Page 7 of Draven
“I’ll text it to you. Now I’m hanging up so I can get back to sleep.” He cuts the call, and seconds later, my phone pings with a text. Good old Rick. I knew he’d come through for me.
I leave some money on the table for my barely touched breakfast, send a faint smile and a wave at the server, then climb back into my car. Once I’ve entered the coordinates into my GPS, I set off, joining the I-95 toward Manhattan. Even with the early hour and it being the weekend, it still takes more than sixty minutes before I arrive at Draven’s seven-story apartment building. I locate a parking lot a couple of blocks over, find a space, make sure my car is securely locked, then walk back to Draven’s street.
It’s a stroke of luck his building isn’t one of those that needs someone to let you in. Draven wouldn’t, that’s for sure, and waiting for someone to exit will only make me more anxious about the difficult conversation ahead.
The elevator arrives promptly. I step inside and press the button for the top floor. Halfway down the corridor, I find apartment 715.
Taking a deep breath, I mutter, “Here we go,” and rap on the door.
There’s no answer, so I knock again. Still nothing.
Either he’s out, or he’s peeked through the spyhole, seen it’s me at the door, and thought, screw that. Then again, that isn’t Draven’s M.O. If he didn’t want to talk to me, he’d wrench open the door, tell me to fuck off, and slam it right in my face.
Ten minutes pass with no sign of him, so I go for a walk, needing to clear my head. After wandering around for a while, I return to his place. There’s still no sign of him, but he has to come home sometime, unless he hasn’t returned to Manhattan at all.
Oh, shit.
What if he’s already moved on to another job that, given what I know about his private investigative business, could take him anywhere in the country?
Ice crystals form in my blood, and I swallow past a lump in my throat. I need Draven. Without him, I don’t know where to turn to find Kiera. The foul taste of panic and despair spills onto the back of my tongue.
Breathe. Stay calm.
I hang around Manhattan all day until, finally, at six p.m. after knocking and receiving nothing more than stony silence, I rap on his neighbor’s door. Maybe whoever lives here will know where to find Draven. It’s a long shot, but I’m desperate.
A shuffling noise comes from the other side, followed by the sound of a chain sliding and a deadlock being turned before the door draws back.
“Yeah?” the guy who answers drones, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips and his hair in disarray as though he’d raked it with his fingertips.
“I’m looking for Draven. He lives next door,” I say.
“And?”
I go for a friendly smile. “I thought you might know where he is.”
“Who wants to fucking know?”
My smile falls, and I shove my police badge in front of his face. I have no jurisdiction in Manhattan, but I doubt this rude, arrogant ass will be any the wiser. “Me. I want to fucking know. Or we can do this down at the station if you’d prefer.”
His eyes widen. “All right, darlin’. No need to get testy.” He scratches his cheek and takes another drag on his cigarette. “If he isn’t in, then he might be at Murphy’s bar over on 155th.”
I mutter a begrudging, “Thanks,” and jog down the stairs to the street. Pulling up Google maps, I punch in the name of the bar. It’s only five minutes away, although due to the crowds swarming the streets of midtown, it takes me ten minutes to get there. Green signage displays its original Irish heritage, and as I push open the door, a jolly atmosphere greets me.
Relief swarms through me when I spot Draven—can’t miss the big bastard really—sitting at the bar. He’s deep in conversation with a guy so handsome, he wouldn’t look out of place on the runways of Milan, Paris, and London. Though he’s too clean for me. I prefer the rough type—the bad boy type.
The Draven type.
Urgh. Why do I have to be attracted to him?
No time to get lost in my head now, though. I have to convince him to work with me on this case and hope our third meeting ends better than the previous two.
Kiera’s life depends on it.
Chapter 4
Draven
Raising my finger, I signal for the bartender to bring over another couple of beers. He sets them down and updates the check before scooting down the bar to serve another customer. As is usual on a weekend, Murphy’s is packed. Swinging my beer bottle by the neck, I tap it against Ciaran’s. We’ve frequented this bar since our NYPD days, and despite neither of us being in the force any longer, we still come here, as do most of our former coworkers. It’s a good way to keep in touch, and you never know when a contact might come in useful.