Page 38 of Born To Be Bad

Ivy joins in the laughing. “God, no,” she says in a put-on posh accent. “That’s sooo arriviste.”

“‘Let’s take the limo’,” I say again, shaking my head and chuckling.

Ivy stops smiling. “But of course, dahling. How else am I going to give you a blowjob?”

Unfortunately for me, and through no fault of Ivy’s, the cunnilingus doesn’t materialize. Mother texts me just before we leave to insist that baby Alex come along. She literally goes as far as to call him “her beautiful grandchild”. Brumilde agrees to join us, so instead of a blowjob on the way to dinner, I have the company of my insta-family. The scary thing is that I don’t seem to mind. Perhaps Ivy has changed in the last few weeks, but I’m not the same person she first met, either. We’re good for each other in so many ways. I look across at Alex, securely strapped into the hastily-sourced Russian car seat we got in Moscow. He’s just woken up from a nap and is all smiles and shiny cheeks.

Ivy catches me smiling at him and winks. It’s a bit of a saucy wink as if she’s thinking of what she’d be doing to me if we didn’t have company, but it’s affectionate at the same time. Brumilde, holding some kind of baby rattle, is rather dreamily looking out of the window. She’s definitely happier having a baby in the house.

I feel a weight slowly lifting off my shoulders. Perhaps this could all work out after all. Ariana’s situation remains a challenge, but there is hope that she’ll come back to us. Even the bombshell baby news doesn’t seem that bad anymore. I allow myself my own daydream of the two children growing up together, not quite family, but intimate siblings nonetheless—like Henderson and Ariana were.

“Goo-goo gaga,” says Ivy.

I raise my brows. “I beg your pardon?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she smiles, and turns back to Alex to play peekaboo.

“Apparently,” Brumilde says, “babies don’t understand object permanence. That’s why peekaboo is so much fun for them.”

When we both look at her blankly, she explains. “If a baby can’t see something, they think it no longer exists. So peekaboo is like seeing things pop in and out of existence.”

I know she means well, but I can’t help experiencing another pang of regret for Mariya. Out-of-existence Mariya. I push the feeling away.

My phone rings, and I inwardly roll my eyes, thinking it must be Blackwood trying once again to persuade me, but I’m wrong.

“Henderson.”

“We’ve got a tail,” he says. Quick, but calm.

I turn to look at the rear window. “You sure?”

I see him in the car behind us, as usual. Lucky is driving.

“Hundred percent. Black SUV, no plates.”

“Fuck,” I say.

“And not subtle, either. Driving erratically. I’m expecting some trouble.”

My stomach knots. When cool-headed Henderson expects trouble, there’ll be trouble.

“My family is with me,” I say, reminding him how high the stakes are.

“I know,” he replies. “We’ll keep them safe.”

Just as Henderson says that, Lucky swerves, and I see the ominous vehicle trying to push them off the road.

“Go!” yells Henderson.

Macavoy sees the red alert on his device and he puts his foot down. We’re swerving in and out, trying to get ahead, while Lucky tries to block the offenders and give us space to disappear. Cars around us hoot in annoyance, then pull aside when they realize the danger. We get stuck behind a truck, another hemming us in, and we lose our advantage. I tear my eyes from the road to look at Ivy, who looks wild with fear. She’s grasping Brumilde’s hand. They’re both watching Alex, who has stopped smiling.

“We’ll be okay,” I tell them. There’s never been a tail that Henderson hasn’t lost. But these guys are more than that. They’re not here to merely follow us. I swallow hard.

I hear the machine gun before I see it. The passenger-seat gunman is sitting on the rolled-down window, pointing his automatic Kalashnikov at Lucky.

“No!” I shout, making everyone in the limo startle. I reach under Macavoy’s seat and grab the pistol I keep there for this kind of emergency. A Glock is no match for an assault rifle, but it will have to do.

“How many in the SUV?” I ask Brumilde.

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