The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

“Jackass,” I called to him, tossing the pillow at his retreating form.

I appreciated Smith for his unrelenting support. Even if it was misguided. Even if it was toxic because it encouraged me to consider things that my heart wanted me to, but my mind knew weren’t possible.

I climbed out of the bed, stripping out of my towel, slipping into the pajamas Christopher had brought me.

I should have probably had Jules donate them or something.

But the idea made my stomach hurt.

“I am going to eat this whole pizza without you, Mills,” Smith called, dragging me out of my sad thoughts.

So much had changed.

One thing that hadn’t, though, was my love for food.

So I had pizza with Smith.

In the morning, I had breakfast with Kai and Jules.

Then I had lunch with an unusually quiet Gunner. So quiet, in fact, that he didn’t even tease me for sleeping with Christopher. Which, well, if you knew Gunner, simply wasn’t like him.

“What’s up?” I asked. “What are you hiding from me?” I clarified. His gaze slipped away, his head shaking. “You’re so not going to get off that easily,” I added. “Are you going to make me call Sloane?” I asked.

“Look, he called, alright? He called the office,” he told me, getting up, pacing toward the door.

“Wait, what? Who called? Christopher?” I asked, my heart surging up unexpectedly.

“Yeah, that bastard.”

“He’s not a bastard,” I objected. “Well, not anymore than you are anyway,.” I teased even as my belly wobbled at the idea that he had called, that he had reached out, that he had tried to find me. “What did he say?”

“His name.”

“His name?”

“Then I hung up on him, and blocked him.”

“Gunner, what the actual fuck?” I asked, my tone deceptively quiet.

How could he hang up on him? How could he think he had the right to make a decision like that?

“He kidnapped you, Mills. Kidnapped. I get that you are still swooning over that asshole’s dick, but taking calls from your kidnapper is stupid as fuck.”

“Well, maybe,” I agreed, even though I didn’t. “But that was my stupid-as-fuck decision to make, Gunner. Not yours. You’re not my dad or brother or keeper.”

“I’m your friend,” he objected. “I’m the closest thing to family you got. And I think you are fucked in the head if you are okay with the fact that he held you against your will. I mean, what the fuck?”

“It was a job.”

“Yeah? Then where’s the fucking paycheck, Miller?”

“One does not mail an eight-million-dollar check,” a voice declared through the screen door at the end of the kitchen.

Not just any voice.

That voice.

His voice.

There was a split second of worry that I might have finally cracked, that I was hallucinating him showing up at my house that I actually was as crazy as Gunner claimed.

Until I heard Gunner curse, saw his hand go into his belt holster, producing a gun.

My gaze shot toward the door, finding a suit-clad Christopher standing on the other side, his dark gaze focused on me, completely ignoring the gun aimed at him.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Christopher said, opening the door, giving Gunner a dismissive glance as he made his way toward me.

But, well, Gunner was Gunner. Protective of those he loved. Even if he called the people he loved things like fucked in the head.

He moved directly into Christopher’s path.

“Get the fuck out of this house,” he demanded, cocking the gun.

“I believe this is Melody’s house,” Christopher said. “Which means she is the one who can permit people. Not you.”

“Melody?” Gunner asked, half-turning so that he could glance at me, confusion clear in his eyes. “Melody?” he asked again, but this time, he asked it of me.

“It is my name,” I told him, nodding.

“Of course, it’s your name. But you never tell anyone that.”

“She told me,” Christopher said.

“Yeah? Did she do that while drugged? Or being held prisoner at your house?”

“She told me her name in bed,” Christopher told him, gaze unblinking.

“You mother fuck—” Gunner started.

“Okay. Okay,” I piped in, moving forward, holding up my hands. “Let’s not,” I suggested, looking between them.

“Call off your guard dog, kardia mou,” Christopher demanded softly.

Kardia mou.

I didn’t know that one.

But I liked how it sounded.

“He’s not my guard dog. He’s more like a stray with mange and end stage rabies,” I told him, giving Gunner a smirk. “Put the gun down, for God’s sake,” I demanded, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I asked Christopher, my voice a hushed, strange sound.

“I called. A couple dozen times,” he added, shooting Gunner a murderous look.

“You didn’t need to talk to her,” Gunner objected.

“I needed to talk to someone,” he said, making my heart sink a bit, wondering if this was just some technical thing. Like he needed an address to send my check to. “To tell you that Atanas boarded a plane for the states a day and a half ago.”