With Good Behavior (5 page)

“Oh, you know, they’re … family. Nothing to talk about there.”

Watching his eyes dart around the room, Sophie decided to try another tactic. “How about gambling then? What’s your favorite game?”

He brightened immediately. He turned his deep-blue gaze back on her, and on her it stayed. “Blackjack,” he responded. “It’s got the best odds of any game at the casino, and I’m crazy good at it. Just yesterday I made seven thousand dollars.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Yep,” he agreed. Of course, he neglected to mention that he had lost nine thousand dollars the day before. Logan winked and gave her a dazzling smile. “Maybe we could go gambling together some time.”

Hunter did not allow his client to remain in her trance for long. “That was your mistake?” he asked. “Keeping Logan Barberi as your client?”

Sophie blinked and shook her head sadly. “No. My mistake was not keeping Logan Barberi as my client. My mistake was falling in love with him.”

G
rant yanked the pillow from underneath his head and stuffed it over his face, unsure if he was just attempting to drown out the noise or actually suffocating himself. His feet dangled over the low armrest of the sofa in Roger’s studio apartment, and he tossed and turned with every thunderous snore emanating from the man in the bed across the room.

Skaeeeeennnnng … hhuuuuuuhhhhh … skaeeeeennnnng … hhuuuuuuhhh …

How the hell could a human being make that sound? It seemed like a machine or some type of snuffling, feral animal. Grant groaned as he glanced at the alarm clock on the end table. Great. It was the freaking middle of the night.

“Rog!” he stage-whispered, and was rewarded with even louder snores. Grant upped the volume, hissing, “Rog!” The clatter continued unabated. Next, he tried clearing his throat loudly, his raspy coughs filling the space between snores. However, nothing could stop the Roger Roaring Rumble.

Finally, Grant sat straight up and grabbed a heavy naval navigational manual from the bookshelf. He held the thick book high above the hardwood floor and bit his lower lip. Should he be so cruel? Then the 
skaeennnnggg
 noise resumed. Grant shot his boss a hostile glare and determinedly let the book fall. The hardback manual seemed to drop in slow motion and caused a deafening 
thwap
 when it finally hit the floor.

Blessedly, the snoring stopped, but Grant froze when Roger seemed to awaken for a moment, clearing his throat and sighing. The rotund man then rolled over to his side, and Grant closed his eyes with hope for at least a temporary reprieve.

Falling back on his pillow and drawing the blanket over him, Grant settled in contentedly until he heard his boss growl, “Madsen, did you just make a loud noise?”

Grant paused a second before admitting, “Yeah.”

“Was I snoring?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, just tell me to roll over, you fucker! Don’t scare the bejesus out of me like that!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And quit calling me ‘sir’ when we’re on land! You’re driving me crazy with that shit!”

“Okay, um, Rog.”

Repositioning himself on the sofa, Grant tried to relax and get some shut-eye before Roger began again. Grant mentally challenged him to a race. Who could fall asleep first? He was determined to win and enter dreamland before Señor Snore resumed conducting his mariachi band.

* * *

The next morning a sleepy Grant somehow found the energy for his daily run, which he’d begun taking along Lake Michigan. He loped along easily, watching the city wake up around him, the rising sun accompanying the rising hum of traffic along Lake Shore Drive. He crossed paths with mothers guiding baby joggers, elderly men out for a stroll, and serious marathoners pounding out the miles in a fast, steady cadence. Grant felt exhilarated to be part of this bustling city scene. He sloughed off his fatigue and managed four miles before heading back to Roger’s place.

The smell of sausage sizzling on the stovetop greeted him as he entered. Roger was kicking back his last sip of coffee while using a fork to turn over a link, and he looked up to find Grant watching him cook.

“S’okay if I take a shower?” Grant asked, sweat dripping off his nose.

“Sure, I’m all done in there.” Then Roger added, “I made us some breakfast. I’m heading to the ship early, but I’ll leave some out for you.”

Touched by the gesture—a peace offering, perhaps?—Grant suppressed a grin. “I thought you said, ‘This ain’t no fucking bed and breakfast’?”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, kid,” Roger replied, returning his attention to the frying pan.

