Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(53)

So he had changed jobs. “What happened to your sanitation gig.”

“It’s the same job as before, just new management.”

If that wasn’t vague enough. “And what do you do as an independent contractor?”

“A little of everything. Right now, I’m helping the boss find a missing shipment.”

“Like an investigator?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road as he nodded with a slight smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Good for you then, working your way up the ladder for whatever sketchy business you work for.”

“Sketchy?”

“Are you serious? Twice, I’ve asked about your job and you’ve yet to actually tell me the name of the company.”

His smile grew. “Didn’t I?”

“No, you really didn’t.”

“I just call it the Den.”

Well that didn’t sound like a real company anyway, but since she didn’t think he would be sticking around anyway, she let it go.

“Does that necklace mean a lot to you?” Reagan asking, spotting the glint of gold at his neck. “You wore it a lot before.”

She didn’t think she had noticed how delicate that chain really was.

“It’s not important.”

“It’s not important to you, or it’s not important for me to hear?”

“Reagan…”

She waited, expecting him to continue, but when he didn’t, the defenses that had been slowly lower slammed right back up. “Don’t worry about it, just drop me off.”

They rounded the block one last final time before he found a spot a few feet away.

Niklaus killed the engine, but didn’t look at her, not yet. “You’re upset because I won’t tell you something that I may not be ready to talk about?”

“That’s just it, Niklaus. I don’t know anything about you,” Reagan said, feeling frustrated. “I don’t know what’s open for discussion and what’s not.”

He shook his head meeting her eyes to say, “You know what’s important.”

“Really? Because the only thing I know for sure—and this is me being generous—is that your name is Niklaus. I don’t even know your last name.”

“Volkov,” he said a second later.

Why did that name sound so familiar?”

“Or where you’re from.”

“I was born in Russia, but grew up in Florida with my adoptive mother, but like I said, I don’t think that’s important.”

“Why do you get to decide what’s important to me? Maybe it’s those little things that will help me understand who I’m dealing with.”

Niklaus laughed, his tone sharp. “Trust me, none of that will tell you anything about the person I am now. Not even close.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry. I should have known that after all the stimulating conversations we had.”

“I’ll tell you when it’s the right time.”

“There’s not going to be a right time, Niklaus. This—whatever this is that you’re trying to do—it can’t happen.”

“Because of Liam, no?”

Partly because of him. “No, because of you. Back when I first met you, I wanted to know everything about you, figure you out, and maybe help with whatever wasn’t letting you sleep at night. And not just once, twice. Only the second time you left money, like I was a prostitute being paid for my services.”

When she had seen it the first time, she had thought that it meant he cared, then the other part of her thought it was exactly what she was telling him now. And very soon, she had stuck on the latter and began to loathe that bag full of cash. Most days she didn’t even want to look at it, knowing the memories it would conjure. She would have much rather had the man than the money, but finally after she had gotten desperate enough—and convinced that he was never coming back—she had used every dime of it, along with her savings to open up her pub.

“It was never like that, Reagan. You know that.”

“Do I?”

The tension was back, and while Reagan might have wished otherwise, she couldn’t pretend like his leaving hadn’t hurt her.

Instead of waiting for whatever answer he was conjuring up, she unbuckled and climbed out, slamming the door shut behind her. She didn’t linger, not this time, heading directly for her building without looking back.

“Reagan.”

There was hitch in his voice, just the slightest betrayal of emotion that had her pausing. She could have kept on—she didn’t think he would have stopped her again—but before she could quell the impulse, she looked back at him.

“Why did you leave?” she asked.

The question had plagued her since the last time she saw him, and every night that followed for weeks as she wondered whether he would show back up as he had the first time.

But the longer he was gone, the more dejected she felt until finally, she had given up expecting to see him walking through the doors of the diner.

Niklaus looked down at his hands still gripping the steering wheels, his fingers tightening briefly. “You won’t like the answer.”

“No? Tell me anyway.”

This was when she expected him to deny her, to make up some excuse that he thought she would want to hear. Funny thing was, the truth was the last thing she expected from him.