16
Jett
Oliver. Of course it was him who’d spotted them first. Every DNA strand warped and coded from an evolution of male desire to protect, to kill, to tear limb from limb ignited inside Jett, threatening to burn his whole body down until he acted. Nella must have noticed the way he stilled, like a predator waiting for his prey to walk right into his carefully camouflaged trap. She pinched his wrist, Oliver none the wiser because his eyes were hungrily roaming all over her in that ridiculous green dress.
Remember why we’re here.
Jett rubbed his thumb over her wrist bone, the movement foreign and electric, then dropped his hand, hoping she knew he’d understood. He allowed Oliver to drag them (literally) into the ground level of the building Lieu & Lockridge shared with a few other businesses. It looked like a repurposed shearing shed. But ironic poverty was all the rage now for rich people, wasn’t it? Rustic chic, Nella called it. Dark beams ran like overlapping railroad tracks across the ceiling, tonight threaded with thousands of fairy lights that cast an ethereal glow on the whole spectacle. Nella’s red heels made a clock-ticking sound against the grey, splotchy cement floor as Oliver led them over to one of the many silver cocktail tables adorned with purple ribbons.
Lawyers laughed and shouted over each other as they sipped the champagne and strawberry-coloured cocktails that waiters in black suits were carrying around on silver discs. Jett took a cocktail and leant against the table, pretending to sip, letting the tangy scent of gin and berries calm him down as Nella put on a charming act for the law school buddies and court rivals Oliver was depositing in front of her like a cat bringing dead mice to its owner’s doorstep.
He watched Nella throw her head back as she clutched the shoulder of a woman with long, black braids. He couldn’t believe he’d blurted out the things he’d never spoken to anyone about. Emily and Nigel and his old high school were in the past, pushed deep into his attic behind piles of boxes and dust. Jett never went that far back, and he sure as shit didn’t lead anyone else there. Especially not Nella.
But he hadn’t been able to stop. It was like she’d seen the thread of memory at the top of his head, like a single grey hair, and she’d pulled, and pulled and just kept going until it was all out. Strangely, he didn’t feel sick that she now knew what his tattoo stood for.
He could still feel her shaking fingers on his bicep. He didn’t understand why. Why was she shocked that Jett could think so little of himself? Shocked that he walked around assuming, knowing, that people saw right through his carefree confidence – saw the skinny little baby hooked on heroin and the ratty teenager with the hideous scar across his face and the stolen keys to a Lambo in his back pocket? It wasn’t just Nella’s rich-girl obliviousness – it was honest shock.
And he couldn’t understand that.
‘You going senile, Randall?’ The thick, velvety cologne of Tomaso broke him out of his thoughts as the eldest Barbarani son made his entrance known. Jett tried not to entertain the possibility that Tom had gotten here so quickly because he’d just left Bessy idling in the middle of the road while the traffic backed up behind her all the way to Albany. ‘You left your bag in my back seat.’
Jett pretended to be shocked for the benefit of anyone listening and took the briefcase from Tom. He’d forgotten how heavy it actually was with the power tools and new safe door he’d shoved in there that afternoon.
‘Matteo La Marca has given the media dogs a nice juicy steak this evening,’ Tom said, looking down at his phone. ‘Officially announcing our families’ legal war. Tonight must go well, Randall.’
Or else what?Jett wanted to say.You’ll fire me?
‘Showtime yet?’ Tom whispered, nursing a red wine Jett knew he wouldn’t drink because Tom’s body no longer metabolised anything that was not Barbarani made.
He shook his head discreetly. ‘Give her a bit more time. She needs to talk to as many people as possible so people remember her being here.’
‘You better get in there too then,’ Tom said, his face cutting into an evil grin that was more of a Luca smile than a Tom one. ‘You’re the one who’s going to be drilling into a dead man’s safe.’
‘I don’t know anyone here. How am I meant to ...’
‘Fake it, Randall – surely my father taught you how to do that?’
‘I’m not one of you,’ Jett said. ‘I can’t just pretend.’ He watched Nella put her lips against a champagne flute and pause as she caught him staring.
Fuck.
‘All right, Tom.’ Jett pushed off the table, avoiding her gaze. ‘I’ll be yourPretty Woman.Make me rich and powerful, fairy godmother.’
‘Only until midnight.’ Tom rolled his eyes and inadvertently sipped the wine. ‘Oh,thatis a cardinal sin.’ He spat it back into the glass, much to the horror of a group of women behind them.
At least they’d definitely be remembered now.
Making small talk with Tom and the lawyers, Jett still felt like he was walking around with an open wound. Air flowed freely into him, and every time he looked at Nella, it stung a little more.
When Oliver and the woman with the braids stood up at a podium to introduce the auctioneer, Tom tapped his watch and Nella put down her glass, nodding at him. That meant she’d got the swipe card to the offices from Oliver’s jacket.
Don’t think about how she did that.
‘But how do we get into Clarkson’s office?’ Jett asked as he followed her into the lift. No one had seemed suspicious, not even the two security guards they passed. The lifts were in the same corridor as the bathrooms and guests had been ducking in and out of here all night.
‘They have an “open door” policy,’ Nella said, leaning against the railing, her hip cocked slightly, bare left leg stretched out.
Jett kept his gaze on the ceiling lights. He was going to become a fucking expert at light fixtures.
