Happenstance(4)

A sharp nod. “Banks Pearson.”

They still appear to be contemplating whether or not to toss each other through the glass window into sewage-infested waters below.

Hercules grunts and takes a step closer to me. Like he wants to guard me against any potential violence. And it’s so odd, because I find it very difficult to trust people—but I almost move into the circle of his warmth without thinking. Just like that. He must be an Aquarius and my chaotic Gemini energy is simply vibing with his.

Oh, I took an astrology class last year. Dipped out halfway through it, of course.

When Tobias and Banks finally stop shaking hands and retreat to their corners, I tap the number I found on Google. The line rings four times, then descends into a series of beeps. I call back three more times before someone answers with a harried, “Yes?”

“Yes, hello.” I plug my opposite ear out of habit. “Myself and three other passengers are stuck up here. What’s going on?”

Quite a lot of noise is happening in the background. Ringing phones, voices, a blaring television. “Mechanical failure. The technician is on his way.”

“Any idea how long before we’re moving again?”

“Not at this time, no. As soon as possible.”

“Is there a way to turn the heat back on?” I whisper. It’s a dumb question. The answer is obviously no, but I am trembling now and beginning to pity myself, my brain projecting images of sweatpants and my fluffy white bed comforter. God, I would give anything to be under the covers in some fuzzy socks right now. Experts say to dress for the job you want. I want to be a reporter. A staff writer at the paper. So I’m wearing a pencil skirt and a white, button-down, cap-sleeve blouse. My tombstone is going to read: Here lies Elise Brandeis. Disappointing daughter. Human icicle.

The line has gone dead in my ear, so I blow out a breath and hang it up, searching for a distraction from my imaginary epitaph—too real. And if I’m engaging strangers in conversation, that’s when I’m truly desperate. “So.” I try to keep my rear teeth from clenching and fail. “What brings you three to b-beautiful Roosevelt Island?”

None of them answer.

They’re all distressed in their own way over my condition. I’m no expert, but said condition is probably verging on frostbite. Without a mirror in front of me, I have a feeling my lips are turning blue. They obviously notice—and I think it’s why they each take a measured step in my direction.

“Will you please take one of our jackets or…” Banks starts, raking a hand down his face.

“Or allow one of us to keep you warm?” Tobias finishes for him, visibly enjoying the proceedings. “Is that where you were headed with your suggestion, mate?”

“Not in the way you made it sound,” Banks clips.

A shiver passes through me, so powerful that my teeth actually chatter.

They take another collective step, all of them annoyed at each other for having the same idea. Or compulsion. Or whatever is happening. I put up my hand to stop the advance of the man closest to me, which happens to be Hercules. The palm of my hand connects with the middle of his chest and the worn cotton of his hoodie. The thick muscle beneath that leaps under my touch.

My breath catches.

For the first time, I notice the white logo on the right pec.

Local 401. That’s the same union I came to Roosevelt Island to investigate. At least, 401 union boss Jameson Crouch’s connection to Deputy Mayor Alexander. The two men I saw shaking hands from the pizza parlor. But based on the five minutes I’ve spent in this guy’s acquaintance, he is probably not involved in any behind-the-scenes corruption. What kind of corruption? I’m still working on that. More than likely, though, Hercules is on the island to work on the housing development that’s under construction at the hands of 401.

He could know something useful, though.

This man might be able to give me rare insight into my investigation. Or help me. If I want the managing editor at the Times to take me seriously, I have to bring her a story. I’ve been trying to piece together this bombshell piece for weeks and today, I most likely had my suspicions confirmed. Deputy Mayor is the mole who has been feeding harmful information to Crouch, giving him ammunition for his feud with the mayor. But even after seeing them together today—and on friendly terms—I still only have smoke and mirrors. A theory.

And a sandwich cart with wheels.

A cart that I push through the corridors of the Times, serving hoagies to the real reporters. I don’t want to do it anymore.

I want to be a writer and I don’t want to quit halfway this time.

Before I think better of it, I curl my fist in the front of Hercules’s sweatshirt and pull him forward, not missing the lump that moves up and down in his throat.

“You haven’t told us your name yet,” I say quietly, caught off guard by the invisible feather that drags along the lowest regions of my belly.

He takes a deep breath while his eyes trace the part of my hair. “Gabe Gatlin.”

“Gabe.” My lord, his voice is deep. “I’m Elise.” Suddenly, I’m second guessing my intention to finesse information out of this giant, but it’s too late to turn back now because my breasts meet his chest. “You’ll keep me warm?”

His swallow is loud in my ear, his arms coming up around me, locking me close to his powerful bulk. “Yes, please.”