Page 128 of Long Way Down

“He” turned out to the guy from the gallery with the long, black hair under a baseball cap. He had a Trans-Am and introduced himself with a flat expression and a short nod. “Kat,” he said.

“Melissa,” she said, numb again, and took a long slug from her second travel mug of coffee.

“I know.”

The backseat wasn’t really much of a seat at all. “Good thing you’re small,” Pongo said with fake cheer that missed the mark. He rode shotgun, and the car’s engine was the quiet roar of a leashed tiger as Pongo gave his “friend” directions. Even spaced as she was, cycling through wave after wave of fresh fear – oh God, it wasn’t just Doug, it wasn’t just him, this wasn’t over – she noted the tattoos on the backs of Kat’s hands. Paired with the guarded mask that was his face, there was no mistaking him for anything but some sort of outlaw, even if he wasn’t a Dog.

She wasn’t in a position to care.

A short drive brought them to a building that was shockingly nicer than her own. Kat let them out onto the sidewalk – Pongo flopped his seat forward and helped Melissa out – with a murmured promise to be in touch. Melissa clocked the potted ferns on either side of the door, and let her gaze travel upward, from the black awning to the rain-streaked stone façade, to the heavy stonework around all the windows.

“You live here?”

“The club rents a place here,” he said. “Technically, I’m its live-in caretaker.”

It was up on the fifth floor, which felt sufficiently distant from the street, and the door hosted four locks, which smoothed some of her most immediate, jangling fear. Her first impression, once the door was shut and locked, was that she wished her own apartment was this spacious, with an entirely separate kitchen, and an honest to goodness hallway down which the bathroom and both bedrooms – there were two! – were located.

Her second impression was that it looked like a pack of undatable frat boys lived here.

“Why are there so many socks?” she asked.

“Oh. Um. Ha.” He darted forward and bent down to start snatching them up from the floor, from the arm of a chair, across the back of the sofa. “Yeah, I meant to do laundry.” He pulled a t-shirt out from behind a couch pillow, and a hoodie from the coffee table…underneath which lay a plate with something dark crusted onto it. “Shit.” He crammed the socks and clothes under his arm and took up the plate with his free hand. “Sorry.”

It's fine. It took a beat before she realized she hadn’t actually said that out loud. She set her bag at the end of the couch, and then sat. It was much comfier than hers, a big, chocolate-brown sectional with a soft, brushed fabric. She sank the perfect amount into the cushion, firmly supported, and the sensation left her eyes fluttering shut.

She listened to him puttering around: slump of fabric, clatter of the plate, run of the tap in the kitchen.

“You want a shower?” he called. “Something to eat?”

She opened her eyes. A passthrough existed between kitchen and living room, a bar with stools tucked beneath. She watched him move back and forth, tugging absently at his hair with the frantic air of a surprised hostess.

He opened the fridge and frowned into it. “There’s some takeout that…might still be good. Um. Hot Pockets. The pepperoni ones.” He twisted to shoot her an apologetic wince over his shoulder. “They’re…alright.”

“Got anything to drink?”

“Shit yeah, hold on.” He grinned, and disappeared, and glasses clinked onto countertops that chimed like genuine granite, rather than the laminate in her own place.

It was – a quick check of her phone – almost seven in the morning, and she had to sit down with IAB in four hours. She’d had no sleep, two bad frights, and could still smell cordite and alcohol on herself. She needed a shower. Definitely needed to call that department therapist, after all this. A drink was the last thing she needed…but the chime of ice cubes landing in glasses was the equivalent of a neck massage.

Pongo returned bearing two heavy-bottomed tumblers full of ice and clear liquid.

“Vodka?” she asked as he handed her one, the cold glass against her hand sending a shiver of anticipation up her arm.

“Yeah. A little lime juice and seltzer.” Oh. There were bubbles, she saw now, up close; they tickled her nose when she took her first, much-needed sip. “Figured you didn’t need to go into One Police Plaza smelling like bourbon, you know.”

“Yeah. But let’s not talk about that.”

“’Kay.” He sat down next to her, close but not touching. “So. This is the place.”

“But not your place.”

“Right. It was Mav’s idea. The club’s been renting it about five years, now. Guys got tired of staying in shithole motels if they had to spend a few days in the city, and, given the need for a more permanent presence here, it just made sense to rent someplace where brothers could crash. I live here full time, basically. Stock the fridge, keep it ready for the guys.” He cast a sheepish glance around the living room, now free of socks. “Er, well. Mostly ready.”

“When you get to the laundry.” The vodka was working wonders. Just a few sips, and she felt warmer, looser, easier. It pushed back the fear; covered it over with a cozy blanket that let her think, finally. And even tease him a little. “And you’ve got Hot Pockets.”

He froze when she smiled, blinked, and then responded with a blinding, too-big grin of his own that had nothing to do with apartments or Hot Pockets, she knew. It was still so hard to rectify his ability to smile atherlike that. “You shoulda seen Toly try to eat one. Like I put a dog turd on his plate.”

“Toly?”

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