Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel) (21 page)

THIRTY-THREE

Nash

Two months later

The balmy Caribbean air ruffles my hair as I stare out at the wide expanse of sea. As far as the eye can see in every direction, there’s nothing. I should feel relaxed and safe and satisfied after getting such an encouraging update from Cash. Everything is going along as planned, moving in the right direction. Marissa’s kicking ass and taking names. With that jerk-off Jensen’s help, of course.

I feel my lip curl at the thought of him cozying up to her over some law books. Just as it does every time I think of her with someone else, rage fills me. For a few seconds, I close my eyes and visualize throwing Jensen down on a fancy courtroom floor and beating the shit out of him, not stopping until his face is unrecognizable and my knuckles are a shredded, bloody mess.

I open my eyes and look to my right, to the satellite phone that’s lying on the glass table beside my deck chair. It’s for emergencies only—I make calls from ports whenever I just want to check in—but every day that I don’t call and talk to Marissa, tell her I’m coming back and I’m going to be a part of her life whether she likes it or not, feels like an emergency, like I’m lost at sea with no compass and no life preserver.

She’s starting to feel more and more like an anchor, like a North Star. Like
my
North Star. With every week that passes, it seems my direction just feels . . . wrong. Like I’m going the wrong way. Like I’m sailing away when I should be sailing toward.

Toward Marissa.

THIRTY-FOUR

Marissa

There’s no question that the man brought into the room is Greg Davenport. This is the first time I’ve actually gotten to see him since this whole thing started. Jensen talked to him alone here at the prison the first time.

If I were passing him on the street, I think I’d recognize him. He looks like an older, slightly paler version of his sons. The resemblance is striking. But for the softer brown eyes and lighter blond hair, and the fact that he’s older, of course, Greg Davenport could be a brother to Nash rather than his father.

His eyes flicker to mine and he smiles. It’s a pleasant smile, but it seems a little tired and a lot worried. I wonder if he’s sleeping. If I were in his shoes, I doubt I would be.

We’ve taken every precaution to keep things quiet until we can get Slava and the other two indicted and in custody. That won’t guarantee Greg’s safety, but it sure can’t hurt.

His first question lets me know that if he’s losing sleep, it’s not over worry for his own safety. “How are my sons?”

Jensen looks to me for an answer. He doesn’t keep in regular contact with Cash like I do. For obvious reasons.

I clear my throat and smile pleasantly at Mr. Davenport. “They’re both fine, sir.”

He laughs and I get a glimpse of what Nash might’ve looked like in his carefree days. I’m sure he was breathtaking! Now, there’s only bitterness and anger. But even so, he’s still the most handsome man I know.

Well,
did
know.

“And who might you be?”

“I’m sorry. My name is Marissa Townsend. I’m working with Jensen as a special prosecutor.”

He shakes his head, looking duly impressed. Neither Greg nor Jensen knows the truth about my involvement in the case. I’m sure they both think my rich father called in a favor. But that’s not the case at all. In order to be appointed to the case by the attorney general, I had to tell him about my involvement. I had to convince him that my intimate knowledge of some of the events and players would be a help to the case. I explained about being kidnapped and spending time in the presence of some of the suspects, about learning things from listening to them. Thankfully, he didn’t require me to get specific. If he had, he’d have seen that I’m not nearly as important as I made it appear. What I have invested in this is heart. And what the attorney general doesn’t realize is that
that’s
what makes me most valuable.

Greg’s voice brings me back to the present.

“You must be the one Nash knows.”

“Yes, I know Nash.”

He nods and smiles. “So you’re the one.”

I frown, my stomach flipping over at something I see in his eyes, in his smile.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“There comes a time in life when every man meets the woman who changes the game, who changes
him
. You’re the one.” I feel a blush sting my cheeks. I look nervously at my laced fingers where they rest on the table in front of me. I’m aware of Jensen’s curious gaze on me. I do my best to ignore it. He doesn’t know that the Nash we’re talking about isn’t the Nash he thinks he knows. And Jensen also thinks that relationship is over. Very much over. Which it is. I just wish it weren’t.

“I think you must be mistaken.”

“Oh no. I’m not mistaken. I’m not surprised it’s a woman like you. You remind me of Lizzie. In all the ways that matter.”

His look turns sad.

“I’m sure you miss her. This won’t bring her back, but maybe bringing her justice and being able to watch your sons grow old will ease the pain.”

“Nothing ever eases the pain of losing your soul mate. You’re not as smart as you look if you think different.”

He’s not trying to insult me. I can tell from his earnest expression. He’s trying to tell me something. Something I already know.

He’s trying to tell me I’ll never be whole without Nash. Never.

But I already knew that.

THIRTY-FIVE

Nash

Three months later

I take one last look around the tiny apartment before I say goodbye to Sharifa and Jamilla. It’s not a great space, but compared to the shack-like structure where they lived in their village of Beernassi, this place is like the Ritz.

