Page 102 of Bombshell

I’m not a small man by any measure, but I’m not as big as Noah. He has the advantage when his weight’s on top of me. He rains down blows, most of which I deflect with my forearms. He catches me cleanly twice, though, once over my right eye, and once on the left cheekbone. The telltale sting of blood hitting cold air tells me I’m bleeding, but thankfully it’s not affecting my vision.

Twisting my body to the right, I roll from flat on my back to my side, allowing me to cover my head with just one arm. My free hand finds a wine bottle, and Noah doesn’t see the blow coming. The bottle smashes into his temple, and his weight slumps on top of me, almost knocking the wind out of me. I lever him off of me, noticing the groggy look in his eyes, the trickle of blood pouring out from his hairline. One good shot to the button—the spot under the ear where the jaw meets the neck—and he’ll be out cold.

I place one hand flat on his chest, holding him down, and cock my other arm.

Even through his haze of pain, Noah looks at me with perfect hatred. He’s never entertained the idea what he did in Afghanistan was wrong. He probably never will. I start to throw my punch, but someone grabs my forearm.

I look up and find Luca grinning at me. “You know I hate missing a play date.”

“What in God's name is going on here?” a man’s voice calls from the cafe entrance. He’s short and fat, wearing an impeccable silver suit, complete with a burgundy neckerchief. He waddles over, his feet somehow never leaving contact with the ground.

“I’m very sorry,” I say, “Mister…?”

I need to smooth this over quickly. Noah wouldn’t break his word—he won’t arrest me for hitting him. The Nashville police won’t care one way or the other.

“George Laurent,” the man says, taking stock of my appearance: expensive, tailored suit, Breitling watch, thousand dollar loafers—all of which are either torn, scuffed, or slightly bloody. “I own this cafe.”

Noah sits up, shaking off the last cobwebs from being hit in the head with the bottle. He probably needs to get out of here before anyone realizes he’s an FBI agent.

“My friend and I had a little disagreement,” I say. “Fighting over which one of us is picking up the check.”

Laurent’s mouth presses into a grim, humorless line. “I’m calling the police.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I insist. “I’d like to take care of the bill for all of your guests, and of course I’ll pay for any damages.”

The few remaining diners around us perk up at this offer, quickly changing from scowling at me to looking expectantly at Laurent.

Noah smolders, his face roiling with disgust at hearing me try to buy my way out of trouble. He doesn’t think money should change anything about life. I bet part of him even wants to be punished for fighting. But it’s not as big as the part that burns for payback, or the part that wants to be the best at everything he does. He needs me to do this—because he’s unwilling to. Same old story.

“I don’t know,” Laurent says, a faint trace of dropped consonants pointing to English being his second language. The cafe name, his style. “It’s a lot of damage.”

It’s really not. I count one table, two chairs, and an umbrella. Replacing it should cost less than a thousand dollars. I don’t care. Getting out of this cleanly is worth a lot more to me.

I switch to French, mostly so the people around us are less likely to object to my buying him off, but also because a French man prefers being spoken to in his native language. I hand him a business card. “Envoyez-moi le chèque.”

He takes the business card without hesitation, giving me one more careful look. “Et leurs dîners?”

He wants proof he’ll come out ahead before he’ll let me leave.

I slide an Amex Black out of my wallet and hand it to him. “Oui.”

“Très bien,” Laurent says, tucking the card into his pocket and shuffling back towards the interior of the cafe.

“I’m glad your French is better than mine,” Luca mutters. He offers his hand to Noah, but he refuses the help.

Standing Noah, dusts himself off. Then, he puts his hand on my chest and leans in close, knowing every person around us will be straining to hear every juicy detail. “Your luck will run out. I’ll be there when it does.”

“I doubt it.” Lately, my luck’s been turning around.

22

Adair

“Are you ever going to stop pacing?” Poppy asks.

“What am I supposed to do? He’s been gone for almost two hours. What if something went wrong?” I actually wish I could calm down—but it’s no good. The second I try to sit down I find myself back on my feet trying to outpace the weight bearing down on my chest.

We’re at Sterling’s apartment, just Poppy and me. I don’t feel safe at the Eaton anymore, for obvious reasons.