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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Ibrahimović/Nesta, Van Nistelrooy/J.A. Reyes, Figo/Mutu. Implied Van Nistelrooy/C. Ronaldo.
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life record company is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the Pat Benatar song.
Summary: Cristiano is returning! Cue the menacing drumroll. And Sandro takes a business trip.
***
José dropped the sponge into the mound of suds in the right half of the sink, then braced his hands on the sink’s rim and pushed down on them as he sighed. He looked at the pile of dirty dishes still stacked in the left half of the sink. “Cesc, why don’t you just go and bring them a couple beers or something?”
There was a spastic-sounding jump and then a hiss from the door to the dining room. Then Cesc appeared at José’s elbow, eyes huge with disbelief, twitching like somebody had shorted out his circuits. “Are you crazy? They’re getting along so well, and you want to get them drunk? I don’t have Iker here, thanks to his stupid boss! If Raúl gets all weird and decides he wants to kill your boyfriend after all, it’s just us!”
Once upon a time José would have immediately broken into a flurry of frantic apologies because he never knew what to do and he never would’ve thought of that, but of course Cesc would—and old habits even had José hitching his shoulders defensively. But he didn’t actually feel panicky, and after a moment of staring at Cesc, he figured out why: because he did know what to do, and he had thought of that.
Well, okay, he hadn’t thought about Raúl’s tendency to get dramatic when he was drunk, but because he hadn’t thought about getting Raúl drunk in the first place. “Cesc, I’m not crazy. I’m just…look, if you’re not going to help with the dishes, just go out there. I can’t keep turning around and trying to hand you plates when you’re not there. I can’t believe we haven’t dropped one yet.”
“Because I have impeccable timing,” Cesc sniffed, like he hadn’t left José to juggle dishes for the last five times. Then he rolled his eyes and grabbed a plate from the counter, sloppily running his rag over it to dry it. “I can’t go out there. Then I couldn’t watch them without them noticing.”
José opened his mouth. Then he shut it and dug his sponge out of the sink-water.
“Whatever, like you aren’t dying to peek at them, too. Oh, is that it? You wanna switch so you can go look?” Cesc put the plate in the drying rack and offered José his drippy rag.
After a moment, José rolled his eyes. He knew he’d waited too long for it to be really impressive, but he couldn’t think of a better reaction. “I don’t want to look at them. I want to get these stupid dishes done so I can go back out there and talk to them.”
“They’re talking about FC stuff, you’re not going to really get it,” Cesc said, and then bit his lip. “Crap. I mean…”
“Nah, I won’t. I don’t help with Ruud that much,” José said with a shrug. Then he stared at Cesc, not getting why Cesc looked like somebody had just brained him with a bottle of wine. Eventually he realized they were kind of wasting time, and he’d just been complaining about their slow pace anyway, and he figured he might as well wash while he was trying to figure out his cousin. “I know we’re sort of better friends these days, Cesc, but I know I was never the brilliant one anyway. It’s okay, all right? It’s not like everybody can be that. And to be honest, the more I see of what you and Ruud and Raúl do, the more I’m happy I’m not smart enough for it.”
Cesc blinked a couple times, flipping the rag around in his hand. He got some water on himself and grimaced, petting daintily at the wet spots, then started and grabbed for the plate José had just washed. “Well, it’s nice to see your self-esteem is better.” He winced again. “Um…look, I’m really trying.”
“I know, I know, you’re just used to being mean to me.” After handing Cesc another plate, José noticed his sponge wasn’t as sudsy and stopped to squirt more detergent on it. Then he looked up and couldn’t help a startled laugh at his cousin’s face. “Cesc, I’m…I was trying…okay, I still suck at jokes, too.”
“Nah. Okay, well, yeah.” Still fidgeting uncomfortably, Cesc fumbled his rag around the dish. “No, you’re right, but seriously, it’s nice to see you…you. Um, good. It’s nice to see you being…doing good.”
“Thanks,” José said simply, after trying and failing to think of anything better. Well, he wasn’t the witty one, but he’d managed to get through his life so far without that.
Although maybe he should’ve come up with something else, because after that Cesc didn’t say anything and it got all quiet, which wasn’t something José was used to when Cesc was around. But quiet also meant his uncle and his boyfriend were still getting along, and God, that had been a shock. All the way over, José had been fretting like crazy and trying to explain Raúl’s sore spots to Ruud, who’d been patiently telling José he could just go back to work if it got bad, and then the first thing José had asked when they got there was, “So did you have any interesting patients today?”
