Page 22 of Cherish Me

I start to shrink back, but Red takes my hand. “Calm, wife of mine,” he says, barely moving his lips. “We’re going to be cool.”

I swallow, moving my chin in what could be a nod.

“I’ll find the fucker,” Barclay says, loud enough that I can hear. “If he’s in that elevator shaft, you better believe I’ll find him.”

“Of course, he was in the shaft, you idiot,” Malone retorts.

Barclay scowls. He turns, scanning the room as if we’re all to blame for his mistake, and though I can’t be sure, I think his gaze lingers on me before moving on.

He shifts, so that his back is toward the bar as he says something else to Malone.

A moment later, Malone nods. “Let’s be clear. You should have already gone into the shaft and killed him. You fucked up, but this information is worth something, so I’m giving you a pass. For now. But I expect you to do it right. You find him, you kill him. That’s how to handle a problem.”

“You got it,” Barclay says. He whispers something to Chuck, then strides out, leaving me with a sick burning sensation in my gut.

For a moment, everyone in the room is silent. The couple on the bad date are sitting closer together, their hands held tight. The anniversary couple are slunk low in their seats, the woman tight in her husband’s embrace. Aubert has an arm around the one woman still at his table, his face pale.

Malone ignores all of them. Instead, he walks toward me. “Tell me who he is, you fucking bitch.”

“Who?” My mouth is dry, my voice barely audible.

“The fly in the ointment. The pain in my ass. The motherfucker who is messing with my plans.”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Because you’re just hanging out in the bar with your husband?”

I nod, and his attention turns to Red. “You two got a good marriage?”

“The best.”

“The little woman buy your clothes?”

Red frowns. “My clothes?”

Malone picks up Damien’s jacket, still on the bench seat of the booth. “Not very good a shopper, is she? Can’t imagine this cut fitting your broad shoulders.”

“It was here when we sat down,” he says.

Malone’s attention is on me. “What’s your name, blondie?”

“Nina.”

“It’s a bar. I need to see some ID.”

I nod, grateful I have an actual document to back it up. “You have my purse.” Malone and the other one had made another pass after gathering phones, taking purses and patting us all down for anything that could be a weapon.

“Chuck,” he shouts to the thug who’d emptied the gunfire into the restroom, and who, thank God, hadn’t killed Damien.

“It says Nina Stanfield,” Chuck says, striding over, my ID in his hand. “But I think Barclay’s right. That’s not who she really is.”

“I agree. But who is she? We need to figure it out, because the little bitch won’t tell us, will you, Nina?”

I sit, frozen, and he scoffs.

“In the meantime,” Malone continues, “Mr. Aubert. Could I speak to you, please.” Malone’s voice drips syrup. “Unless you want today to be the last day of your life, that is.”

Trembling, Reginald Aubert walks slowly toward us.