Page 6 of The Club

I don’t see Dominic’s Audi or his dark, looming figure across the street. I sigh through my nose in annoyance.

The waiter delivers Noah’s boring black coffee and my cappuccino. The café is upscale and the waiter snobby as hell as he sets down our drinks. Noah, however, is completely unbothered by those facts in his flannel shirt and windbreaker. His face is haggard, his graying beard scruffy, and his hair desperately needs a better cut. But Noah’s already been to hell and back, so he’ll go wherever he fucking pleases wearing whatever he fucking wants.

I sip my cappuccino to soothe my throat, preparing.

“Do I need to be concerned?” Noah asks.

“No,” I rasp. At Noah’s sharpened gaze, I lie, “I have a cold.”

“I might believe that if you weren’t wearing someone’s handprint around your neck.”

Sometimes, the only one way to deal with Noah is to tell him the truth. “Fine. I deepthroated a massive cock.”

He receives that in stony silence, not giving me even the dull pleasure of him cringing.

“Did you find anything for me?” I ask, trying not to sound too impatient.

Noah pulls a folder from inside his jacket. His elbow settles on the table and he extends the folder in my direction. I know it’s a test, so I don’t grab for the folder like I want to. He sets it on the table. It takes everything I have to leave it there.

I sip my cappuccino, trying to look calm from the waist up while my right leg jigs frantically under the table. I should’ve put the plug back in my ass. I always feel calmer when there’s something inside me.

I can’t help glancing across the street again.

“Who are you looking for?”

Goddamn Noah. It doesn’t matter that he’s been out of the FBI for fifteen years, or that he’s worn out and drowning in his own past. He’s still sharp as hell.

So I know exactly what he’s going to do.

I slap my hand on the folder as he grabs the edge of it.

“I need it,” I rasp through my abused throat.

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m struggling, not spiraling.” If I don’t admit something, he won’t yield. “I need it, Noah.”

He wants to give it to me. He wants to help me. He’s been trying to for fifteen years, ever since he got me out of hell. He still thinks he can save me, like he couldn’t save his son.

He’s fucking tragic, my Noah.

“Please,” I rasp. Like I told Dominic, I will beg, if the reward is big enough. “I need it.”

“It’s too risky if you’re not stable.”

“I’m never stable. That’s why I need the goddamn file.”

“We’ll get him, Rafael.”

My teeth grind together. I don’t believe Noah. The spark of hope I had two months ago was just another of life’s cruel little jokes.

I will never find the man who introduced me to hell when I was twelve years old. I will never get to make him suffer like he deserves. All I can do is choose who suffers in his place.

Noah understands this, and it’s the reason he lets go of the file. Because I can either choose … or shit will just happen.

I shouldn’t open the file in public, but I can’t help it. Noah makes a sound of disapproval.

The file contains only one police report about a drug dealer, murderer, and rapist who escaped punishment for one reason or another. I don’t really care why. All I care about is having a project.

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