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“Just what?”
“It’s still hard to believe…” I gather her closer to me, feeling her tremble. “Believe…”
“That we made it this far?”
“That you can love someone like me.”
“Oh, baby.” I close my eyes, drawing her scent in so deep nothing can ever take it from me. “You got that wrong. It’s the other way round. It’s hard to believe you could love someone like me. But I’ll work on it, you’ll see.”
***
The day passes in painful lurches—shower, redressing the bandage on my leg. Breakfast. Checking guns and choosing one for Raylin. Lunch. Sitting around, too stressed to talk. Waiting for the light to start fading.
The flight back to the city feels much shorter than the way out.
Then again, my head is clearer today, and my arm doesn’t feel as if someone is chewing it from the inside. Sure, showering and getting dressed without wetting the sling and the bandage on my leg was a bitch, even with Raylin’s help.
But what the hell. That’s nothing compared to what’s up ahead. Somewhat bigger things, like meeting the Chinese mafia, make this morning’s troubles seem like a child’s worries.
Raylin fairly vibrates with tension as we climb out of the chopper and into the car waiting for us. Hawk has arranged for everything, which rocks. Yesterday I was pretty much useless.
“Thank you, man,” I tell him when he takes his place riding shotgun as we’re off.
“What for?”
“Doing all this. For me, and for her.”
He tsks. “She’s your girl. Can’t let anything happen to her. She’s family now.”
I pretend not to see how her face goes from open-mouthed to smiling, and then she hides it against the window.
Damned Hawk. A heart of gold in that guy.
True to their word, the lawyers pulled strings—strings I’m not even sure I wanna know about—and have a briefcase full of money ready for me. Mr. Shin is the one holding it, his face dark as a thundercloud. Excellent first impressions for the heir and new head of Jordan Enterprises, huh?
And this is just the beginning.
Hawk steps out and retrieves it before I as much as open the door and returns to the car. “Let’s go,” he barks at his driver, and we’re off once more.
“Where?”
“Suburbs.”
“Where, Hawk?”
Despite my gratitude, it grates that he has full control of this operation. Especially when he doesn’t reply. Okay, it’s his operation basically—his man setting this up and making sure this works out.
Still.
Fuck.
The gun hidden under my dress jacket, in a back-holster, does little to set my mind at ease.
We meet up with Hawk’s man behind a run-down fast-food joint. Hawk rolls down his window and asks him where the meeting will take place.
I stare at the guy through my closed window. There’s nothing remarkable about him. He’s not shabbily dressed, but not well-dressed, either. Clean T-shirt, dark jeans, black shoes. Shaved. Short hair.
Nothing to show he’s involved with the triad.
