Maelstrom

Chapter 17: Working It Out

Wednesday

I continued pounding out another mile as the treadmill increased its incline. At this hour – midday, mid-week – there were very few other people in the neighborhood gym; just a couple of women finishing up what were probably lunch-break workouts and a guy doing bench-presses who was probably on a nocturnal schedule like myself. I liked it; it was almost peaceful, which was exactly what I needed to calm my mounting, pre-shift excitement.

I'm being stupid, I told myself, staring out the gym's large picture window at the snow falling lightly on the Manhattanville streets. I was basically the law enforcement equivalent of a bean-counter – keep track of who comes in, what time they go out, who or what they bring with them, what eventually leaves. Check the time, make a mental note, write it in the weekly report. And in between, pour drinks and try not to attract attention, from either the people I was sent to watch or drunken, misguided Don Juans. Definitely nothing to get excited about, I told myself. Boring, even. No reason to have jitters.

I knew it wasn't my job – either of them – that was making me feel this way, or fear of another attack – I trusted that Mateo had somehow ensured that Red Shirt would not be stopping by Asylum again. No, deep down, I knew that the roiling storm of energy in the pit of my stomach was the hope that I would see Him again tonight.

I wrenched my focus away from my last image of Alkaev, standing on the staircase looking down at me, so close I could pick out the rims of dark blue around his steely irises, the frown lines that were just starting to form between his brows, the way his hair brushed his collar in the back ...

Instead I concentrated on the repetitive phrases in Russian and English seeping into my brain from my earbuds. "Извините, не могли бы вы направить меня на вокзал? (Excuse me, could you direct me to the train station?) ... Простите, а где библиотека? (Pardon me, where is the library?) ...

This was useless. I switched the machine to "cool down" mode in frustration. Closing my eyes, I kept walking in place, feeling the rhythmic pressure of my heart pounding in my chest. Alkaev was a stranger, a criminal, I had never even spoken to him ... hell, I'd never even heard his voice! Maybe he had a high-pitched, squeaky, grating little voice. True, he was nothing short of stunning, beautiful like an Old Testament archangel should be, and charismatically sexy in what must be some weird pheromonal way, but I was not the type of woman to turn to mush whenever some hot guy looked my way.

Moreover, it was my job to actually maintain a certain distance from him; DiMarco could not have been more explicit about that. He said not to even attract Alkaev's attention, and I was pretty sure that all the things I was mentally doing right now to that scrumptious man would definitely attract his attention.

I used the shoulder of my T-shirt to wipe off my face as the treadmill whirred to a stop. Familiarity breeds contempt, I reminded myself. I was obsessing about Alkaev because he was new ... novel ... shiny and exciting. Plus I hadn't had a real date in almost a year, and nothing resembling a sexual relationship in ... well, longer that a year, but that didn't bear dwelling on.

The point was, I told myself, my fascination with this Russian demigod would wear off a little more every time I saw him. Every time I was in the same, albeit large, room with him and nothing happened between us. In fact, as soon as he stopped looking at me all the time, I was sure that that slick, throbbing feeling between my legs that inevitably came whenever he crossed my mind or line of sight would fade away to a barely remembered nothing.

I needed to concentrate on getting ready for work. Shower; take a ridiculously long time reapplying my fake tattoos so they looked just like they did the week before; pick an outfit suggestive enough to blend in with the rest of the club's patrons and employees, but badass enough to discourage the faint of heart from hitting on me; do something sexy and wild with my hair; and apply enough makeup to tread the boards on Broadway. And grab dinner, too, so I didn't have to eat whatever frozen shit the kitchen had thawed out for a staff meal.

Feeling more in control already, I headed into the locker room to grab my things.