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He nodded. “You tend to look upward. That’s good.” He kept a soft hand on the joy stick, and stayed casual. “I see the city. I tend to look down.”
New York was below us, sprawling and bright. In a way, they reflected the stars as well, as if the constellations had been jammed into rectangular containers and bolted to the earth. The immense water of the Atlantic in the distance was peaceful, flat. Completely still.
“Keep thinking of a name.” He changed the subject.
“What about Maleficent?” I offered, pursing my lips to the side and wiggling my brows. “I always wanted to be an evil queen.”
He shook his head, indulgently. “If you’re going to be a witch, why not go with Elphaba?”
He was mentally sparring with me, verbally throwing a jab, and watching me counter. He was practicing the Tao of the Dog. The philosophy was simple and mostly applies to aggressive interactions, such as sparring.
He and I were now in a pact together. It was our job to keep one another sharp. If he pushed me too hard, it could break my spirit, which doesn’t serve his interests. If he pushed too little, I become that thing I hated being - weak. A thing in need of defending.
LeBlanc was a master of walking that line and under four years of his tutelage, I had become the sharpest blade in underground MMA. Thinking about him stabbed my heart. Would Jericho know what happened to him outside of that text message?
And along with that thought came another.Is he dead?
“I have a name for you,” he smiled. “Jubilee. Jubilee Bradley.”
It was an interesting name, to say the least. It was the first real suggestion, so it was worth considering. I had never been anything but Rose Marie, so why not?
“Okay.” I agreed, nodding. “And what will your name be, Jericho?”
“Oh,” he chuckled, “I’m known as Brett. Brett Bradley. It’s been my cover for years.”
I raised a brow.
“Of all the names to choose for yourself, you chose Brett? On purpose?” I looked him up and down as he grinned, pleased with himself. “And what? Are we married or something? We can’t be siblings.”
He winced.
“Kiddo, don’t be weird.” He grumbled. “I’m your dad.”
“How old are you? Are you old enough to be my dad?” I asked. He didn’t have any gray hairs on his face, or his robust beard. But beards are deceiving. Maybe he was 21. Maybe he was 50. Who knew?
“I’m forty-two.” He guffawed. “I was only five years younger than your dad. Though those five years seemed like a lot when I first met him. I’m old enough to have had you at twenty.”
“So, what?” I asked. “I’m your adopted Asian daughter?”
He leaned over to lightly punch me in the arm. We both chuckled. I liked this man. He wasn’t stoic like LeBlanc, or a drunk like my father. He was cool as cream.
“So Jubilee Bradley, the daughter of,” I looked over at him, the stars and the various cockpit lights reflected on his chiseled face. “Brett Bradley.”
That name made my face curl as if I had tasted a sour lemon.
When he grinned, there were wrinkles around his eyes. I saw the dark circles under them, and there was a coarseness to his skin, possibly from too much sun. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, though.
“Yeah. I can be a real dick with a name like Brett.” He looked so pleased with himself as he looked at me. His perfect, straight, white teeth practically glowed in his Cheshire cat smile.
“You’re saying you’re not a dick all the time?”
“Oh, I am. But I like to have a name to match.”
Chapter 8
Alastair
EoghanGreenstrodeinlike a rock star after the Russians left. Four burly guys cleared his way, sweeping for any danger with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. They checked exits, doors, behind the counter, then placed themselves in the way of entry and egress points.
