Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(66)

The car stops. Someone knocks on the window, and Duff disengages the locks.

The side door opens, revealing my brother’s smiling face. “Didn’t know you’d be dropping by tonight. Come on upstairs.”





23





Alex





My heart is in my mouth. And it isn’t until I have to get out of the car that I realize I’ve plastered myself to Eric.

Hastily, I peel myself off his comforting body, allowing Max to take my hand.

“Let’s all get on the elevator together,” he’s saying. “I don’t want to fuck around with security badges at this hour.”

“Okay,” I say, voice shaky. We’re moving through the garage, and my senses are reeling. I’m vaguely aware that the collection of vehicles around me is extraordinary. In addition to a few ordinary cars and SUVs, there’s a Maserati, a Con Ed repair van, a Jeep Wrangler, a jacked-up minivan, and an armored car.

There’s even a small yellow school bus. I can’t imagine what that’s for.

On shaky knees, I allow myself to be shuttled into a modern brass elevator. A wide, steadying hand lands on my lower back, and I lean back into Eric’s protective embrace without even thinking.

Max presses his hand against a sensor, and the elevator glides smoothly upward for a while. When the doors slide open, I don’t see offices, though. Instead there’s a beautiful loft apartment with brick walls and tall windows, the lower portions of which are hidden by velvet curtains in the color of smoke. City lights filter in through their arched tops, illuminating a suite of funky furniture and thick rugs covering the wood floors.

I’ve heard my bodyguards gossiping about Max’s private lair before, but I wasn’t sure it was real. “He could survive the zombie apocalypse up there,” they whisper. “It’s a fucking bunker. Even the windows are bomb proof.”

I hope some part of that is true, because I am freaked out right now.

“Sit down,” Eric says, gently steering me toward the sofa. “That’s it.” I’m eased onto a deep, velvet sofa with a high, curving back. The style is a cross between Sumptuous Men’s Club and Alice in Wonderland. Eric props my feet onto a leather foot stool and covers me with a thick throw of ivory-colored wool.

But then Eric walks away from me, and I’m not okay. I force myself to breathe deeply. It’s possible that I’ve been holding my breath since Broadway and Seventy-ninth streets. I glance around the room and notice how solid this place really is. The beams crossing the distant ceiling must be a foot thick.

I’m at the top of one of the most fortified buildings in Manhattan, I remind myself. I’m fine. Although the hockey game feels like it happened a month ago.

I close my eyes and try to relax.

The sofa depresses under someone’s weight a few minutes later. “I made this for you,” Eric says. “But you don’t need to drink it.”

I open my eyes. “What is it?”

“Apple cinnamon herbal tea.”

The spicy scent reaches me, and it’s almost as comforting as this sofa. “Thank you,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. He passes the mug into my hands, which already feel steadier. “Thank you,” I say again, pulling myself together. I take a tiny sip, because the tea is too hot to drink yet. But the heat is bracing and just what I need.

Max prowls around his space, turning on some music. Ella Fitzgerald’s crooning starts up from speakers hidden somewhere nearby. He pours a bit of whiskey from a crystal decanter into two glasses. He crosses the room and hands one to Eric, who is seated beside me. “Just a nip. The night isn’t over yet.”

“Whatever you say.” He takes the glass and inhales deeply. “How many decades old is this one?” He sips carefully.

“Four,” Max says, settling into a leather chair. “Life is short, so I only drink the good shit.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.”

There’s a low chime from the direction of the elevator. Max sets down his drink on a dark wood table and crosses to a small control panel. He glances at the screen, then places his palm onto it before walking back to his seat again.

A moment later the doors slide open. Scout strides out in leather pants and a form-fitting sweater. She marches over to where Max sits and slaps a piece of paper down onto the table beside him. “Here’s his license plate number.”

“Nice work, as always.” Max lifts his chin and takes her in, a smile playing at his lips. “Feel free to reward yourself with a nip of this Glen Keith. Not too much, though. You’ll be driving again tonight.”

She doesn’t cross to the decanter like I expect her to, though. Instead, she takes Max’s glass right out of his hand and gives it a sniff.

“Hey, I’m drinking that.”

Scout takes a sip, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Nice.” She hands it back to him, and then disappears toward the sleek kitchen in the corner. I wouldn’t actually be able to tell that it’s a kitchen except for the tea kettle sitting on one of the sleek surfaces. And because when Scout tugs on a panel, it opens to reveal a refrigerator. She pulls out a bottle of Mexican soda and opens it with a tool that’s hanging off the set of keys on her belt.

She is riveting, honestly. She reminds me of a black cat—quick and graceful and wholly at ease in her body. If I ever felt like that, I can’t even remember it now.