I shake my head. I appreciate him telling me I didn’t mess things up, but I don’t need his thanks, not when I almost ran away. I don’t deserve thanks.
“Which is why I’m here. If you need me to leave the hospital to reassure you, then that’s what I’ll do. If you need to speak in the safety of the bar, then we’ll talk here. If you want a friend present.” He shoots a curious look at Carlo, “Or the police, we can arrange that too. You tell me what you need, and it’s done. All I want is an explanation for what happened tonight and preferably before someone comes to finish the job on my brother.” He tries to sound reasonable, but my guilt reads it as a reprimand:You shouldn’t have torn me from my brother’s side.
Suddenly I don’t feel quite so sorry for him. Coming here was his choice. I sure as hell won’t take shit for it.
“Subtle. Tell me off all you like; You sent too many men. An army for one girl seems a little excessive. Can you blame me forbeing cautious?”
“No. I admire it. Still, I need that explanation one way or another and I’d rather we did this tonight. Tom’s life, yours, and mine might depend on getting this straightened out.”
“And what if I can’t give you an explanation? What if I don’t know anything? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Right place. Right time,” he insists, and I can see his point. For his brother’s sake, he’s glad I was there. “And I’m betting you can help more than you realise.”
“Fine. We’ll go to the hospital. I’ll tell you what I remember and then you can let Aiden, over there, take me home.” I nod toward the man now waiting at the door. His cola remains mostly untouched on the table.
“Why Aiden?” he asks, a ghost of a smile at his mouth.
“Because Carlo’s seen his face, he has his calling card and will hunt him down and eviscerate him if I don’t make it home tonight,” I explain, tearing off my apron and dumping it on the counter. “That okay by you, Cue-ball?”
“Sure is.” He dusts off his hands on his own apron and reaches for the untouched business card, slipping it into his back pocket. “I’ll call your mum to explain,” he adds.
“Sure,” I grumble under my breath as I dart to the back room and grab my bloodied jacket and remove the sweatshirt. I fold it neatly and place it on Carlos’s desk. He’ll know it’s my way of saying thank you. I march outside just in time to catch Carlo and Mr Nagano shaking hands. I make a mental note to ask Carlo about it when I next see him.
As Mr Nagano leads me out, Gresh lifts his glass in a farewell salute. It’s a twisted version of his earlier greeting. One thing feels the same, the way his eyes dance at the promise of mischief. Sure as shit, my dad is about to receive an interesting call, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Instead, I steel myself in readiness for the last act of this fucked-up-drama filled night.
We enter the hospital throughAccident and Emergency,but the suits steer us to a back staircase, avoiding bleeding and broken patients in the main waiting room. I hear our progression narrated by one of them; he speaks into a radio at his ear like something from an action movie. Mr Nagano hasn’t said more than two words to me since we pulled up in separate cars, but he watches me.
I react to his gaze by straightening my shoulders. I’m suddenly conscious of how awkwardly my body moves.
On the third floor, we arrive at a private waiting room. White painted walls with the subtlest hint of green make the place sickly. The harsh blue fluorescent lights create waves of shadow and light, messing with my eyes and my stomach. I step into the small room behind Mr Nagano and Aiden, slumping into the nearest plastic chair, and close my eyes to the glare of the overhead lights. I suck in the scent of lemon and detergent through my nose, hoping to fight off nausea, but it doesn’t help.
“Has this room been swept?” I don’t need to see which of thesuits Mr Nagano asks. We’ve accumulated three more since walking into the room. They are all the same; devoid of emotion, personality, or anything that marks them as individual people and not trained tools. All except Aiden.
“Yes, Sir. It’s clean.”
“Good. You can wait outside while I talk to Miss Feelan.”
Hearing my surname, I sit upright and search for Nagano, finding him instantly in the seats across from me. Instead of feeling bigger, the room shrinks with just the two of us. I fix my stare on him, taking him in, making him feel my suspicions through the sharp edge of my glare, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Me? I’m almost shaking with a blend of fear and fury.
How does he know my name? Who has he spoken to?
I look closer, trying to discover what I can from the man himself. He is attractive and yes, it’s the first thing you notice, but there is something different too. His name clarifies his Japanese parentage, but there are other markers that identify a combined heritage. He bears smooth skin, without lines or scars on his face. There are no callouses on his hands, and no outward sign of the struggle or exhaustion that comes from living in Harrison Vale. But then, he’s likely a Heights man, same as his brother.
His light, hazel eyes don’t fit his face, or perhaps they fit too well because it’s difficult to tear my gaze away from them. Their soft bright green and ochre irises are almost translucent where the overhead lights reflect within them. It accentuates his copper-tawny skin and dark heavy-set brows. His nose, long and narrow, ends in soft curves and makes way to thick lips. The bowed upper lip pouts naturally and might be considered his most attractive feature if not for the allure of those eyes.
He is more than handsome; he is beautiful. But I know better than to be swept up in the charm of a handsome face, especially one that comes so well packaged.
And he is beautifully packaged.
His suit isn’t just smart, it is tailored; cut for his body alone.The material is light enough to flow fluidly when he moves but heavy enough not to crease. It’s as crisp now, as it would have been when he put it on this morning. He sits informally with his jacket flung open to reveal a sharp white shirt, tucked in at the waist, punctuated by a smooth leather belt with understated silver buckle.
Words like suave and debonair suddenly have meaning.
He is important too, or at least worth protecting if his personal swat team are any indication.But how the hell does he know who I am? How did he find out about me so quickly? How did he find me at the bar?
He clears his throat. I flick my eyes from his crotch to his face and catch the smirk that lingers there.
