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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rav wakes with the sun in his eyes, naked and unaccountably chilly. Or perhaps not so unaccountably, the entirety of the duvet having been dragged into a pile on the other side of the bed. Somewhere within those downy depths is a rock star. At least, Rav assumes so; with only a single limb protruding from the heap, a positive ID is out of the question. It’s ridiculous and adorable and he’s tempted to snap a photo, but things are new enough between them that it would probably still qualify as creepy.

The bathroom is well kitted out, even for a hotel of this caliber. Toothbrushes, razors, luxury skin care products. He cleans up and slips back into bed, minty fresh and smelling faintly of bergamot. Not a moment too soon: Jack is stirring under his heap of blankets. Rav closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. Let Jack think he wakes up smelling this good.

He hears the patter of bare feet on the floor, the soft hiss of the bathroom door sliding shut. He starts to reach for his phone but decides against it. Who cares what time it is? He’s just starting to doze off again when the mattress shifts beside him, and he rolls over to find a pair of blue-green eyes watching him. “Hi,” Jack says.

“Well, hello.”

“Sleep okay?”

“I did, no thanks to you.” When Jack raises an eyebrow, he adds, “You failed to disclose that you’re a blanket thief.”

Jack glances around, taking in the rather damning disposition of the duvet. “I am, aren’t I? Sorry about that.” He shifts closer but doesn’t touch.

“If you’re wondering,” Rav says, deliberately echoing Jack’s words from last night, “I’m a snuggler.”

Jack smiles and scooches the rest of the way over. There’s a glint in his eye that Rav’s body is already becoming conditioned to, a Pavlovian response that has him hardening in anticipation even before the hand starts making its way up his thigh. At this rate, Jack will have his dick trained to sit up and beg by the end of the day.

Forty very satisfying minutes later, Rav is still lounging in bed while Jack orders room service. “Did you say you’re meeting with Mo today?” he asks as he hangs up the phone.

“That’s the plan. I’ll have to head home first, though.”

“Why?” Jack climbs back onto the bed and straddles him.

“Because I have some pride, and I refuse to meet your bodyguard in the same clothes I was wearing last night.”

“He knows you spent the night. We practically slammed the door in his face.”

“ You did. I take no responsibility for that.”

Jack leans forward and pins Rav’s wrists to the bed, a mischievous grin hitching his mouth. “You said it yourself, we have everything we need right here. Except handcuffs. Why didn’t you bring those?”

That smile. It kills him. “Are you always this frisky after a show?”

“Seriously,” Jack says. “Stay.”

Honestly, Rav is surprised. It’s not like he thought this was a one-time thing, but holiday weekend vibes is a whole other level. “Do you really want me hanging around all day?”

“Not if you don’t want to. But we’re hitting the road tomorrow, so…”

Get it while you can. Rav sighs. “When you put it like that.”

“If you want, we can send someone to your apartment to pick up whatever you need.”

Tempting, but that would be a bit decadent. “I’ll be quick, I promise. And if I should return to find you lounging naked by the pool with frozen margaritas, I wouldn’t take it amiss.”

After breakfast, he nips home for a shower and a change of clothes. He packs an overnight bag, and within an hour, he’s back in Brooklyn and ready for his meeting.

He finds Mo waiting on the sidewalk outside the hotel. The bodyguard hands Rav’s bag over to a bellhop, and then he crooks his head in the direction of the river. “Let’s take a walk. Jack doesn’t need to hear this.”

“Even if it concerns him?”

“I like to keep my clients on a need-to-stress basis.”

“And he’ll be all right by himself?”

“I made him promise not to leave the room, and I trust him to keep his word. He’s not one of these dopes who pays me to protect them and then tries to give me the slip the first chance they get.”

