Page 103 of Root

I step out of the shower and dry off, pulling on clean boxer briefs to sleep in.

Tomorrow, I’ve got a lot on my agenda. I can take some extra stops, find out more about her. There are people I could ask, twist their arms, threaten. There always are. But with Jess, I think the primary source is best.

Time, I think, to pump the girl for information.

Any way I can.

Jess is beyond furious. I know what she wanted when we got back the other night—hard, filthy sex—and fuck did I want that too, but I’m keeping my distance.

I need to create that, any way I can.

And fucking her?

It just makes me want to go there more and more.

So, I’ve been spending time in the garage, babying my custom motorcycle, kinda like how Nikolai does with his vintage tunnel-roof coupe Stingray corvette. Man, I know all the deets on that.

Like how he hides the keys from me.

And how I was allowed to drive it once, when Rose—

He doesn’t fix it up constantly, or hover over it the way some people would with a sweet black beauty like the Stingray. It runs perfectly, and he got it there. I’ve got memories of him fixing it up, from when I was small. They’re like snapshots.

But he treats it like a cherished lover, like the owner of his heart. No. Actually, he almost does that, because I’ve seen him with Rose. She owns his heart. The car, the cat and me are all close seconds.

I love the car. The man drives it when he can, but I’m not allowed near it.

I’ve got a sweet red corvette he had me put work into, but he bought it for me.

The bike though, that’s mine.

I’m itching for a ride, not sure why. But it does mean I spend less time in the mansion and more time out of the way of spiky Jess temptation.

It helps that stepping into Nikolai’s shoes is hard work. That shit I can do. Talking to people, breaking skulls if I need to—I don’t need to, though there’s lip in low places I don’t like. Lip I just note because they pay up, but it’s grudging, and I can’t help but note some rough-looking guys who don’t fit in those places.

Biker kinda guys.

Biker kinda guys who aren’t wearing patches or cuts.

Then, there’s the titty bar where, while they’re not keeping a registrar of who’s who when it comes to patrons, there are some rougher elements.

“Should I have pushed?” That’s what I ask Fred after that visit. That’s what I ask him every time.

“No.” It’s a pat answer, one that tells me nothing and everything, because he has meetings with fucking Tony.

So I keep asking myself, am I doing it wrong?

And in the moments in between I’m thinking about her.

I resolutely change the oil and the filter on my bike.

I want to treat the leather, polish the chrome, but there’s a restlessness at play so I head to the shooting range.

Being Nikolai’s hard. Worse, now I definitely know I don’t want it.

There’s so much that goes on in the office and out in the field that doesn’t interest me. He’s perfect at this. I’m…I’m good with smaller things, the cogs and pieces that need to be greased. Sure, I’m good at fights and killing, but if I had to choose, I’d stick to what I do and leave the bigger stuff to him and sometimes, I wonder, if that makes me a fucking failure.

It’s getting late, but I keep shooting.

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