If my parents had said something like this, that was one thing. If Jordan had said something like this, that was another.
But when both said something to this effect…
“I don’t know what happened, but I can tell you’re bothered by it,” she said. “All I can tell you is that while I would never say celebrate death, give thanks for the fact that you are free now. You don’t have to look over your shoulder.”
Unless the person who murdered him is even worse.
But I knew that just wasn’t the case. For one, even if Nick had literally gotten on the phone with someone and directly ordered Malcolm’s execution, Nick seemed hurt and upset by his own actions. The very fact that he felt things like pain and sorrow put him a level above Malcolm, whose apparent deflection of such emotions was really just a mask for his psychopathic nature.
“Anyway, I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” Jordan said. “If anyone asks, just tell me that you’re working on the next Fresno State project. I don’t want Rachel having any idea about this.”
“Probably for the best,” I said with a chuckle.
Jordan, still a workplace employee and the boss, just smiled gently, not willing to say anything more. She wished me well on my work, stood up, and left, shutting the office door.
“He’s not as bad,” I mumbled to myself.
Had Malcolm ever bought me flowers?
Had Malcolm ever protected me in his home?
Had Malcolm ever given me a bath with wine—to say nothing of the bathtub orgasm?
No. No. And no.
This still felt like I was trying to make excuses for a hired hit. And perhaps I was.
But Jordan had raised a good point. There was no such thing as celebrating death like this, but there was something to be said for the freedom I had now. And the very fact that I’d stepped away from Nick before without consequence, the very fact that I was doing that now without any trouble…maybe my fears of him bringing the fire down onto me were overblown.
I didn’t know.
The only way to know that was time.
Hopefully, that time would reveal Nick’s true character and give me the answers I needed.
Chapter 25: Nick
One Week Later
“Nick, I swear to God, you’re never getting her back if you send that message.”
I sat in Layla’s office, my phone in my right hand, my legs crossed. She had a remote control in her hand, having just turned off the TV that had begun a discussion about if my recent batting slump had proved that I was just a money-grabbing athlete, more interested in the fame and dollars than the production. Never mind that I’d made two incredible catches in the week and had helped us get off to a 5-1 start on the season.
But baseball, at this moment, was the last thing on my mind.
“It’s only the third text since dinner last week—”
“Nick,” she said sternly. Boy, Layla could have a real fire to her when she wanted. “I would have hoped you had sent the first text to apologize. It was good of you to do it the morning after. I can even forgive the second text, because it shows you really did care. But if you message her again, after she’s ignored you? You know what she’s going to think? That you can’t take a fucking hint.”
She held her hand out.
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to send any messages or do anything stupid. I know you need privacy. I’m going to make sure you don’t message Izzy.”
Fuck it. I handed my phone to her, my gaze unable to meet hers.
“You probably don’t want to know what I had planned to do if she didn’t respond to these messages.”
“I don’t,” Layla said. “But tell me anyway so I can have a good laugh.”
I sighed.
“I was going to send her flowers, the same kind that I’d given her all these times before. I know it’s a little ridiculous, but…well, I just thought something that would remind her of everything we’ve done to this point would be cute and help win her back. That’s all.”
I braced for the laugh. I deserved it. Here I was, a man in his late twenties, with perhaps over half of the eligible women in the Bay Area willing to throw themselves at me, acting like a melancholy teenager over this one girl. If that didn’t deserve a laugh for the ridiculousness of my behavior, it deserved a laugh for the complete insanity of my rationality—or lack thereof.
But Layla didn’t laugh. In fact, when I finally found the strength to look up into her eyes, I didn’t see the fiery sister that corralled all of the Ferrari brothers. I saw the most empathetic, understanding look I’d ever seen.
“You really care for her,” she said. “Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
The word came out immediately, like an instinctive reply. There could be no mistaking how I felt for her if my tongue beat my brain. I just had never articulated it out loud like so.
But it was true. I did love her. I didn’t know if she loved me—the last week probably suggested the opposite—but I knew how I felt.
“Nick,” she said. “Can I tell you something? But I swear to God, if you repeat this to Brett, I will break your kneecaps and make sure the Giants sue you for contract breach.”
“Damn,” I said with a