They head out along the waterfront. It’s busy on a sunny Sunday, cyclists whizzing along the bike lanes and music drifting over from the park nearby. Mo pops into a coffee shop for a latte and one of those dense, overstuffed baked goods Americans insist on calling scones . “So,” he says around a mouthful of ham and cheese. “Overwatch. Wanna tell me how you came across that name?”

Rav fills him in on the interview with Joe Miller’s roommate. “He was adamant that this Overwatch person was in Miller’s head, fanning the flames of his conspiracy theories.”

“Yeah, from what I saw, Overwatch was laying it on pretty thick with the evil CIA thing for a while. And that was in his public posts. I can only imagine what he was saying in DMs.”

Rav notes the use of past tense. “He’s not posting anymore?”

“Not for the past week or so. I’m guessing he thought it was all shits and giggles until Miller actually took a shot at me, and then he got spooked.”

“Why did you never mention him?”

Mo pauses, bending down to tie his shoelace. It’s awkward with the sling, and he takes his time with it. “It’s the nature of those forums. Didn’t see the need to single him out specifically. That being said, I think Overwatch was the first to mention my intelligence background. I did wonder how he came across that information.”

“You can see how that would do a number on a guy like Miller. As you said, the CIA is everyone’s favorite bogeyman.”

“Bottom line, he still did this.” Mo gestures at his sling as he straightens. “Does it matter what was going through his head at the time?”

“Not really, but…”

“But what?” Mo’s glance flicks over Rav’s shoulder.

“The roommate claims Miller is being set up. He’s a conspiracy theorist, so it’s tempting to dismiss him, except the FBI reached a similar conclusion. They differ about who’s behind it, but in both versions, someone takes advantage of Miller’s history of stalking Jack and weaponizes it for their own purposes.”

“Thought you didn’t buy the FBI’s theory?”

“They’re wrong about Vanderford, I’m convinced. But what if they’re not wrong about all of it?”

Mo’s gaze goes over Rav’s shoulder again, and then he resumes walking, faster this time. “Hustle up, Detective. I wanna get to Smorgasburg.”

“The food market? Didn’t you just eat?”

“We’re being followed. Navy-blue windbreaker, ball cap.”

It takes a second for that to sink in. When it does, Rav starts to—

“Turn around and I will punch you in the dick. Are you new at this?”

“New to being followed like I’m in a spy movie ? Yes, Mo, I am new at this.”

“Stay casual. Just two guys chatting on the street.”

They’re not chatting anymore, a tense silence settling between them as they head into the market. It’s teeming with people, tourists and families and tipsy twentysomethings milling around dozens of vendors selling everything from oysters to artisanal pickles. Perfect for getting lost in a crowd. They join the densest pod of people they can find, letting themselves be carried along for a couple of minutes before ducking between a BBQ place and a taco stand.

“Here’s the plan,” Mo says. “I’m gonna stay here, out of sight. You’re gonna head back out there and browse the market, nice and casual. Maybe join a line. Make sure you’re visible, and keep within my line of sight.”

“So I’m the bait? What if it’s Miller?”

“We take him down.”

“You can’t draw your weapon in this crowd. It’s too risky.”

“Not my first rodeo, Detective,” Mo says coolly. “I’ll keep it low-key. Now get going.”

Rav slips back out between the tents and rejoins the crowd. His mouth is dry, and he wishes he’d brought his handcuffs after all, not to mention his gun. He’d feel safer having it, even if he’s not comfortable using it in a crowded place like this.

Hide , a voice inside him whispers. Keep a lookout like Mo is doing. But that’s just the fear talking. Mo’s play is smarter.

He chooses the busiest line he can find and joins it. His stomach is still full of decadent room service breakfast, and the food smells are making him queasy. Or, you know, maybe it’s the stalker with the gun making him nauseous. He could be in a penthouse suite right now, having naked margaritas with a rock star, but no , he’s standing in line for kimchi brisket subs with a bunch of college kids in oversized cargo pants, trying not to look over his shoulder in case someone is about to shoot him.

