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“You think it's wise to beat the crap out of a punching bag with a knife hole in your stomach?”
Kevin jerks, barely missing. He smiles — the arsehole looks like a boy model. So sweet that Harriet almost envies him: she’s always been called a butch and too masculine (until she learned to fight and started carrying a gun everywhere. It’s amazing how many compliments you can get by putting a gun to someone’s liver). Kev holds the punching bag with his hand before turning his head towards Harriet.
She wants to smack herself in the head for the way her heart is galloping. A stupid organ whose main purpose is to pump blood around the body, not to haywire at the sight of Kevin Harrigan.
"Harry! Am I high on painkillers, or is it really you?"
Harry is a sound from the youth, from a smoky pub, with dark thick ale, with blood on knuckles, with the gentle and soft gaze of a boy who should have been tougher, and with the swearing of the most vile neighborhood from a girl who should have been born a man. There would be much fewer problems if everything was as in an perfect world.
In an imperfect world, Harriet silently raises her eyebrow and doesn't move from her place. She just looks, making up for the year of absence, like fuelling the tank in her brand new Mercedes. The Harrigans pay her enough for all sorts of feminine things like shiny cars and practical weapons for home use.
“I could punch you and you’ll find out.”
Kevin continues to smile. When they met six years ago, he looked almost the same: only instead of the shadows under his eyes and a knife wound on his stomach, he had a split lip and fake ID with a fake name that sounded so ridiculous that it attracted even more unwanted attention.
They were sixteen, a great age for bar brawls and tryings to appear older than actual age. Kevin had a jackknife in his pocket, and they were laughing when Harriet pulled one out of her pocket. The kisses tasted like weed and came out sloppy, with hands that wandered too eagerly and dived under clothes hastily, in unnecessary rush. Harriet didn’t give Kev her virginity then (she had done this six months earlier, with a guy from school), but she handed over part of her heart without any hesitation.
Kevin was funny, but not wildly reckless. Just enough to get him into trouble, but not enough to make him go crazy, which is every teenage girl's dream. He was also an idealist, someone Harriet couldn't afford to be.
A year and a half after their meeting, Kevin was put behind bars for four years; Harriet got off with twelve months.
And then there was the same old tale: Kevin came out (something in him had changed, toughened up, but he avoided any talk about prison), found her in Hackney and Harriet became the errand girl for the Harrigan family. Somewhere in between was the approval from Conrad, fortunately captivated by another pretty face and not interested in a girl in torn sneakers and with a prison past, training like in the best elite units and Kevin’s admission to college — expensive and posh, where they wear polos and brogues. From college he picked up all sorts of habits: like learning to appreciate an expensive whiskey and making a couple of friends who in the future threatened to become influential connections. For three years they wasted no time. And if Harriet spent the night in Kevin's apartment in London from time to time, everyone saw it as a silly indulgence.
Now she misses the times when breakfast included fried eggs with bacon, coffee and quick sex in the shower or in the kitchen. During the year of her absence, big thanks to Conrad (and Maeve, of course, who managed everything from the shadows and could not allow her youngest son to waste a ton of opportunities if he decided to show independence), Harriet got a decent tan in Morocco, solving Brandon’s problems, and came to terms with a couple of cracks in her heart when Kev called and announced his engagement.
She is quite in control of herself. She rechecks their boundaries, as if telepathically asking: “Is everything still the same between us?”
Kevin, damn his grin and cheerful personality clearly not inherited from his parents — fortunately, he inherited only a handsome, charming face and life in a criminal environment, evokes the same feelings as always.
"A couple of rounds?" He dares to reach out to her like a fucking gentleman in a tailcoat and top hat instead of sports shorts and a sweaty T-shirt.
"Do you expect me to be gentle?"
His palm is thin, with the long fingers of a pianist, but this is freaky sham. He pulls her towards his chest and Harriet is so close that she feels the heat from his body. She looks into the attentive eyes, whose gaze falls on her lips. Kev rarely allows himself to be that demanding; an unspoken rule that leaves Harriet in charge. A year of separation is a year of hunger, and a pleasant selfish pleasure flows inside her, from the fact that she was not alone in her yearning and missing him.
Cruelty is not natural to him, even if he is capable of it. Harriet saw with her own eyes how Kevin can be when circumstances require it; knows that he will pull the trigger if necessary. The hole in his stomach is another confirmation that he is not a fragile boy incapable of fighting back. But he gently runs his thumb over her fingers, tripping over the silver ring.
He leans a little closer and says:
“You know this doesn’t turn me on.” The wet tongue deliberately touches her earlobe before his teeth playfully grab the earring.
Harriet laughs. The laughter comes out hoarse, strained from tension and excitement that rolls in like a wave.
She stops herself, wants to ask if this is how he behaves with his bride, to remind herself of her existence. But there is nothing other than the realization: all of this is absolutely unimportant, because they always knew it would be so.
It didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now.
***
After training, they meet in an elite pub where definitely shouldn’t expect drunken yelling and scuffles; only expensive alcohol and no cheap booze. Harriet changes her workout clothes to a pansuit — she likes the way Kev stares at her and how they look in the mirror when they walk past it. Dangerous.
Heels click on the floor. Working for the Harrigans taught her a lot, as well as the importance of appearance when working with big players. Sometimes her main weapon is not accuracy and a deft punch in the gut, but the ability to negotiate with a glance and persuasion. And this is much more effective if she is wearing a strict black jacket and trousers with a holster on the belt, and not Adidas.
Kevin rolls up the sleeves of his shirt — black, not only for effect, but also in case the wound opens again. Harriet was right: hitting the punching bag was not a good idea. He pretended that the confrontation in the bar with one of Stevenson's men was a mere trifle and they settled everything on the spot, and she pretended she didn't arrive on the first flight when the opportunity presented itself.
When Harriet orders a red semi-dry, Kevin raises his eyebrow.
“Wine? Are you pregnant?“ The question sounds too loud, a sharp question point at the end of the phrase.
“Daft, no, of course not. I have to hand in the report to your father later, don’t want to get wasted and make a fool of myself.“
His shoulders visibly relax. It's extremely hypocritical, given his upcoming wedding and not at all angelic lifestyle. He can’t compare with an old player Conrad, who bounces from one pretty girl to another, but Harriet remembers very well that they didn't set limits for each other in their relationships with other people. She hasn't been not righteous either; so his question is not without meaning, even if it is not close to the truth.
When their drinks arrive — quickly, the best service for men who are ready to tip an entire month's salary, or threaten with a knife — Kevin drains the glass in two gulps. Harriet forces herself to close her fingers around the stem of her glass and take a sip.
She asks, unable to resist question on the tip of her tongue:
“So you’re a big boy now?” Wife and all that shit?“
Kev looks guilty. Seriously, sincerely guilty, as if he could have acted differently and his whole life wasn’t written out from the cradle. Daddy provided him with a bride of his own choosing. Harriet saw the photos, Bella is a beauty: thin, blue-eyed and with a proud posture, indicating that the girl is a suitable match for a son who shows some promise. Everyone sees that Brandon is the lost cause, not the best heir to Harrigan family.
Maeve is a fucking genius. It was her suggestion for making the wedding so soon. Conrad may have approved the choice, but Harriet knows exactly who put this thought in his head. In a couple of years they are expecting heirs. Little Harrigans: children in a big mansion with a great burden. Or great possibilities.
“Do you love her?“ Harriet interrupts the train of thoughts, raising a glass of wine to her lips. Kevin watches this movement; he looks older than his age. Harriet thinks she probably does too. Given their lifestyle, this is completely unsurprising.
She takes a sip of wine without tasting it. Manages to hide her emotions, and this would deceive anyone, but not him.
“No, but over time it might happen.“
It's good that he's not lying. If he had said anything else, she wouldn't have believed it. That's why they are so good together (as friends, as colleagues, as lovers, it doesn't matter) — straightforward honesty from the day one.
Kevin has always been a nice guy. Probably too nice for the son of a crime boss. And Harriet has a strong feeling deep inside her bones that she is the fist he needs.
She looks up and meets his gaze — blue, dark in the dim light of the pub, but open. He always manages to convey words with just one look. He probably would be good in profession where he doesn't need to get his hands dirty and to shoot in the kneecaps.
But Harriet is so fucking glad he's here. And that they are in the same boat.
Kevin shakes his head; lips break into a smile.
“Damn, look at us. We're sitting here like fucking Romeo and Juliet. Here's what love is: a smoke made out of lovers' sighs. When the smoke clears, love is a fire burning in your lover's eyes.“
“Bloody hell, Kev, of course you're quoting Shakespeare, you nerd.“
They laugh in sync and everything falls into place. When the laughter stops, it fades away gradually like the roaring bass from a passing car. The waiter silently brings the appetizers, and Harriet finishes her wine and gets up from the table.
“I'll go fix my makeup. You should also check the bandage, after all, I gave you a good beating in the gym.“
Kevin doesn't follow her obediently. Harriet knows that he will remain in place for a while, studying the pub, the wall opposite, their empty glasses — a bloody esthete and philosopher. And then he will come, because she called. When they fuck in the bathroom stall like some teenagers, he will justify it by saying that they haven't seen each other for a long time (because Kevin is the type who likes to do things right: with a clean bed, foreplay and kissing. Mostly. Except when the adrenaline rushes through the veins, or moments like this one), and Harriet will be careful with the wound on his stomach.
After they will go to Cotswolds for dinner, where everyone will know everything and keep their months shut.
As always.