I blow out an unsteady breath as I have to sell to him next. My face flushes hot and I lean my head against the colder glass of the window. I won’t allow Karl to pull away from the curb. Ricky will say something, but I don’t care. This deal will be done within screaming distance. I can do this. I can do my job.
After him will be Oscar. Oscar likes to try to “mistakenly” touch me. My thighs. My breast. He never gets far and his “mistakes” never last longer than seconds. Selling to Oscar results in hot showers that nearly cause third-degree burns, but Oscar buys more than anyone else. Oscar keeps my grandmother safe.
“Abby,” Houston pushes. “Are you okay? I’m serious, you look like shit.”
“Pull over here.”
Because Houston has played this game before, he does without argument. I put my fingers on the handle and when I crack the door open, he says, “If you’ve got problems, I’ve got ears.”
Great. Even my clients think they’re shrinks. “Next time I want smaller bills.” I ease out of the car and walk away. One deal down without dying. Too many more to go.
* * *
For the first time, I’m thankful for the ramp going up Grams’s porch. My feet and legs ache, my stomach sloshes, and my head and shoulder hurt. I weakly clutch a bag of antibiotics and wish I could take the painkillers the doctor also prescribed, but once again, I don’t possess the luxury of time—not even to heal.
It’s eleven at night. Can’t decide if I’m early or late. I haven’t seen Grams in too long. I haven’t seen a shred of myself in what feels like forever. Hearts were broken today, mine included. Deals were done. My boss and my bodyguard were happy. Somehow, I just feel terrified, exhausted, and hollow.
The large oak door whines when I open it and makes a clunking sound when I shut it behind me and lock it. Triple lock it. With the knob, the chain then the dead bolt. Not that the locks would keep out a shooter, but I’ve kept this place a secret like my father did. Hopefully, I’ll be able to keep it a secret a little while longer.
I turn and my heart leaps into my throat. A quick recognition and the sucking in of air prevents me from screaming, but the large helping of anger is encouraging me to yell anyway. Sitting on the stairs is black hair, broad shoulders, and a key dangling from a finger—my key—and he’s the last person I need to see right now...he’s the only person I want to see right now...it’s Logan.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper-shout then throw my hands in the air. “Never mind. Don’t care. Get out.”
Being Logan, he says nothing. Does nothing. He’s a wall that never changes color.
“Are you stalking me?” I bite out, then a rush of hurt runs through me. I know he wasn’t. Every day I was in the hospital, Logan came here at three and read to my grandmother and then he checked on her every night because he knew I was worried about her going to sleep, because some nights were rougher on her than others. And then he’d text me to let me know how she was.
“Heard who you left with,” he says in an even and lifeless tone. “Figured you’d be working. My bad if you didn’t want to know how she was doing.”
My cell burns in my back pocket and I think of the buzz I had received seconds before walking onto the ramp. It’s like someone reached in and is crushing my aorta. No doubt that text was from Logan. I left with Linus, knowingly setting Logan up to be hurt, and Logan still checked on my grandmother—for me.
My frame shakes and I pivot away from Logan because I don’t know what to do, what to say. The television is on low in the living room, the late news, and I follow the sound, wondering how many times the alley shooting was on last week, wondering if my name was mentioned.
I lean my shoulder on the doorway and Nate smiles when he sees me. “Welcome home, Abby.”
I nod because I’m too tired and shaken to do anything else. “She okay?”
“It’s been a rough week on her, but we made it through.” Nate’s the best night nurse on the face of the planet. Strong, friendly, a night owl by nature. The proud black man who can bench-press both me and my grandmother combined. Three times a week, he’s cracking jokes as he helps lift Grams into the shower as Nadia bathes her. “Your friend was a big help.”
Of course he was. Logan’s one of the good guys. The hero. The right. The moral. The just. Sitting on the stairs of the house full of people damned by the in-between.
“Has she been sleeping okay through the night?” My eyes automatically fall to the baby monitor next to Nate on the couch. There have been many nights that he’s sat by my grandmother’s bed because she’s become scared of the dark as she’s grown older.
“Last night was a tough one, but I think she’ll do better once she sees you again. How are you doing?”
I find the strength to wink at Nate. “That sounded an awful lot like a personal question.”
He just flashes that big white smile and laughs. “Just conversation. You look dead. Head upstairs and go to sleep for the night. Ms. Lynn won’t be happy if you look this bad in the morning.”
Nate knows Grams might not recognize me, but he’s one of those good guys that try to say things to make me feel better. Nate lives with me in the land of gray. I pay all three of my nurses under the table, in cash, all without Uncle Sam collecting his taxes.
When I turn back to the stairs, Logan’s still sitting there. He wasn’t a dream or a hallucination.