Raúl had just stared at him, like Raúl wished José was young enough to send up to his room again. But then Ruud had covered by handing Raúl the bottle of wine they’d brought, and Cesc had come in to distract everyone, and eventually they’d had an okay dinner conversation going. Raúl had even answered José’s question by mumbling something about just reviewing lab results and Ruud had asked if Kun’s had come back yet, and somehow the two of them were still talking about mutual cases. Frankly, José didn’t want to look at it because he was a little afraid that if he did, the bubble would burst and Raúl would accuse Ruud of not feeding José or something.
“Hey,” Cesc suddenly said. He made an apologetic face at José’s start, then set the last plate in the drying rack. “So not to jinx anything, but…well, I thought you were liking what you were doing for Ruud.”
“Huh?” Sometimes Cesc did still think José had instant recall of every single conversation he’d had and people around him had had for the past week. José honestly didn’t know how Cesc kept that all straight in his head; he could barely remember what he’d said in his last talk with his mother. “Oh. Oh, no, I am, I just meant…”
“I’m not trying to pry. It’s just…” Cesc scrunched up his face, the way he did whenever he was trying not to bring up something he thought would be bad, and then lost the fight, like usual “…look, the whole…mess with you two, it kind of started ‘cause you didn’t like working at Corázon. So if you don’t like your work now, um, can we talk about it first? I swear I’m not gonna tell anyone. It’ll be like I’m your confessor.”
José made his own face at Cesc while wiping off his hands on his trousers. “I cannot picture you in a priest’s collar.”
“Hey, I think I’d look cute. I look good in black and white,” Cesc said, wounded. Then he sobered up, looking closely at José. “No, but seriously—”
“I’m okay. I’m not all self-destructive and stuff. I mean, I’m with somebody I really want to be with and I’m better and I’m not going to flip out again. Really, Cesc,” José told the other man. Then he felt something wet on his feet and looked down to see Cesc swinging around that rag, splattering everything. With a sigh, he snatched away the rag and tossed it into the sink. “No, I just meant…I do like what I’m doing. I mean, I can’t lie, remember? And Ruud’s pretty good about taking stuff away if he sees I’m upset. But it’s just…I watch what he does and how stressful it is, and sometimes how…it cuts pretty close to the line, doesn’t it? And I’m glad I’m not doing all of it. If that makes sense.”
“Yeah. Yeah. But that’s how it is. I hear the restaurant business isn’t all flowers and sugar either.” Then Cesc sighed and put one hand up to his temple. “I suck at this. I get what you’re saying, José, but at the same time, I—well, I like it. And Ruud must too, because he’s had his chances to walk away and he hasn’t taken them.”
Well, Cesc was just telling the truth, José finally told himself. He absently rubbed his hands up and down his hips a few more times, then realized they were dry and he was going to rub off his palms at this rate. Then he remembered Cesc and looked up to find the other man cocking his head, all curious and peering. José barely stopped himself from grimacing and hurriedly tried to find something else to talk about; he hadn’t even talked to Ruud about this yet so it didn’t feel right to go blabbing about it to Cesc. “He’s been wondering if he’s going to get put out on the street for a bit, actually. Have you heard anything about that?”
Cesc’s eyes went wide. “He thinks he’s going to get fired? Did he piss off Van Persie again or—”
“What? No, no, he wasn’t serious about it. He was kind of joking, I think. Because—” José was so goddamn bad at this kind of sneakiness “—Cristiano’s coming back.”
Then José shut his mouth, hard. He and Ruud had talked about that, and Ruud had been pretty calm about it. Calm and resigned and okay with talking to José about it till José knew he didn’t have anything to worry about, but…still. Maybe José wasn’t one-hundred-percent normal yet.
“Oh, yeah, that,” Cesc said, his mouth twisting. For a moment he and José shared a look of disgust. “Yeah, unfortunately we can’t keep him in Portugal forever. He’s got an album to finish up. But no, I haven’t heard anything. Which is good, José. Obviously nobody’s going to be scheduling for the brat and Ruud to have drinks together, but I think Lehmann trusts Ruud to handle himself now. He did all right with the…the thing that got Cristiano exiled in the first place, you know.”
“Oh. Okay.” José took a deep breath.