The walls are painted a cheery yellow and the furniture, while not exactly new, is a pale green and in good shape. The kitchen’s white appliances are clean and there’s even a microwave now, which Sharifa thinks is the most extravagant part of all.

But not Jamilla. If I had to guess, I’d say she would say her playroom is the most extravagant part of all.

It consists of a thick plastic play kitchen, complete with a pink table and four tiny chairs, each one currently occupied by a different stuffed animal. She’s serving them the meal she just cooked in her little plastic skillet. The sun is streaming in through the window, turning her raven hair to glistening waves of black silk. In the three weeks since I took them away from their home to bring them here to Savannah, the change in her diet is evident. Her skin and hair look healthy, and her cough has almost completely disappeared.

Not having to worry about someone bursting through the door to gun them down and not having to wonder where they’ll get money for food is showing, too. Sharifa is more relaxed, and her calm spills over into her daughter’s smiles and laughter. Maybe one day the memory of her father’s brutal murder will be a vague memory.

I doubt Sharifa will ever fully recover from the loss of Yusuf, but this move is helping as much as anything can. Every time Jamilla giggles, Sharifa smiles. It makes me think there might be hope in the world after all.

I’ve been able to honor my friend by giving his family freedom they’ve never known before. And stability. All their basic needs will be met. I set up an account for them. It’s funded by a substantial savings that’s constantly generating money. Most of the dividend will go into Sharifa’s checking account. A small portion will go into a college fund for Jamilla and an even smaller portion back into another savings account for emergencies. I’ve also already hired an immigration lawyer to help her become a naturalized citizen so she can work here, so that’s been taken care of, too. All in all, they should be all set for a long, long time to come.

“My cab’s here. I need to get going. You have my phone number, right?”

I bought a phone. One to keep permanently. Sharifa and Jamilla deserve to have an emergency contact. One that doesn’t change from day to day or month to month. It’s my first step toward laying down roots. I figure it’s about time.

“Yes. But I will only call if emergency,” she says in her stilted English.

“I told you that you can call anytime. I may not be local, but I can find someone to get you the help you need in an emergency.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “Too much already. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to. It’s what Yusuf would’ve wanted. You’re never a bother. Call me anytime.”

Sharifa steps closer to me and reaches up to lay her hand on my cheek. “Bless you, Nikolai. May every day for your wife and children be blessed. Peace be with you.”

Her words cause a pang in my chest. I don’t have a wife. Or children. I may never have. And if I do, will I have a family with the woman I love? Or will I settle for something . . . less? “Thank you, Sharifa. I pray the same for you.”

I tell Jamilla good-bye and give her tiny shoulders a squeeze. She turns into my chest and throws her arms around my neck. She gives me a big, smacking kiss on my cheek then leans back to look at me. She’s smiling broadly.

It’s with a heavy heart that I make my way out the door and down the steps. My only wish is that Yusuf were here to see his family smile, to see them happy and safe here in the United States.

I’m preoccupied during the cab ride back to the hotel. This morning when I went for coffee, I saw on the news that the trial against the Atlanta sect of the Russian mafia is well under way. Because of all the sensationalism surrounding it, the judge closed the courtroom. There is no close coverage or photos or anything, really. The media is simply updated periodically with information they can release to the public. It’s pretty vague stuff, just talking about crucial testimony of former employees, but never going into specifics.

But then I saw a short press conference held specifically for legal counsel to give statements. The balding lawyer for the
Bratva
gave his brief spiel, proclaiming that he was even more confident after this week’s proceedings that his clients would be proven innocent. And then there was a statement from the prosecution.

And Marissa gave it.

She was practically glowing in her dark blue suit and pale pink blouse. Her voice was strong and confident as she spoke.

“With the ironclad evidence presented by our team and the irrefutable testimony of eyewitnesses, we have no doubt justice will be served.”

She took a few questions and answered them deftly, like she’d been fielding them all her life. It’s easy to see this is what she was born to do. And that she enjoys doing it. And I’m big enough to admit that it’s bittersweet.

She’s doing great. She’s happy and driven, and she found her place in life. Her peace. She took life by the balls and came out on top. And of course I wish her well.

I just wish we could’ve found that together.

It took me a couple of months to realize I was in love with her. Well, probably not to
realize
it. More like to
admit it
. And when I did, I knew that was why I had chosen to stay away from her. I love her enough to want her to be happy and safe and successful, and all that other shit. I want her to have everything she wants in life.

And she can’t have all that if I’m around. I’m a criminal. Or at least I was. Either way, I’m not worthy of her. And I’d probably ruin her career. Especially after this. She’ll be a star in legal circles by the end of this trial. She’ll have the world in the palm of her hand.

And I’ll always have to watch from afar.

That’s just the way it is.