A few minutes later, Grant reveled in the steaming shower. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling rivulets of hot water cascade down the length of him, loosening and relaxing his tired muscles. It was sheer heaven to linger in a private shower. After twenty-six months of brief community showers that were never safe—whether the threats came from predatory cons or the Mafia thugs supposedly protecting him from said cons—he would never take showering as a free man for granted again.

Grant stepped out and was greeted by silence. He wrapped his lower body in a towel, tucking in the white terrycloth rectangle at his hip, and stood at the sink to shave. As he scraped the razor down his chin and then rinsed the blade under the spigot, he studied his reflection.

Although he was only thirty years old (and was often told he could pass for twenty-five), to his own eyes he looked old. He had aged considerably during those two years in prison. He could identify traces of weariness, cynicism, and regret in his face, and he did not like what he saw.

He missed his days in the Navy, when life was orderly and neat, when things made sense. Right now he was a man thrown overboard, thrashing and desperately striving to stay afloat in the unfamiliar and stormy sea.

After smoothing on some aftershave, Grant dressed in the navy-blue jumpsuit that was his uniform for the ship. Wearing a uniform was one thing that had not changed in about twelve years, ever since he started in the Navy Reserve Officer Training Corps in college.

Making his way to the elevated counter at the end of the small kitchen, Grant pulled up a barstool and grinned at the plate of eggs, sausage, and toast, covered with plastic wrap. Roger acted all tough, but these little acts of kindness confirmed his softer side.

Grant sat still for less than two seconds before popping off the stool and heading for the bookshelf, carefully sliding out a hardcover book: 
Chicago Architecture and Design
.

He carried the book back to the bar and sat down as he thumbed through the pages to find his place. Resuming his reading, he happily stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth and continued learning about Millennium Park.

While cleaning during the cruises, Grant listened intently to Roger’s description of each architectural marvel for the enraptured audience. After only two weeks on the job, he had already memorized most of his boss’ spiel, and he enjoyed finding factoids in the book that Roger failed to mention. He was particularly fascinated by the newly constructed park in downtown Chicago—perhaps because he was consumed with constructing and repairing his own internal structures, trying to build a new life.

* * *

It was 10:45 when Grant made it to the ship. He was fifteen minutes early for his shift, but according to Navy standards, he was right on time. Clouds had begun to obscure the sun, and it was chilly by the water on this early-June day. A swift breeze kicked up off of the river, causing Grant to shiver as he stepped onto the deck. The Windy City was earning its name.

Failing to locate his boss, Grant descended the stairs and went to the supply closet for the bucket and mop. Quietly wheeling the yellow bucket toward the pump room, steering with the long handle of the mop, he halted as Roger exited the head and almost ran into him.

“Madsen!” he boomed. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Yeah?” Grant asked nervously.

“I just thought of something. Your mom was Joe’s sister?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Joe Madsen is your uncle? Your mom’s brother?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then why is your last name Madsen? Shouldn’t you have your dad’s last name?”

Grant froze. His name, of course, had been Barberi before Joe had legally adopted him upon his mother’s death.

Attempting to cover his consternation, Grant drummed up a look of incredulity. “I’ve been working for you more than two weeks, Rog, and you’re just realizing this now? No wonder you never advanced past ensign. You’re not too bright, are you?”

Roger’s jaw dropped, and a twinkle gleamed in his hazel eyes. “You little prick,” he said fondly.

Grant smirked. At first he’d been upset that Joe changed his name. But later, when he came to understand the horrific acts perpetrated by his family, Grant realized it was one of the kindest things Joe had done for him. If only a legal name change could also disentangle him from the emotional ties to his family.

Grant met Roger’s gaze and his slight smile faded. “Joe adopted me after my mom died. And it was fine with me. My dad, well, he’s not a good man.” He looked down and sniffed.

“I’m glad you have your Uncle Joe, then,” Roger said, his heart going out to Grant.

“Me too … Well, I better get to the head, now that you just trashed my clean bathroom. Is it going to smell like a bomb went off in there?”

Roger chuckled. “Actually, Madsen, I’ve got another job for you in mind. Put that stuff away. Tommy is going to be cleaning the shitters today.”

