Chapter 11: Date Night Decompression
1167 Words
POV: Ezra
The drive home was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful.
The air in the back of the town car was thick enough to chew. Julian’s hand was gripping his thigh, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of his trousers. Every time the streetlights flashed through the tinted window, I saw him look at me—hungry, impatient, and terrifyingly open.
I checked the side mirror.
A black Range Rover had been three cars back for the last four miles. It changed lanes when we did. It slowed down when we did.
"Julian," I said softly.
"If you tell me my tie is crooked again," Julian murmured, reaching for my hand, "I’m going to strangle you with it."
"Your tie is fine," I said, interlacing my fingers with his. "But we have a tail."
Julian stiffened. The romantic haze evaporated instantly, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of the Fixer.
"Thorne?"
"Likely. He doesn't take humiliation well. His ego is bruised; now he wants to bruise us."
I checked the GPS on the dash. We were two minutes from the underground garage of the penthouse.
"How do you want to play this?" Julian asked. He reached into his jacket, unbuttoning the strap of his shoulder holster.
I smiled. God, I loved it when he got tactical.
"We play it like a date," I whispered, squeezing his hand. "We get out. We walk to the elevator. If they engage, we terminate."
I leaned in, brushing my lips against his ear.
"Try not to get blood on the velvet, Julian. It stains."
The town car pulled into the private underground garage. The heavy steel gate rolled down behind us, sealing us in.
"Thank you, Arthur," Julian told the driver. "Go home. Take the service exit."
Arthur nodded, looking nervous, and scurried away. He knew the drill.
The garage was silent. The concrete echoed with the rhythmic drip-drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the shadows.
I stepped out of the car. I straightened my jacket. I scanned the darkness.
Light bulb out in the northeast corner. Sabotaged.
Shadow movement behind the concrete pillar at 2 o'clock.
Engine heat signature from a maintenance van parked near the lift.
"Three targets," I whispered to Julian as he stepped out beside me. "Nine o'clock. Three o'clock. And the van."
Julian didn't look. He just buttoned his jacket, hiding the gun but keeping it accessible. "Thorne hired mercenaries."
"Cheap ones," I critiqued, wrinkling my nose. "I can smell their cologne from here. Axe Body Spray and desperation."
The side door of the maintenance van slid open.
Three men stepped out. They were big—gym-built muscle, not combat muscle. They held crowbars and knives. No guns—Thorne clearly wanted this to be messy and personal. He wanted us beaten, not shot.
"Mr. Vane," the leader grunted, slapping a tire iron against his palm. "Mr. Thorne sends his regards."
I stepped in front of Julian.
"That’s a cliché," I sighed, adjusting my titanium cufflinks. "If you're going to ambush us, at least write your own dialogue. It’s lazy writing."
"Get the pretty boy first," the leader sneered.
They rushed us.
"Julian, duck," I said pleasantly.
Julian dropped.
I spun. The leader swung the tire iron at my head. I caught his wrist mid-swing. I didn't just stop it; I twisted.
SNAP.
He screamed as the radius bone gave way. I used his momentum to throw him into the second attacker. They went down in a tangle of limbs and cursing.
I didn't stop. I reached behind my back and pulled the ceramic knife from my waistband.
The third man lunged at me with a blade. I sidestepped. I slashed the back of his knee—just deep enough to sever the tendon. He collapsed, howling, clutching his leg.
"Behind you!" Julian shouted.
I whipped around. A fourth man—one I hadn't seen—had popped out from behind the pillar. He had a baseball bat. He was swinging for my ribs.
I couldn't dodge in time. I braced for the impact—
BANG.
The deafening roar of a gunshot filled the enclosed garage.
The man with the bat dropped like a stone, clutching his shoulder, the bat clattering across the concrete.
I looked at Julian.
He was standing by the car, his Sig Sauer raised in a two-handed grip, smoke curling lazily from the barrel. His stance was perfect. His expression was stone cold.
"I told you," Julian said, his voice ringing in the silence. "I needed the gun."
I stared at him. The smell of gunpowder mixed with his cologne. The midnight blue suit. The smoking gun.
I had never wanted him more than I did in that second.
I walked over to the man he had shot. I kicked the bat away. I leaned down and pressed my thumb into a pressure point on his neck until he passed out.
"Clean shot," I complimented, standing up. "Through the deltoid. Incapacitating, but not lethal. Very professional."
"I aim to please," Julian rasped. He holstered the gun, his hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline dump.
The garage was quiet again, save for the groans of the men on the floor.
"Thorne is going to be disappointed," I noted, wiping my ceramic knife on the unconscious leader’s shirt. "He really should have checked my references."
I turned to Julian.
He was looking at me with wide, dark eyes. He looked at the bodies. He looked at the knife in my hand.
He crossed the distance between us in two strides.
He grabbed the lapels of my velvet jacket and slammed me back against the side of the town car.
"You're insane," Julian breathed, his face inches from mine.
"I'm efficient," I corrected.
"You just took out three men in ten seconds."
"You helped," I grinned, breathless. "That shot was sexy, Julian. Really sexy."
Julian groaned. He buried his hands in my hair, wrecking the style I had spent twenty minutes perfecting. He crashed his mouth onto mine.
It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of violence and victory.
I dropped my knife to the floor—I didn't need it anymore—and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him flush against me.
He tasted like adrenaline. He tasted like mine.
Julian broke the kiss, gasping, biting my lower lip hard enough to bruise.
"Upstairs," he demanded against my mouth. "Now."
"What about the bodies?" I asked, glancing at the pile of groaning mercenaries.
"Leave them," Julian growled, dragging me toward the elevator. "I'll call the cleaners. Right now, I have a different mess to deal with."
He hit the elevator button repeatedly. He looked at me—disheveled, dangerous, and smiling.
"You are going to be the death of me, Ezra Cohen," Julian whispered.
I stepped into the elevator, pulling him in with me.
"No, Julian," I promised as the doors slid shut, sealing us in the mirrored box. "I'm the one who keeps you alive."
- Writer
