"Is this all right?" I asked.

He glanced over. "Hmm?"

"We can grab a drink someplace else." I forced a smile. "You look like you're wondering if the cleaning lady came by today. I know what that's like. You get busy, and I swear the clutter starts reproducing itself. We can go someplace else..."

I was giving him an escape route. Yes, actually, the place is a mess. Let's go down the street instead. But he stared as if I was speaking Swahili. Finally, he seemed to process enough to understand.

"No, of course not," he said, ushering me into the elevator. "The apartment's fine."

He pressed a b.u.t.ton. As the doors closed, I leaned over to see which floor he'd selected.

"Fifty-five? d.a.m.n. That's got to have an amazing view. North or south?"

"South."

"So it overlooks the river, then? Sweet."

"Yes, it's..."

He seemed to lose his train of thought, as if the effort of making mundane conversation was too much.

"Fifty-five is a lucky number," I said. "Multiples of eleven are always good."

Not exactly scintillating conversation, but he didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken. My gut was churning now, the queasiness laced with growing anger. He'd invited me here. I hadn't asked. I hadn't hinted. I'd never hinted.

"You're right," he blurted finally, hitting the garage b.u.t.ton. "It's a mess. I'd forgotten that. Let's go somewhere else."

I hit the next-floor b.u.t.ton. He looked over as the elevator stopped abruptly.

I stepped off and turned, holding the door. "Go on up, Gabriel. I can find my way out."

"Of course not. We'll-"

"Cut the c.r.a.p. You don't want me here. Maybe it's just me; maybe it's everyone. It doesn't matter. I was fine with that. What I'm not fine with? Being invited over and then made to feel as welcome as Typhoid Mary."

"That's not-"

"It is. Good night, Gabriel."

I released the elevator door. He stood there. Just stood there and let the doors start to close. Only then did he make a move to grab them. Too late. Intentionally too late. They shut, and I went in search of the stairwell.

Gabriel made no attempt to find me. He could have. It'd have been a simple matter of taking the elevator back down and cutting me off at the stairwell. I had eighteen flights to descend. It took a while.

When I reached the bottom and saw no sign of him, I started to text Ricky. Telling him I couldn't stop by as we'd planned. I stopped before I sent the message. That wasn't fair or honest. So I called. He answered on the second ring.

"You're still up?" I asked.

A pause, then a chuckle. "It's nine o'clock."

"Right." It certainly felt later. "Is it still okay if I come over? Or are you busy?"

"Even if I was busy, it would be absolutely okay if you came over. I was just getting a head start on my readings."

"I'll be there in about an hour. I need to grab a taxi first and get my car from the office."

"Taxi? Can't Gabriel drive you...?" He trailed off. "What'd he do now?"

I managed a laugh. "Not even going to suggest I might have done something?"

"Nope. But I won't pry. Where are you?"

"Just north of the Loop. I'll be there-"

"Give me an address and twenty minutes."

I did.

I lay under Ricky, the night-chilled earth against my back, the heat of his bare chest against mine, both of us catching our breath. We'd gone for a ride outside the city and, as usual, ended up like this, in some quiet spot that I only vaguely remembered him pulling into.

"d.a.m.n, that never gets old," he said.

"I hope not."

I shifted under him, my fingers tickling down his back. Goose b.u.mps rose in their wake as he shivered, eyes half closed, smile playing on his lips.

"Thank you for the distraction," I said.

His eyes opened. "That wasn't the distraction. I had something special in mind."

"Oh, that's plenty special."

"Something a little more unusual, then." He eased off me and flipped me onto him instead as he settled onto his back. "I thought I'd teach you how to ride."

"s.h.i.t. Am I doing it wrong?"

A laugh. "No, you are absolutely not doing it wrong, and you know that's not what I mean. My bike. I'm going to teach you how to drive it."

"I'm pretty sure there's got to be a rule against letting your girlfriend drive."

"Yeah. Which is bulls.h.i.t, and I'm ignoring it. At least between us."

"So I can learn to ride it. Just not tell anyone."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You don't agree with the philosophy, so I am fine with it. In public, I will stay on the b.i.t.c.h seat, keep my gaze downcast, and follow behind at five paces."

"Right. I can't even get you to follow behind when we're scouting an abandoned psych hospital."

"That's because I had the gun. Unless you can throw your switchblade, it's not going to stop someone coming at us."