Arching his eyebrows, but not about to refuse, Grant did an about-face and began wheeling the bucket back to its home, while his boss fell in step with him and explained. “That faggy young kid, Blaine, I got working as server—what the fuck kind of name is that? Anyway, he can’t work anymore because his family is going to Paris or something for the summer. That lucky rich shithead just up and quit on me, so I want you to take over for him up top.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant nodded, closing the door to the supply closet.

“You know how to play waiter?”

“I think I can figure it out, Rog.”

“Good. That grungy jumpsuit has gotta go, though. Hightail it to the office and get yourself a waiter’s uniform.”

“Okay.” Grant followed Roger’s order and emerged from the office ten minutes later looking dapper in black pants and a white shirt. Hopefully this was the next step up the ladder to chief navigator. And in the meantime, serving drinks simply had to be better than cleaning toilets.

* * *

“May I take your drink order, ma’am?” Grant asked, peering down at a middle-aged woman in a low-cut blouse sitting on one of the benches on deck. An eight-year-old boy, likely her son, jumped up and down at the nearby railing in a hyperkinetic frenzy.

She glanced up at Grant with a harried expression, planning to dismiss him, but paused once she saw his aquamarine eyes and tall, lean body. A brilliant smile bloomed on her bright-red lips. “Well, yes. Yes you can,” she replied coyly. “My 
ex
-husband tried to tell me never to drink alcohol before five p.m., but screw him. I’ll take a chardonnay.”

“One chardonnay,” he repeated, scribbling the order on his notepad. The woman had scooted her body closer to his and was batting her eyelashes. Grant blushed uncomfortably.

“Would your son like a drink too, ma’am?”

Her smile faded, and she turned to the boy in a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. “Henry! Do you want a Coke?”

The freckly boy remained perched on the second rung of the white railing, but nodded his head distractedly.

“Uh, he’s not allowed to climb on that railing, ma’am,” Grant warned.

“Henry!” the woman scolded. “Get down from there right now.”

The boy reluctantly climbed back onto the deck, whining, “This cruise is bore-ring, Mom!”

“Shh,” she admonished. “People are trying to listen to the man on the speaker!”

Grant took advantage of the distraction to slink away, relieved when his exit went undetected. He then relayed the order to the bartender, Dan, who filled it all too quickly. Grant barely slowed down when he returned to serve the drinks, swiftly moving on to take the next order. This was only the first cruise of the day, but after filling drink orders for more than thirty passengers, his new job was already getting old. However, he reminded himself, it was still vastly better than prison.

A short time later, the cruise was headed back to the dock. The last drink order had been filled, and Grant had finally earned a little respite from his duties. He stood by the stern, gazing out into the blue-green water. The ship’s engines left a churning trail behind them, and the steady hum and splashing lulled his mind into a peaceful state. The temperature on deck was at least ten degrees cooler than on land, and he shivered slightly. This would be a good day for his White Sox jacket.

His jacket. As he had so many times in the past few days, he remembered those gorgeous mahogany eyes gazing at him, warning him to take off his Sox gear before meeting with Officer Stone.

Her full, pink lips—inherently kissable lips. Her tall, lithe body with legs that stretched for miles—an irresistibly huggable body. Would he ever have the opportunity to get beyond their brief snatches of conversation in the courthouse hallway? He knew one activity she might enjoy: a baseball game. She was a Sox fan too.

The affectionate glow in Grant’s eyes darkened as he thought of the first White Sox game he’d ever attended. He’d been eight years old—just him and his Uncle Joe, sitting up high, far above the field.

His uncle’s invitation came only two weeks after his father began serving a life sentence at Gurnee, leaving Karita, Logan, and Grant Barberi to fend for themselves. Determined not to have her sons follow in their father’s criminal footsteps, Karita had promptly moved them north of Chicago to her brother Joe’s apartment at the Great Lakes Naval Base. Unfortunately, Logan refused to get on board with the change, challenging Joe’s authority at every turn.

Between innings, young Grant had inquired, “Why can’t Lo come to the game with us? Is he in trouble for running away?”