Cesc frowned and stepped closer, craning his head like they weren’t both the same height. “José, you don’t look relieved. Listen, I really don’t think Ruud’s going to—”
“I know he’s not going to. I trust him too,” José snapped. Then he blinked, surprised at his own vehemence. He rubbed at his forehead, then the side of his face. “Anyway, Cristiano started all the shit last time.”
“Ooooooo.” Suddenly Cesc was grinning and nodding, and José took a step back out of habit, which made Cesc pout. “Hey, I’m on your side here. And I see your point—even if Ruud doesn’t do anything, the brat can still fuck up a lot of stuff by himself. And it’s not like you can reason with Cristiano.”
“I don’t want to start some kind of war either,” José said warily, still keeping his distance. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Cesc, but Ruud’s already had to leave the country once. I don’t want to make him do that again.”
The pout got bigger, almost to the point that Cesc’s lower lip seemed ready to jump off his face and live its own life. And thankfully Cesc started talking then, so José couldn’t wonder at his screwed-up mental processes. “Oh, honestly, I don’t make trouble. Anyway, this week I’m way too busy with my own stuff to go messing with Cristiano. I was just going to offer some advice about telling off the brat if you wanted it. You know, since I’ve worked with him before.”
“Oh. Oh.” José almost started to apologize, too, but then he remembered all the times Cesc had caused trouble and he decided he’d been justified in being suspicious. He did relax a bit, looking around to see whether they’d missed anything around the sink. “Oh, okay.”
“Or if you don’t want it, that’s fine. Just remember, even if I’m mean to you, you’re still family and I’m on speed-dial if you need a rescue,” Cesc added. He stood there a bit longer, then turned to look at the fridge. “We probably should get back out there. It’s been going well, but I don’t wanna make Raúl do too much work. He’s tired tod—”
“Like what advice?” José abruptly asked. When Cesc slewed about to stare at him, he made himself keep up his chin. “It’s Cristiano. Ruud and I are good, but I’m not going to take that for granted. I’m not that stupid now.”
Cesc blinked, surprised. Then he looked oddly at José, sort of like he was sorry for José, but also like he was puzzled about something and didn’t like it. He almost made José lose his nerve before he finally nodded. “Yeah, I know. But it’s kind of a long…listen, first we get our boyfriends out of there, and then I’ll email you later and we can get coffee and talk it over, okay? Because Cristiano takes that kind of planning.”
José opened his mouth, paused, and then shook his head. He really wasn’t stupid, he told himself. “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow afternoon’s fine with me.”
* * *
“England,” Zlatan said disgustedly, shaking his head. Then he resettled himself on the couch, stretching his feet over the arm to toe off his shoes, and switched his cell to his other ear. “That’s all you need to know. Fucking Mellberg.”
Henrik’s amusement managed to penetrate the Zen air he could send out even over the phone. *Olof’s not that bad, Ibra. But I suppose when it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on. So what are you doing now?*
“Dunno. Still in the courtship stage.” Right on time, Zlatan’s laptop beeped. It was on the floor so he twisted over on his belly, then dragged it over with his free hand. He skimmed the new offer, then rolled his eyes and shoved his face into the couch cushion.
There was an odd silence on the other line.
Zlatan snorted. “Not that. He’s in fucking Rome, doing his prissy Roman thing. I meant I’m still shopping for me.”
*Oh,* Henrik said, apologetic. Something beeped in the background and Henrik took in a deep breath. There were more beeps. *Never mind, that wasn’t important. So what’s taking so long? I thought you wrapped up a while ago.*
“Yeah, but it was such a pain that I don’t want to just jump into the first thing I get. Especially since I don’t have to. I’m waiting for something worth my time to come along,” Zlatan told the other man. He heard beeping on his end and turned his head to see another alert come up on his laptop. This time, the skeleton specs were enough to make him take a second look, and then he saw the location. “You still—”
*Yes.* Henrik’s voice was clipped and flat.
Reflex made Zlatan hunch his shoulders and look furtively around, only to remember he was in his own posh hotel room, in a totally different country from Henrik. Not to mention he hadn’t done anything recently that’d irritate the other man. He rolled his eyes at himself and gave himself a good shake, then dragged his computer into his lap as he hauled his body into a crosslegged position. “That sucky, huh. You still okay about switching careers now? Want me to—”
*Absolutely not, Ibra. As long as we go back, I even sniff you around and I wouldn’t hesitate.* If anything, Henrik sounded even more terminal than before, as in a fate that would stalk you relentlessly till it caught you, and caught you good.
