Maelstrom

Chapter 57: A Reason to Panic

"... Lex. ... No, just one 'x', like Luthor, not like the spaceship. ... I know, right?! At least you can stream it now ..."

I watched Ivan surreptitiously through lowered lashes as I spoke with the guy who'd answered the phone at the closest parkour gym I could google. The gorgeous mobster appeared to be working diligently, but I was sure that not a single word I said escaped his attention.

"No," I answered the guy on the phone's next question. "Sure. ... Well, I've been doing Krav Maga for a couple of years. ... Israeli, right. ... Yep. ... Okay. ... So I can just pay when I come to my first class? ... Uh huh ... Uh huh ... Blue door, got it. ... Okay, see you then. ...Bye!" I hung the phone up with a small degree of satisfaction.

"I guess I know now how you knocked Mateo into a quivering fetal position," Ivan commented.

"I'm afraid that was an unlucky shot, born of frustration on my part," I demurred. "Next time he'll be prepared."

"I recommend there not be a next time." Ivan's tone was light, but his expression was serious. "If you want to spar with someone, I'll take you on. Mateo can't order me off the mats the way he can Marsh."

I opened my mouth to ask how he knew about that, then decided I didn't want to know; he was likely fishing again anyway. I opened my calendar app and entered in my new parkour class schedule, then mentally reviewed what I'd be wearing to work for the week; the themed costumes took a lot more planning than just dressing like a casual club-rat, but I found myself kind of looking forward to each of them. It was like having Halloween multiple nights every week.

Ivan pressed his heel more firmly between my thighs, recapturing my complete attention. His eyes, and that smile, reduced me to a simmering vat of goo inside a girl suit. An incredibly selfish and stupid vat of goo, I reminded myself. I had to figure out a way to drop a line to Mormor, and soon. The thought of her talking to DiMarco and Kowalczyk about me already, and that my two superiors might imminently get chewed out by the mayor ...

I knew that Ivan had said something, but I'd barely heard him. I closed my eyes, momentarily dizzy, tossed again in the maelstrom of thoughts and fears and raw emotion that seemed to characterize my every waking breath since I first heard the name Ivan Alkaev. Breathe, I ordered myself. Just breathe.

"Sorry ... what was that last part?" I asked.

Ivan was looking at me in concern. "I asked if you were okay. You just got very pale."

I waved my hand dismissively and reached for my glass of water. "Low blood sugar, maybe," I lied. "I usually eat something after working out."

"Hang on." Uncoiling from our improvised nest, he headed toward the kitchen.

I held my head in my hands and struggled to slow my breathing. Maybe I was drunk on dopamine, I thought. Oxytocin was addling my thoughts. I was not only neglecting my family now – which Mormor had reminded me often in recent years that I did with disappointing regularity – but now I was ... what? Potentially actively subverting an ongoing investigation? Spending my days off playing erotic footsie with a subject I was assigned to observe, very strictly only observe from a very discreet distance? I was sure that this behavior qualified as gross dereliction of duty. If I was going to be completely honest with myself, I didn't know if I should even be calling myself a cop anymore.

Stop it, a cool voice hissed at my conscience. You have done everything DiMarco has asked of you.

And a lot more, the guilty part of me retorted. I suspected this might be the beginning of a panic attack.

And that "more" may or – most likely – may not become relevant in the future, the cooler part of my brain reasoned. Get a fucking grip. For now, trust your instincts about Ivan and stay the course. Kissing this assignment goodbye isn't going to help anyone – not you, not DiMarco, no one.

But what about Ivan? Was I seriously going to help build a case against him? Continue to compile a dossier of his comings and goings and meetings with the express intent of allowing the NYPD to squeeze him to flip on the Santiago cartel? Was I going to help put him in jail? Or would I try to keep him out?

My rational brain was tellingly silent on these questions.

Breathe. I imagined I could feel the blood returning to my head. I took another quavering breath. I was fine; everything was fine. But as much as that annoyingly logical part of me argued that maintaining my cover was the smart, responsible move, my tiny inner voice asked why it just feel like a justification for doing exactly what I really wanted to do – stay near Ivan?

My vision slowly expanded to include the criminal in question returning to the sofa with a plate of apple wedges and an open jar of peanut butter.

"Eat," he ordered softly. I accepted the snack with murmured thanks and dipped a piece of Honeycrisp into the jar. He shook his head at the proffered bite, and I tried to concentrate on chewing.

Ivan, unaware of my bout of inner struggle, slipped back under the duvet and considered me thoughtfully. "You know, if you're going to swoon, I want it to be because you're overcome with passion for me, not because you're pining for a snack."

I pretended to give that some thought. "Yes, the first does sound better than the second," I admitted, taking a crunching bite out an apple wedge for emphasis.

He grinned, and I caught my breath from the sheer physical beauty of the man sitting opposite me. "Finish your food and I'll see what I can do about making you swoon for real."