"So I guess you don't want this?" He reached for his discarded jeans and tugged something from the back pocket.

"Ooh." I took the knife. It was about three inches long, black and stainless steel.

"Want?" he said.

"Want very much."

He pushed a b.u.t.ton on top. An LED light turned on. "I'd get s.h.i.t for adding that to mine, but I figured you could use it for those treks through moonlit alleys. Or for stabbing someone in the dark."

"It's perfect." I kissed him. "Thank you."

"Thank you, for making gift-giving very easy for me. I'm much better at choosing weapons than candy and flowers."

I flicked the blade out. "s.e.x, a switchblade, and motorcycle lessons. You really are making sure my night ends on a high note."

"I am. Now, let's get dressed and get you riding."

FORTRESS.

Gabriel stared out across the night city, lights glinting off the river as a barge made its way toward the harbor. He'd bought the condo for this view. There were taller buildings, but none in his line of sight, and he could stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and imagine he was alone in the silence and the darkness. Alone and safe.

In college, a fellow student's father owned a condo three floors up in this building. They came by once, and Gabriel had stood in front of that window and thought, "This is what I want." A goal. One he'd realized sooner than expected, pouncing on a foreclosure in the real estate crash. So he got his condo and he got his view, and any other night he'd have stood here sipping a cup of Rose's tea and feeling very pleased with himself.

Tonight, he saw that gla.s.s barrier clearly, his reflection in it, standing here, the empty apartment behind him.

He'd started thinking about bringing Olivia here a few weeks ago, when they'd taken a skysc.r.a.per escalator and Olivia had practically pressed her nose against the gla.s.s to enjoy the view, clearly captivated. He'd imagined what she'd think of the one from his apartment. Not that he'd had any intention of showing it to her. No one came in his apartment. No one.

Olivia had said something about it being the cleaning lady's day off. In law school, his cla.s.smates said the first thing they'd do with a decent paycheck was hire a housekeeping service. Gabriel hadn't. He never would. He was accustomed to looking after himself. More importantly, he could not abide the thought of a stranger in his apartment every week. Service people were bad enough.

But as the weeks went by, he kept noticing Olivia admiring a view or standing near a window, and he'd started wanting to bring her here. He hadn't intended for that day to be tonight. He could blame the wine, but really, he'd been happy for the excuse. It would have been the perfect end to a very good day.

The day hadn't started so well, with the arrival of James's package. Yet what could have ruined it did exactly the opposite. He'd watched Olivia push the file aside, utterly uninterested. That's when he decided to take a step he would once have considered as implausible as asking someone up to his apartment. He'd sorted those piles and waited for a reaction that never came. She didn't care. He'd given her enough to ruin him, and she'd only processed the information and set it aside.

That was the point at which he realized he could invite her up to his apartment. On the drive, he'd imagined what it would be like. He'd pictured her at the window, drink in hand, then curled up on his sofa, talking with him into the night, forgetting that she'd had plans to see Ricky. She hadn't admitted she did, but he'd noticed her surrept.i.tiously texting. Telling Ricky she wouldn't make it right after work. Then that she wouldn't make it for dinner. That she might not make it at all.

That had pleased him more than it should. Not for the obvious reasons. He was very good at distancing himself from those feelings, and having resolved to do so with Olivia, he dispelled any stray thoughts with the reminder that he'd lose her if he went there. So he wouldn't.

As for her relationship with Ricky ... it felt like a betrayal. It wasn't, of course. But he'd spent so much time with Olivia, they'd shared so much, that the thought that she'd been involved with Ricky, and he'd never realized it, had been ... unsettling.

At least Ricky had no problem with Gabriel's relationship with Olivia. Gabriel could be insulted that Ricky didn't see him as a threat, but Ricky was right-if Olivia wanted to be with someone else, she would be.

He liked Ricky. He trusted him to treat Olivia well. He trusted him to make her happy. Which made the whole situation very uncomfortable.

But tonight, it had been fine. Olivia had been coming back to his apartment, and then ...

And then.

Again, he could blame the wine. It wore off, and he'd lost his nerve. Again, that was more excuse than truth. As they'd neared his apartment, he'd realized how big a chance he was taking. How he could ruin what they had. And for what? She'd been fine with not visiting his place.

If he couldn't leave well enough alone, why hadn't he just gone through with it?