“Hey, I’m joking, Henke,” Zlatan felt compelled to protest. He tapped a couple keys to bring up a new window, then suppressed a curse as his thumb slipped and he just bolded a line. “Unless you ever do feel like that, and then I’m just trying to be a good friend. I’m not stupid, like whoever’s pissing you off and is incredibly lucky you’re retired from the business of making them regret that.”
*I wasn’t in the revenge line when I was operative.* But Henrik had relaxed some, and then he even laughed under his breath. *No, thanks. I appreciate it. But I’m fine. I’m only a little…it’s not a big deal. I’ll just check out IKEA’s new spring line when I have some spare time.*
Zlatan snickered and switched to squeezing his phone between ear and shoulder so he could type with both hands. “You’re fucking weird anyway, but that’s hands-down the weirdest thing about you, you know. I mean, sure, they have comfy furniture, but…not that comfy.”
*Says the man who relaxes by teasing hot-tempered Italian law enforcement. We all have our ways of coping.*
“Hey, I’m not coping with anything there. I’m having fun. I’m the one without issues with every single…” Zlatan made himself exhale before he could say something really revealing. He didn’t think Henrik would mess with Sandro unless Zlatan was dead or worse, but sometimes Henrik got this funny undertone when they talked about him. Sort of measuring, and okay, fine, Zlatan had an issue with anybody but him running numbers on Sandro. That damn Roman was his enigma, thank you; he’d gotten injured enough over the man to say that. “But this is just temporary, right? You’re going back soon?”
*Tomorrow morning. Why?*
That didn’t look right. Then Zlatan realized he hadn’t hit ‘enter’ and did so, and after that he had the attention span to wrinkle his nose at the phone. “Man, you’re jumpy. I’m not fucking doing anything, okay? Actually, I’m trying to make sure I won’t fuck up your gig, ‘cause I just got something that looks good but it’s around your area.”
*Oh. Oh, then as long as you don’t come before tomorrow noon, it should be fine.* That beeping started up again and this time Henrik sighed. *Sorry, but I think I need to see to that. I’ll call again tomorrow, so if you do take the job, you can let me know then, all right?*
“’kay. Have fun being all legit,” Zlatan cooed. When Henrik sighed again, Zlatan grinned at the phone, knowing the other man would be able to sense it. The poor guy. Yeah, he could cope, but coping wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.
Of course, he’d done it partly to get Zlatan off the hook and Zlatan was always going to owe Henrik for that. And Zlatan would be more than happy to pay it back whenever Henrik wanted, but for now, he was damn glad he wasn’t the one stuck in a normal, legal job.
* * *
“Okay, now get to work,” Cristiano said calmly. He paused, watching everybody stand there like morons, and then waved his hand. “Shoo.”
Everybody split like wild dogs were nipping at their heels and for a moment, Cristiano felt a warm glow in his gut. Then he turned around and the glow turned into pure satisfaction.
Ljungberg couldn’t even speak, he was twitching so much. He worked his mouth a couple times, then abruptly threw up his hands and stormed off, screeching to his assistant about what a bitch Cristiano was.
“I’d feel sorry for Larsson, but I don’t get why he doesn’t just tell Ljungberg people listen to you because they can’t understand a word Ljungberg says when he gets all high-pitched like that, even when he’s trying to speak Portuguese,” Gaby said, sidling up to Cristiano’s side. He handed Cristiano a frothy cappuccino and a PDA before slipping his hands into his pockets, looking amusedly after the departing Swedes. “He’s the assistant and that’s his job.”
“I think he doesn’t because he knows Freddie will just get mad at him, and then they wouldn’t be able to fuck.” Rolling his eyes, Cristiano took a cautious sip at his drink. He hummed appreciatively upon finding out that it was exactly the right temperature, hot but not about to burn off his lips. Then he frowned at the PDA. “What’s this?”
Gaby paused in mid-snark, like he didn’t remember either. Then he stepped back and put up his hand to pull at the back of his neck. “Oh, it’s mine. Just thought you should look at some things while they’re off making nice.”
“I thought you said everything was taken care of for…oh, not that.” Cristiano looked at the PDA again and found himself gazing at an email from some guy talking about his CV. Why the hell did Cristiano care…because the guy was a freelance agent. After thumbing to the attached clientele list, Cristiano raised his head and arched a brow at Gaby. “I’m trying to update my style, not turn into a fossil.”