I close my eyes so I can more clearly see her. I picture her first as I saw her this morning, in the suit and light pink blouse. Smiling. Confident. Happy.

But quickly, she loses her clothes and I picture her like I saw her the night before I left. She’s looking back at me over her shoulder, her luscious lips parted in a moan as I slide in and out of the tight glove of her body.

Damn, why did it have to work out this way? Why couldn’t it have been different? Why couldn’t
I
have been different?

I’m grouchy by the time I unlock the door to my room. I feel alone and far removed from everyone who means anything to me, and I don’t like it. It makes me angry.

I push the button to bring up the lighted screen on my new phone. I punch in Cash’s number. The display only requires a light touch, but my mood is not conducive to a light touch. It’s there in my desire to stab my finger through the glass cover of the phone, and it’s there in the ache in my jaw from gritting my teeth.

“Yeah,” comes Cash’s voice, short and clipped.

“It’s me,” I say simply.

“Where are you?” he asks. In those three words, I can hear the change in his tone. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds like he’s glad to hear from me.

“I’m in Savannah. Pulling out tomorrow.”

I feel my lips thin just saying that out loud. I should be looking forward to sailing the rest of the world. But I’m not. There’s only one place I want to be. And it’s the only place that I can’t go. That I shouldn’t go.

“You still on Dmitry’s tugboat?” he asks wryly. I called him a couple of weeks after I left and told him where I was and what I was doing. I described the yacht to him. He knows it’s nicer than most houses.

“Yep.”

“Have you been able to keep up with the trial?”

“Some. I take it it’s going well?”

“Hell yeah, it is! I really think we’re gonna pull this off, man!”

His excitement is obvious. And it only makes me feel worse for some reason.

“Considering all the people who have sacrificed so much to make this happen, I sure as hell hope so!”

Cash is quiet for a minute. “You know you can come back, right? No one’s making you stay away.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I snap. I regret my reaction immediately. Sighing loudly, I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to ease the throb that seems to have come out of nowhere. “Sorry, bro. I’m just a little on edge today.”

“No problem. I just wanted you to know that you’re welcome. We’d all love to have you back. I think Dad would be thrilled.”

“Dad, huh?”

“Not
just
Dad, but yeah. Dad would.”

“Hmmm,” I say, unwilling to ask about Marissa specifically.

“I’m sure Marissa would. She’s miserable without you.”

“I doubt that. I saw her at the press conference. She looks like she’s doing great.”

“She is. I mean, the trial’s going great. She’s doing a good job. But . . . she just isn’t . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. What do I know about women?”

“Good point,” I say playfully.

“Like you’re much better.”

“I know more about women than you
ever
will.”

“You wish,” he teases right back. “Hey, speaking of women. You still game to be my best man?”

“Sure. You popped the question yet?”

“Not yet, but it won’t be long. The trial should be over in another month. I’ll do it then. When all this is behind us. She’ll be ready for a fresh start. We all will.”

“Just tell me when.”

“How long will you have this number?”

“I plan on keeping this one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m betting on this working out so none of us have to hide anymore. Ever.”

“I am, too, man. I am, too.”

“Well, keep me posted. It’s a satellite phone, so you should be able to get me most of the time, even after I ship out.”

“Where you headed to this time?”

I shrug. I don’t know why. Cash can’t see me. I guess I just feel apathetic all over.

“Europe, I think. I’ve been to the Caribbean, Central and South America. And Africa, of course. I think it’s time to spend some euros.”

“Damn, what a hard life you have,” Cash says dryly.

“Hey, you don’t want to get into a pissing contest with me today, man.” I laugh to take some of the bite out of my statement. I meant every word of it, but I didn’t mean to sound like such an asshole.

“I know, dude. It can’t be easy.”

I grunt. I don’t know what to say. If I get started, I’m liable to start whining like some lovesick loser about the unfairness of it all.

“It’s gotta get better eventually, right?”

“It will. Just know you’re welcome back here any time. And that I do expect you here for the wedding. And all the before and after crap, too. If I’m gonna do it, you’re suffering through it with me.”

“Don’t make it sound like you’re not on cloud nine to be marrying the girl of your dreams.”

Cash laughs. “Yeah, who am I kidding. It’ll be the best day or week or month of my life. Well, until the honeymoon. And every day after that.”

“All right, all right, all right. Enough already.” My tone is teasing and I’m sure he knows it.

“Call when you can,” he says lightly.

“I will.”

“I, uh, I miss you, man. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a brother.”

I have the sudden urge to smile, which isn’t exactly an everyday kind of thing for me. “Me, too. Me, too.”

After we get off the phone, I allow myself a few minutes to fantasize about what it would be like to be in Cash’s position, with what looks like a great life all out ahead of me, just waiting to be lived. It takes no more than a few seconds for me to abandon the scenario. Without the girl in my arms, none of the rest of it works.