He walked into the bathroom and looked around, seeing nothing that would pique Olivia's curiosity. Everything a guest could need was within sight: towels, soap, even extra toilet paper. She wouldn't have snooped. Even if she did ... He opened the bathroom linen closet and saw towels and backup supplies. Nothing out of the ordinary-unless she pulled out the extra towels and looked behind them. And then ...

c.o.ke. Stacks of it.

Not cocaine, of course. Just cans of soda. If she did see that, she'd only tease that he must have found a really good sale or that it was his emergency caffeine for late nights.

And the rest?

If she went into his kitchen and dug into the cupboards, she'd find stacks of other canned goods, mostly beef stew. She'd joke that he should stop shopping at Costco, or that he must really like c.o.ke and canned stew.

The truth? He could live happily if he never drank another c.o.ke or ate another bowl of canned stew. Living on the streets, those had been his staples. c.o.ke was cheap energy. Beef stew was protein and vitamins.

He could say that he kept caseloads of both as a reminder of how far he'd come. That was bulls.h.i.t.

He had other stashes, too. Money, for one. A hundred thousand dollars in cash, secreted in various locations throughout the apartment. Other valuables as well, just in case. Then there were weapons. Guns, knives, a baseball bat ... Olivia's gun had come from here. He wouldn't miss it. He never carried a weapon. He just had them. In case.

In case of what?

The apocalypse? Nuclear war? Biological attack?

At least those would make some measure of sense. His reasons had no basis in rational thought. He had these things because some deep-rooted, impossible-to-uproot part of his psyche required them, like a child with a security blanket.

He'd spent years on the streets. Years when he'd guzzle c.o.ke and eat cold stew from a can. While other street kids dreamed of hot meals and warm beds, his fantasies were simple. He wanted enough to eat. In a cruel twist of irony, his body decided it needed its tremendous growth spurt at a time when he could least afford it. There'd been months when hunger seemed to be the driving force in his life.

Money solved the food problem, obviously, and it could also provide that more elusive of creature comforts: shelter. He could usually sc.r.a.pe together enough to rent a place in the worst of winter, but he spent the summers wherever he could find a safe haven. He had to save for college. That was the only way out of the situation. His golden ticket. With a degree, he could have a legitimate, steady source of income, not spend his life looking over his shoulder for the law, like most Walshes. To get to college, though, meant going through high school, which meant conning his way in with a false address and then showing up every day in decent clothing, with decent supplies, so teachers wouldn't question his home situation. It also meant squirreling away money for college. So there was never enough for food, and he'd dreamed of a day when there would be.

As for the weapons, that was another problem altogether. Before those growth spurts made him an unpalatable target, he'd woken too often to a knife at his throat. He'd stolen a blade of his own only to have it turned against him. After that, he settled for hiding the bulk of his money and keeping only a few small bills on him. Then he started growing, and they mostly left him alone. Mostly. No matter how big he was, he couldn't fight three armed punks who really wanted the twenty bucks in his wallet.

There were other dangers in the world, too, ones his size offered no defense against. There'd been a girl. His first. Just a street kid. She traded s.e.x for protection. Nowadays, he'd never take advantage of a woman that way, but at seventeen, if a girl was offering it ... yes, he'd taken it. Right up until the night he woke with a knife poised a lot lower than his throat, as her real boyfriend helped her steal a thousand dollars of his college savings-and all of his pride.

It was a mistake he never made again. s.e.x was an instinct, like hunger or thirst, one to be dealt with but controlled, so it would never again pose a threat to the pursuit of his goals. Keep his eyes on the future. Don't get distracted. Slow down to admire the scenery and the world will overtake you. Or devour you.

So he had the c.o.ke and the stew and the money and the weapons. And it all added up to one thing: fear. It didn't matter how old he was or how big he'd grown or how successful he'd become. He was safely up here, above the city, behind locks and a security system, and there were still nights when he bolted awake, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. The only thing that helped was knowing everything he needed was here, everything he hadn't had half a lifetime ago.

Olivia admired him for overcoming his past. He could see it in her face when the subject arose. It had taken him to a level in her estimation that "Gabriel Walsh, attorney-at-law" could never reach. He'd come from the streets and had a million-dollar condo before the age of thirty. That spoke to her of strength. Of victory.

And this? The c.o.ke and the stew and the money and the weapons? They told a very different story. They said that Gabriel Walsh hadn't sailed out of that life unscathed. The frightened and hungry kid who'd lived on the streets wasn't gone. He was hiding up here, with his security blankets.