“Yeah, I know,” Gaby said, grimacing. “But I figured you should see everything I’m getting.”
“For shits and giggles? If they’re all this bad, then this is just going to make me depressed and I can’t fucking be a moneymaker when I’m depressed,” Cristiano muttered, thumbing through the thing anyway. He tried to sip at his coffee and his thumb slipped, sending him out of the email and into Gaby’s inbox, where he discovered there were a whole series of emails with “résumé” in the subject line.
Gaby made another face and rubbed at the side of his nose, trying to look apologetic but looking more hangdog than anything else. The bags under his eyes were huge, even though Cristiano had been hitting his room early every night thanks to his minders. “I got a few better ones, but…yeah, a lot of them are that bad. Finding somebody who’s freelancing, isn’t already hooked to FC or MU in some way and wouldn’t get scared off by Lehmann isn’t easy, Cris.”
“And that psychotic German thinks it all comes down to money. For fuck’s sake, I can offer enough of that, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” The next three Cristiano just flicked through since he got desperate or greedy vibes from the introduction alone. Number four was kind of mediocre compared to what he was used to seeing, even with FC’s junior agents, but at least they seemed sane. He clicked to open up the attached CV. “Are you telling them that?”
“No, I’m—I mean, I am, but not like…that.” All offended at first, but Gaby nearly broke his neck doing a one-eighty when Cristiano arched a brow at him. He paused, then exhaled painfully and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m not limiting where I’m looking, Cris. But I’ll be damned if I see you get stuck with another gold-digger, all right?”
He said that a little too forcefully. They were cool, most of the time, but that was as much because Gaby really could be professional—unlike some ranting squeaky Swedes—as because Cristiano wasn’t so quick to toss good things on the trash heap. The rest of the time, Cristiano still couldn’t help feeling weird about the…about Gaby feeling like that towards him. It wasn’t just because Cristiano was still stupidly, hopelessly, inevitably stuck on Ruud either.
For a moment Gaby looked as if he was going to apologize, but he must’ve realized that that would make it worse, because he just stood there looking awkward. Then they both glanced down as Gaby’s PDA buzzed; Gaby started to reach for it, jerked back his hand and then let Cristiano hand it to him. Gaby’s mouth was twisted up, but it was a phone call and he had to untwist his lips to answer it. He wandered off a couple paces, still close enough for Cristiano to listen in, and dealt with the idiot running late with Cristiano’s new, custom-made, diamond-studded high-tops.
“Ruud wasn’t really a gold-digger,” Cristiano said blandly, once Gaby was done. He felt Gaby turn to stare, but just leaned back on the table behind himself. After another moment, he put his hands down on the table and wriggled onto its top so he could kick his feet off the floor. “And you know, I don’t think Deco was either. Actually, I don’t know what was Deco’s thing. I thought it was just about making me feel like shit, being the one in control, but the way he went off at the end…”
“He was nuts,” Gaby shrugged. He fiddled with his PDA some more, then held it out to Cristiano. “That wasn’t all of them. Or did you want to wait till later?”
It was on the tip of Cristiano’s tongue to say ‘later,’ because honestly, looking at CVs was boring at best. But he’d learned and learned and learned that leaving the boring shit up to other people only worked when you already knew what they were doing, and also God knew when Ljungberg was going to leave them alone again. So he sighed and took the PDA. “I don’t know what it was, but I know I don’t want to deal with Deco’s kind of mess again.”
“I’m trying to weed those out. The ones with the red flags are ones I think are headcases or other kinds of shit, so if you want to skip those, you can.” Gaby turned around on one heel, cocking his head towards a distant noise. Then he looked at Cristiano and shook his head, signaling that it wasn’t the minders coming back. “If it makes you feel any better, Deco was definitely one of those one-in-a-lifetime nutjobs. In my experience, it’s mostly gold-diggers—you can see them coming a long way off, but if you let one in, it’s just as bad. And there are a lot more of them out there.”
Cristiano grinned around another sip of coffee, but kept reading. “You sound like my mother.”
“I’m gonna take that as a compliment, since you get along with her,” Gaby retorted. Then he frowned and looked over his shoulder. “Shit, they’re coming back.”
