Page 93 of Long Way Down

While Contreras wrestled his coat off behind the wheel and fussed with the windshield defroster, she fired off a text to Pongo, wondering if he’d even bother to respond.

The ping came in not four seconds later.Abso-fucking-lutely, baby.With a winking smiley face.

When she sighed, she could hear the fondness in it.

Twenty

Pongo’s apartment was a communal club space used for any brother staying in the city overnight. He didn’t officially live there – his mail all went to Albany and got carried down by whoever was in town – but he spent more time there than he did at the clubhouse, so it felt more or less like home. It had two bedrooms, one of which had slowly become less of a bunk room and more of a personal space; he’d used the top bunk above the mattress he slept in each night to store his clothes. His toiletries had begun to crowd out the cheap toothbrushes, disposable razors, and travel bottles of mouthwash in the bathroom. The cupboards were still fully stocked with protein bars, chips, and long-lasting canned items, but where the fridge had once held nothing but beer and sports drinks, it now housed takeout leftovers, pickles, deli meats, and a pound of ground beef he intended to make meatballs with for spaghetti night.

Toly walked in, surveyed the kitchen/living room with one of his usual, impossible to read flat stares, and said, “It smells like a locker room in here.”

Pongo had always thought his accent – heavy and too thick to disguise, no matter how much he secretly worked at it in front of the bathroom mirror, frowning as he tried to shape the words in a more American way (Pongo had caught him at it once and wound up with a knife stuck in the drywall beside his head) – had a way of turning the most basic of statements into deadpan jokes. At least in Pongo’s estimation; he was convinced there was a sense of humor under the silky black fringe of his hair, somewhere between the I’m-going-to-kill-you blinks of his dark eyes.

Pongo chuckled, now, as he looked at the room with fresh eyes and noted all the discarded pairs of socks he’d left lying around. Over the arm of the sofa, in the seat of the chair, on the rug. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to do laundry.”

Toly snorted and headed toward the second bunkroom – the one that wasn’t fast becoming Pongo’s closet.

“Hey, you want a beer or something?” Pongo called to his retreating back.

“No.”

“Oh, right. I forgot you don’t drink.” Something about being in the bratva, and old habits, and having to always be on guard. He had a glass of vodka on rare occasion, but never while he was actively working some sort of job. Mav tended to make the most use of his skills and sent him on hits and specific ops, out of the limelight, the way he preferred.

When no further response issued, Pongo followed him, and braced a shoulder in the open doorframe. Toly was fussing about with the blankets on one of the top bunks, muttering quietly to himself in Russian, probably about the fine layer of dust that had settled on the quilt; Pongoreallyneeded to do some housekeeping around here.

“You still working security for Fox’s sister?”

“Da.” The top quilt went to the floor in a heap, and the rest, after a sniff and a frown, must have been deemed worthy, because Toly turned to sit on the bottom bunk and unlace his boots.

“How’s that going?”

Toly’s pale, slender fingers kept working, but he lifted his face enough to peer at Pongo through a screen of black hair. “It’s going.”

A man of few words, their Russian.

Pongo offered him a lazy, disarming grin that didn’t seem to do much good. “Gotta be pretty cushy, right? Sitting around all day in that fancy office? Getting to watch models walk around.”

Toly sighed, low and long-suffering, and returned his attention to his boots, pulling them off one at a time and lining them up at the edge of the bed, laces tucked inside. “It’s ajob,” he said. “I’m not watching models.”

“Yeah, well, Raven’s pretty hot, yeah? She’s got that whole femdom thing going on. Has she got, like” – he mimed cracking a whip – “a special closet full of toys? Bet she puts on leather after hours.”

Boots secured, Toly placed his black-socked feet on the carpet and sat up. His movements were unhurried and precise as normal, but when he shook the hair from his face with a quick tilt of his neck, his gaze met Pongo’s with an unusual intensity. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

Oh, Pongo thought.He’s pissed. And wasn’tthatinteresting?

“It’s a dangerous habit,” Toly said, “to make assumptions about people.” His normally-flat tone flirted with threatening.

“Yeah, normally, but–”

“Drop it,” Toly said, with more outward aggression than he’d ever displayed, and stood to haul himself up into the top bunk. “I’m going to sleep,” he said as he got settled on his side, facing Pongo. His gaze was eerily sharp before he closed his eyes. “Do not be here when I wake up.”

“Sheesh,” Pongo muttered. “It’s not like Ilive hereor anything. I’ll be gone, don’t worry. Unlike you, I have plans. Fun, lady-friend plans,” he said as a parting shot, and backed out of the room.

Toly said something nasty-sounding in Russian, but Pongo chose to take the high road – and slammed the door shut in the process, because he could.

Hedidhave plans. Dixie had texted him not five minutes before Toly’s arrival, asking if he wanted to come over tonight. He’d almost dropped his phone in shock when he read the text. No matter how aggressive and eager she was in bed, he had always been the aggressor when it came to initiating hookups. He would text, or call, or swing by her building unannounced with hot takeout or a case of beer. She would roll her eyes, and grumble, and make a show of not wanting him there…before she wound up face-down and begging in her own sheets. Her reaching out to initiate felt like a victory.

And also left him a little worried, given the way they’d parted last time.