos was here, following me to work, watching me buy coffee, and staging an interaction, all because I’d been careless. I’d been spotted somewhere along the way, whether at the brewery or on one of my surveillance trips to his precinct. And that meant… 

I was no longer flying safely below the radar. I was being watched.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that, if I were seen as a true threat to these people, they’d have already eliminated me from the playing field. There were only two possible purposes served by this confrontation with Santos: either they wanted to warn me away from the story and let me know that they were surveilling me, or they were testing me — trying to see whether I was simply a dumb blonde, who’d stumbled onto their organization accidentally.

For my sake, I prayed it was the latter. 

I forced myself to smile at him, emulating the pageant queens I’d seen every year at the Jackson Fall Festival growing up. I played up my Southern twang, pouring it on thicker than syrup on French toast and praying it was enough to convince him that I didn’t possess enough brain cells to spell
sex trafficking
, let alone investigate it.

“Aw, jeeze, I’m such a klutz! Always spilling my coffee and tripping over my feet.” I let out a sunny peal of laughter. “My boss pretty much expects it by now. She won’t even notice this.” I gestured down at my coffee-splattered blouse. “I don’t think she’s ever seen me without a coffee stain somewhere on my outfit.”

Santos laughed lightly, and some of the tension lines disappeared from around his eyes.

“I’m awful sorry I bumped into you, officer,” I said, injecting my voice with honeyed remorse. “You have a good day, now!”

“You too, miss,” he nodded at me.

I beamed and turned away. When I’d made it three blocks from him, I allowed the forced smile to drop off my face and headed down onto the nearest subway platform. I couldn’t go home, not if Santos was still watching me. I’d have to hide out somewhere else for a few hours, which meant I’d likely be missing work for the second day in a row. I switched trains a
t three different platforms to ensure that if someone were, in fact, following me, they’d have a hell of a hard time keeping track of my final destination. When I was convinced I’d muddled my trail beyond recognition, I rode to SoHo.

I pulled out my phone and texted Sebastian.

Lux: Don’t kill me — I’ll be there as soon as possible. Something came up. 

My phone chimed instantly with an incoming text message.

Bash: You okay?

Lux:
I’m fine, just a little rattled and covered in coffee. Bumped (literally) into Santos on my way to work.

My phone rang.

“I’m fine!” I whispered into the receiver.

“Where the hell are you?” His voice was demanding and I could hear the sound of his quick footsteps pounding through the speaker at my ear. “Tell me you weren’t stupid enough to go straight home.”

“Excuse me!” I huffed. “I resent that statement.”

“Lux, don’t fucking mess around with me. I just left a meeting with six executives. Tell me where the hell you are.”

“I didn’t go home. I got on the subway, hopped trains a few times, and headed to SoHo. I’m going to Simon’s loft.”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“That’s ridiculous. You have work to do, and it’ll take you over an hour to get here in your car. Traffic is completely gridlocked.”

He sighed and I listened to the sound of his thundering strides grow quiet as he slowed to a stop. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew I was right. “I don’t like this. I don’t want you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. Simon’s roommates Nate and Shane are usually hanging at the loft. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t they have jobs?”

“Nate’s an artist and Shane’s a model — they pretty much make their own hours and spend a large majority of their time in their boxers, eating cereal from the box and sitting on the sofa watching sports reruns or playing video games. They’ll be happy to have me there — I’m freaking great at Mario Kart.”

A frosty silence passed over the line as he considered that scenario. “Well, I’ll be there at eight to pick you up.”

“Don’t I need to come into work?” I asked, confused. “Angela will wonder where I am.”

“Let me worry about Angela. Don’t move from that loft until I get there. Understand?”