I open the maps app before tapping my next question. Everything good with Blake?
More dots, only this time, I don’t like what I see. She’s on the move.
Concrete is in my gut, and I decide Trip can wait. I need to keep my promise. Send me hers as well.
In less than a second, I’ve got both pins, and I know where I’m going next.
21
Blake
My apartment doesn't feel safe anymore.
The city doesn’t feel safe.
After what Trip told me and the clear signs I’m being watched, I want to finish this as quickly as possible and get back to Hamiltown, back to Hana. Walking around my empty apartment, I shake my hands, doing my best to remind myself Scar is there. Dirk is there. They’ll keep an eye on her, and they have more muscle than I do.
Last night, after our little drama on the balcony, Natasha and Rainey accompanied me home. They’re more Hana’s friends, having come on the scene while I was in Connecticut with the nuns, and I’ve never been fully comfortable with them.
Still, I have to play the part for now. I endured Natasha stroking my hair and commiserating how men can be so insensitive. She asked me how I’m feeling since Debbie. It all sounded caring, but I felt an undercurrent of fishing.
Rainey is simply young and clueless. She’s eighteen, old enough to be in the group, get in the bars owned or influenced by the guys, but she’s not very sophisticated. She follows Natasha around like a puppy trying to make Fetch happen.
I pretended to be sad. I pretended to be frustrated with Hana’s antics. When the clock struck two, I pretended to be tired, and they finally went home.
Once I was alone, I transferred the money to the fucking account of that idiot Papi-O. It burned in my chest to send that money. My conversation with Trip made me realize I’m a mark, and these morons are convinced they can threaten me with anything if it will keep my sister out of the tabloids.
My one consolation is Hutch’s promise Dirk can get it back. I’m counting on that.
Today, I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can confront Greg. Natasha and Rainey are my link, as it seems the asshole is already dating Natasha. Debbie’s not even cold in the ground–or ashes in her family’s mausoleum–and he’s already moved on.
I’m pacing my room when my phone lights up with a text from Natasha. Hanging at Gibson’s tonight. See you around seven?
My heart beats faster, and I quickly reply. Who’s in the group?
Don’t know. I’m meeting Greg. You in?
It’s all I needed to know, and I quickly tap out a yes.
I’m taking a big chance confronting him, but I’ve never been one to cower in fear. He’s fucking with the wrong van Hamilton.
Gibson’s is an old-school cigar bar, which is saying something these days. Smoking is banned in all bars and restaurants in New York City, but in Gibson’s, with it’s wine-colored leather furniture, carpeted walls, and heavy velvet curtains, the air is thick with cigar smoke. The counters are lined with whiskey and bourbon and assorted spirits, and the atmosphere is something out of a bygone era.
Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” plays softly over the speakers, and a low roar of voices comes from clusters of men of all ages dressed in suits and gathered along the brass-studded, wooden bar or sitting in round, leather booths.
Women in high-fashion, skimpy cocktail dresses drift through the room carrying glasses of champagne. Their hair is perfect, their makeup on point, and they’re clearly escorts for hire.
“It’s like stepping back in time,” Natasha giggles, holding my arm as we descend the stairs to the basement bar.
A velvet rope lines the entrance on street level, but the crowd is sparse. Patrons are permitted by invitation only at Gibson’s. You can wait all night in the cold winter air, but you’re not getting in unless you know someone.
I know Greg, and my intention is to find him. I plan to tell him to back off Hana and then go home. I’m not looking for conflict. I only want him to leave us alone.
I’ll go back to my apartment, shower the cigar smoke out of my hair, pack my things, and leave this city. With all that’s happened, New York doesn’t feel like home to me anymore.
The doorman doesn’t even question us as we enter the smoggy, open bar area. He knows we’re Greg’s friends.
Laughter erupts from a table in the far right corner. I can’t see who’s there, but I see a bald guy in a suit smoking a cigar with a pretty brunette draped over his shoulder. It’s impossible to know if they’re together or if she’s looking for a daddy.
“Want a martini? I’ll order us martinis.” Natasha clasps my hand and drags me with her to the bar.
She’s dressed up in an emerald green bustier over a wide-striped black and white, long-sleeved dress. I’m in a simple, black silk sheath with spaghetti straps. We checked our faux furs at the door, and we blend in well with this vintage venue and its patrons.
Leaning against the bar, I scan the crowd of mostly white men for his face. They all blend together, entitled men of privilege showing off their ability to flout the rules in an environment where anything could happen.
Natasha puts a slim cocktail glass in my hand and hisses, “There he is!” like she just spotted Elvis. Or Old Blue Eyes himself.
Greg descends the stairs in a solid maroon suit and black shirt and tie that set off his pale features and black eyes. I shoot my martini, ready to get this done, when Natasha laces our fingers and drags me to where he takes a seat in one of the booths.
“Hello, handsome.” She slides into his side, and he lifts an arm to allow her proximity.
I sit, straight-backed like a soldier at the outer edge, tracing my fingers along the stem of my now empty martini glass. I’m starting to feel the effects of shooting straight gin.
“Did you have a nice time at the gala, Blake?” His lazy voice reaches me from the bowels of the wine-colored leather.
Blinking up, I meet his dark gaze. “I saw my mother.”
His brow quirks, and he smirks over at Natasha. “Always a plus, I presume.”
Natasha snorts into her glass, and I clear my throat. “Can I speak to you for a moment? In private?”
Without missing a beat, he slides to the edge of the circular booth. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
I’m sure you were. The thought drifts through my mind, but I follow silently as we walk to the back of the bar, through a set of wooden double doors, into a small, solid-black room with bench seats against each wall. It appears to be a peep-show room, if there are peep shows at Gibson’s, which I’ve never heard of before.
“What’s on your mind?” He sits on the black velvet bench, spreading his arms wide like I’m about to give him a lap dance.
“I heard you’re looking for my sister.”
Tilting his chin, he exhales a laugh. “I already found your sister.”
“I heard you’re after her for a crime you think she committed.”
“My uncle is missing. I’ve searched all his records, and they all lead back to your family, specifically your sister.” I’ve never noticed the touch of an accent in Greg’s voice, but I hear it now, crisp eastern European.