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Max’s earlier frustration has vanished and his eyes crinkle. “Sure, carry your damsel off to your love nest. But remember her curfew is midnight.”
“What if I want to keep her out all night?”What if I want to keep her forever?
“If Micki wants that, she has a key. But she needs to let Cress know. I’m not the dad, staying up all night, waiting to let her in. But Cress will worry something has happened.”
I give him a thumbs up and mouth how grateful I am for arranging this chance for amends. My phone tells me we are two minutes from liftoff.
ChapterTwenty-Three
We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love.—Martin Luther King, Jr.
Micki
I’mtipsy with sake and beyond sushi satiety. JL helps me into my coat, puts the strap of my bag over my head and, one broad hand on my back, guides me out onto Clark Street, pools of illumination from street lamps creating pockets of chiaroscuro. The sidewalk seems curiously empty, and few cars trail up and down the street.
With a professional air, JL scans the area, and sees something that makes him wave at the driver of an SUV. He moves into a protective stance while we wait for the driver to come to the curb. He looks inside at the driver, and I expect him to move away in alarm. My head is too fuzzy to understand their terse exchange.
Then, with a muttered “Sean,” JL opens the back passenger door, helps me in, and buckles my seat belt, before getting in on the other side.
A shout from just outside a dark doorway has JL urging the driver to get going. I think I hear my name, but I can’t be sure..
A shadow detaches itself, but we’re away. I watch as the now-still dark figure pauses statute-like at the curb. I choke back a comment and decide silence is the better part of valor.
Then with a roar like a maddened bear, feet pound down the concrete, but whoever is out there can’t get us. Not this time.
The brief rush from the possible danger makes my heart pound violently, then, suddenly feeling safe, I fight to keep my eyes open.
“Do you think it was Sam?” I murmur.
“Could just be a drunk panhandling. Or someone wanting wallets and phones.”
I finger the key alarm I always have with me. Being a random target reminds me of city dangers and is both reassuring and disquieting.
Once we’re on our way, he takes a lock of my hair and rubs it through his fingers. “Do you want to stay the night?”
I exhale. I’d love to just say yes, but caution dampens the desire. “After we talk. If I find I can forgive you, I’ll stay.”
“You gave me a new sobriquet. Isn’t that forgiveness?”
“We’ll see.”
Driving to JL’s high-rise condo is tame compared to the exhilaration of clinging to his waist, fingers through his belt loops, on the back of the bike. Whether we can have a coherent conversation is questionable, and I wonder if he hopes physicality will replace explanation and repentance. Repressing a small burp, I nestle into his shoulder, knowing this tacit acceptance is unwise but irresistible.
Another black SUV idles on the circle drive at the entrance to the building. JL gets a text and sends a reply. “All clear,” he says. Our driver comes around and hands me out to a waiting JL, who has scrambled from the back seat and run around to take my arm. Two shadowy figures exit the other SUV and follow us inside. Once we are at the desk, they nod to JL and leave. I hear the slam of their doors before they drive away.
A GSU security guy swivels on a high stool. His back-and-forth motion makes me feel like Cress’ description of the Drake Shake on the way to Antarctica.
“Evening, JL.”Roll. “All quiet here.”Shake. “We had your place swept about thirty minutes ago.”Twist. “No visitors either.”Urgggh.
“Perfect, John. Can you open the doors, please?”
Before I know it, JL sweeps me up and carries me to the now-gaping doors of the all-glass elevator that only serves the top floor. Too surprised to struggle, I stay still in his arms as the car swoops upward like a hawk loosed to hunt its prey.
When the doors open, JL puts me down, but the pseudo-seasickness followed by the rush skyward has destroyed my balance and I can’t manage to stand. There is a door at each end of the wide, short lobby. Clay Brandon lives in one of the two suites and JL in the other. Lifting me back into his arms, he strides down the hallway to the door labeled JL Martin, stares at a little screen, and the door swings open.
“Biometrics,” he says, as if I asked. “The sensor recognizes my eye pattern. Very clever, secure, and hands-free.” Then I get a first look at the cloud palace JL calls home. After getting to know Max, who barely furnished his place on Gold Coast and then, when he won Cress, left the decorating details to her, I thought JL would have very minimalist guy furniture. But there is no giant black leather sectional, or even a gigantic TV screen. The living room walls are mostly floor-to-ceiling windows, with great views over the lake and Millennium Park. No blinds or drapes, just the drama of the water and sky.
His couch is a four-piece sectional in olive leather with a chaise on either end. Matching ottomans rest nearby. Gray double drawer end tables, with a shelf underneath, keep things easily to hand and are matched by a long cocktail table. Four armchairs are scattered around the room, upholstered in cream with an olive print. Along an interior wall is a shelving unit with spaces for books and drawers for storage.