The back of his neck prickles. Someone is staring at him, he can feel it. Don’t look , he tells himself.

He looks.

Standing a few feet away, immobile in a sea of moving people, is a guy in a navy-blue windbreaker and a ball cap.

First thought: it’s not Miller.

Second thought: Rav has seen him before.

They make eye contact, and the guy reaches under his windbreaker. Something bulky shifts under the fabric; Rav gets a glimpse of black metal and—

—Mo is there, kicking the guy’s knees out and wrenching his arm behind his back in a single smooth motion. He’s about to plant the guy face-first into the pavement when they get a look at the metal object in his hand.

It’s a camera.

Rav places him now: he was backstage at the concert last night. A tabloid journalist, obviously.

“Shit, man,” the photographer gasps as he wriggles in Mo’s grasp. People are staring now, cutting a wide berth around them. “Take it easy!”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Mo growls. “You know we’re on high alert, and you’re gonna pull this shady shit? You put everyone in this park at risk.”

“I’m just doing my job.” The photographer crooks his chin defiantly at Rav. “I saw the two of them eye-fucking each other backstage last night. Doesn’t take a genius to see there’s a story there.”

Mo snatches the camera from his hands and starts pressing buttons. The guy tries to grab it back, but Mo has six inches and a hundred pounds on him; he holds the camera out of reach while he deletes a bunch of photos, and then he hands it back. “Now beat it,” he says, and the paparazzo slinks off.

Rav’s heart is still pounding. “Are you all right? How’s the shoulder?”

“Don’t think I pulled my stitches.” He rolls it experimentally. “Guess we’ll see.”

“He must have followed me from my place. I’m sorry, Mo.”

“Not your fault. These tabloid vermin are harder to shake than an FSB tail.”

He’s being nice. Rav fucked up and he knows it. “Does this mean you have to move Jack again?”

“He’s safer staying put. It’s only one more night, and then we’re on a plane to Amsterdam. Let’s sneak you in through the service entrance, though. Just in case any more of these assholes turn up.” They start back, taking the long way this time. “So, where were we?”

“I think we’ve about covered it. It sounds like this Overwatch is worth looking into, and I have a friend who might be able to help.” Assuming she’s willing. He’s pretty far in the red with Aisha already.

“I’ll get Erika on it, too,” Mo promises.

Jack is lounging by the pool when Rav gets back. He looks relaxed and happy, and Rav hates to ruin it, but Jack needs to know about the photographer. There could still be a story, and his publicist should be prepared. Rav skips the part where he thought he was about to be murdered, but even so, Jack’s good mood vanishes in an instant.

“I’m so sorry,” he says with a grim shake of his head. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“Oh, but I did. All of this.” Rav loops his arms around Jack’s waist, trying to keep it light, but Jack isn’t smiling.

“All of it, really? Stalkers and tabloids and panic attacks?”

“The whole package. We’re in this together, love.” The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he freezes.

There’s an awkward silence. Jack’s expression is hard to read. “I appreciate that, but—”

“I mean it,” Rav says breezily, as if he didn’t just accidentally drop the L-bomb in the middle of a serious conversation. “But all that can fuck off right now, because it’s a beautiful, sunny afternoon and we are egregiously overdue for naked margaritas.”

“I might skip the tequila, but I’ll take the naked. It’s going to be a lonely few months on the road.”

Lonely, but safe. He’ll be out of Joe Miller’s reach. That gives Rav time. He can’t do much about tabloid photographers or panic attacks, but Miller? That he can do something about. He’s got a fresh lead and a head full of ideas, and he’s going to put every ounce of energy he has into seeing Miller behind bars.

Tomorrow.

Right now, he’s going to take his own advice and hit pause on all that. Because these are their last few hours together before Jack gets on a plane, and Rav doesn’t really know what happens after that. So he takes Jack’s hand and leads him to the bedroom, and if they don’t see a drop of that beautiful sunshine all day long, that’s fine by him.