Deep(34)

“I know I’m just a soldier, Nick. But you’re my best friend. Don’t leave me behind.”





~oOo~





Sam unlocked Nick’s door, did a quick sweep, then returned Nick’s keys to him and went out into the hallway, where he’d stand watch until he was relieved at ten.



Nick was fucking sick of this level of security. Ben’s longsighted plan, brilliant as it was, could take weeks to come to fruition. Next week would only be the first skirmish in the new offensive. And in the meantime, since the bombing, it seemed Nick would be babysat everywhere he went. Fuck, even public restrooms got searched before he could take a piss.



Halfway through the act of closing his door, he stopped. Being alone in his apartment while a guard stood outside the door felt some distance beyond lonely. He thought about Beverly, just down the hall. He knew Donnie was still there, waiting to be relieved by the same guard who'd relieve Sam. He hadn’t been in the hall, though. Apparently Donnie was inside the apartment.



And suddenly, Nick was jealous. What were they doing in there? Hanging out? Donnie should have been standing outside the door, or sitting on the bench by the elevators and stairwell entrance. Period.



He came back out of his apartment. “Stay put,” he ordered Sam without turning to him. “I’m going down the hall.”



“But boss—”



“Shut it, Sam. Just going down the hall.”



He went to Beverly’s apartment and tried the knob. Finding it locked, as it should have been, he knocked. Donnie answered and had the sense to look immediately nervous. Nick noticed that he was chewing.



“What are you doing in here?”



He swallowed. “Bev said it was stupid to stand out in the hallway when I could keep her safer if I could see her. I thought that was wicked smart.”



“What did I tell you to do?”



He blinked. “Stand watch in the hall.”



Beverly was standing back a bit, holding a bowl of popcorn. Her television was on; he could hear it. He focused again on Donnie, who had gained a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Good. “You weren’t guarding her. You were in here having a fucking date.”



Donnie’s eyes widened to caricature size. “Boss, no. No way. I was just doing my job, I swear.”



Nick did not lose his temper. He went cold, not hot. But the urge to let loose on this fucker and beat him senseless was strong, making his arms ache. “Get out. Vinnie’s on at ten. You stay put in the hallway until he relieves you. And you worked for free today.”



“Okay, boss.” Donnie’s voice was shaking now. “I’m sorry I fucked up.” He went out into the hall, and Nick shut the door in his face.



He turned to Beverly, still standing there, holding a white plastic bowl, half-filled with popcorn. She looked confused and angry.



“What did you just do?”



“I dealt with a personnel problem. He’s your bodyguard, Beverly, not your boyfriend.” He stepped toward her and reached his hand toward the popcorn.



She yanked the bowl out of his reach and stalked into her kitchen. Her setup in this space was smaller than his but similar—a kitchen separated from a living room by a tiered counter, the living room side at bar height, to make for a dining area. His décor was neutral and considerably darker in tone than hers. Her appliances and cabinetry were white, her walls and countertops a sort of sand color. And then there was that magenta wall. A store-bought negative space print of Audrey Hepburn had pride of place over her new, white sofa. The sofa had throw pillows on it now—orange and pink flowers. Everything about her place, from what he could see, was cheerful.



“He was invited in. You were not. And what is your fucking fascination with boyfriends? I don’t have a boyfriend—not Chris, not Donnie, nobody. Why won’t you get that? And nobody calls me Beverly. I’m Bev.”



He knew she didn’t have a boyfriend. But she was wrong if she thought she wasn’t surrounded by men who wanted to be. Including her friend Chris. Nick had caught, more than once, the way he looked at her when she was looking elsewhere. He’d seen the near-agony on the man’s face when they’d been dancing together at Neon. Beverly had a friend. Chris was in the friend zone.



But Nick knew this was not the time to point that out. That was not insight he thought she would ever want to have, and Chris’s discontent was not his concern. Until and unless it became his concern.



“I call you Beverly. I don’t like Bev.”



She got a previously-opened bottle of white wine out of her white refrigerator and filled a glass on the counter—she didn’t offer him a drink. “Well, I do, and it’s my name. Where do you get off deciding what to call me?”