Free On The Rocks by Sable Jordan Page A

account each month. No questions asked.
    So she should have been in class.
    And he had every right to be annoyed…
Right?
    Fingers drumming on the scarred wooden
table, Phil zeroed in on the restaurant across the way. Three
different women with red aprons around their hips flitted between
the packed tables in outside seating. All three were brunettes,
early twenties, fresh-faced and optimistic.
    None of them were Zlata.
    Another glance at his watch and he shifted
his shoulders. He couldn’t very well sit here all evening. He had
things to do.
    Half an hour and a fresh beer later, a soft
buzz started in his coat pocket. With a tap to a button on the side
of his sunglasses, the dark lenses went opaque. A text message
scrolled up the display on the left hand side: You’re
late .
    Yep. Very late.
    Responding was pointless. If he’d wanted to
explain he’d have told Xander he was leaving in the first place.
But one minute he was going through the pre-flight equipment check,
the next he was in a rental burning through the four-hour drive to
Bruges in half the time.
    Got here for the start of that class she
hadn’t bothered to show up for.
    A second vibration in his pocket culminated
with more text on the lens: I’m parting out your
Chevelle…
    Phil’s head jerked back on his neck. Lifting
his shades, he ripped out his phone and furiously stabbed a
response onto the screen: Touch my ride and die.
    Never threaten a man’s car. Clearly his
brother from another had a death wish. He could almost hear Xander
laughing from here: Damn, you’re not dead. Paris in 24. Monaco
in 48. Up to you.
    No Where are you? No What the hell happened?
No What’s going on?
    Thank goodness, ‘cause he didn’t feel like
making up a lie. Xander would have seen through it anyway.
    Decisions, decisions…
    Even thinking it over was unusual. Phil made
snap decisions every day of his life. He had to. Being decisive
—and right — kept Xander breathing from one job to the
next.
    Except this time, it wasn’t just the next job. It was the job.
    The closest they’d come to Metis.
    So, he should be getting the plane ready,
not chasing behind a co-ed who could damn well decide if she wanted
to skip a day of school or not.
    A month or not.
    The answer was obvious then: Paris. In less
than twenty-four hours.
    Pushing to his feet, Phil dropped a couple
of bills on the table and left. He zipped his coat against the
slight chill in the evening air as a woman walking by did a double
take. Their eyes met. She picked up the pace, hurrying away.
    Didn’t faze him. He dropped the shades into
place, which detracted from the scar that crossed his eye and ended
deep in his cheek. Mostly detracted…
    He adjusted the opacity of the lenses on his
way to the car, searching faces with hope in his heart. That just
wasn’t healthy. Hoping and wishing and praying for things to be
what they weren’t was exactly how people went mad.
    Actively ignoring faces now, Phil did a
cursory scan for threats and double-timed it to his destination
five blocks away. The sky was a mess of shadowed bruises as he
approached the SUV in the center of the block.
    In three hours or less, he’d be in Paris,
focused on the job, and back on track with his life. No more
foolish decisions. Zlata was a big girl who could care for herself
without his constant watch.
    At the corner, Phil stopped on a dime.
Frowned. Looked left. Right.
    Where the hell was…?
    He turned and looked behind him, spotting
the black Citroën he’d cruised right on by.
    Half a block would have him at his ride.
    Six would have him at Zlata’s house.
    Decisions, decisions…
    Phil clenched his jaw at the weakness and
put the SUV in his rearview. He’d see that she was okay. Prove to
himself she was adjusting and be done with it.
    Minutes later, the three-story brick house
came into view. The outside of the place looked beat to shit. Given
it was built in the 1850s that was to be expected. But old-school
build didn’t