“Damn. Listen, I do want to read through these, so I’ll see if I can piss off Freddie and get him to lock me in again. You can jump off the roof to the balcony or whatever, right?” Cristiano hissed, shoving the PDA back at Gaby. He slurped down the rest of his coffee, checked his lip for foam and his hair for form in a nearby mirror, and then set his shoulders against the approaching Ljungberg. Then he glanced over just in time to catch Gaby sloping off to pretend he’d been doing something innocent. “Hey, Gaby. Thanks.”
The other man hesitated, then turned his back to Cristiano, apparently intent on that PDA. “No prob, Cris. I just want to know you’ll be okay.”
* * *
Thierry looked sorry. He always gave people the courtesy of seeming as if he was disappointed himself, but this time the feeling appeared to be genuine. “I know, Ruud. But truthfully, this dropped into our laps just as unexpectedly as it did into yours. We’re already working on it, but this late, I don’t know…”
“I already have to give up Kun to Figo’s tender mercies before the poor boy’s even cut a single here, and now this? Are you serious?” Ruud pulled himself forward by his chair’s arms, then dropped his elbows onto his knees and rubbed his hands over his face. In fact, the Duende interview was this afternoon and right after this meeting, he’d been planning to go to Kun’s hotel room and check that Kun wasn’t too nervous. Figo could give even Jens a turned stomach, and Kun was still shaky from his bout of food poisoning. “Is there something else going on? Are you overstretched again?”
“That’s very nice of you to suggest that and I wish I could use that excuse, but I can’t. We just—didn’t see it coming,” Thierry said. When Ruud raised his head from his hands, the other man was staring irritably into space, pursing his lips at some bit of dust floating in the air. Then Thierry unlaced his fingers and pressed his hands flat against his desk, leveling a gaze at Ruud that was chagrined but firm. “We’re working on it.”
By now Ruud knew he’d just have to swallow it, but he wasn’t made of iron. “I’ll keep my cell on for the usual call, then.”
“You do that.” Thierry stared at Ruud for a few more seconds before pity began to filter into his eyes. “If it makes you feel better, Jens broke a chair when he heard. It’s likely that somebody’s head will roll over this.”
“Unfortunately, it’s hard to enjoy that sort of thing when you aren’t there for it, and I won’t be. Instead I’ll be busy explaining to my client, who I convinced to travel all the way from his homeland before he’s even out of his teens, that I couldn’t deliver on my promises,” Ruud said acidly, getting up.
He heard Thierry start and stop to call after him, but didn’t hesitate a moment as he walked out. Perhaps that was petty, and it certainly wouldn’t do his standing in Lehmann’s eyes any good, but Lehmann didn’t expect even the fixed version of Ruud to be a doormat. And frankly, it was going to be that much of a pain in the ass.
“Hey, is Titi free n—oh, never mind, sorry,” Cesc mumbled, abruptly dropping back. He scrunched up against the opposite wall with his folders like he was trying to merge with the hallway.
Ruud stopped, hand halfway to his phone. Then he turned around and held up his hand. “Wait—no, wait. It’s—”
Cesc’s brows flew up and his jaw tightened.
“Oh, it’s not your cousin,” Ruud said, exhaling sharply. For the love of God, they’d had a nice dinner together just last night. His history with José had justifiably earned him the suspicions of José’s relatives, but did he not get any credit for improving? “It’s Pato. You’ll hear this from Thierry in a minute anyway, but his work visa’s run into problems and we had to cancel his Premier appearance.”
“Crap,” Cesc said, heartfelt. He had good reason to, since he was likely to be the one who’d have to dig up a replacement act. But he recovered quickly enough, nodding with his gaze already distant, off plotting clever little schemes.
He stepped back to let Ruud pass him, then turned abruptly to mumble that José had left his scarf at Raúl’s house and if Ruud wanted to take that for him, Cesc could leave it in Ruud’s office. Startled, Ruud needed a moment to come up with a simple “that’s fine,” and then was left staring again as Cesc said he’d do it after lunch and then went off, as if they were regular coworkers. Or…well, as if Ruud was dating the man’s cousin and it wasn’t a problem.
Well, Ruud thought. He took a step forward, then looked blankly at the phone in his hand. Then he grimaced, remembering what else was needling him, and went off at a brisk pace to his office. He’d have to call Pato, who was rapidly turning into someone Ruud wanted to foist off on one of Kahn’s men, and then tell Premier’s staff. And he still had some paperwork on his desk that he needed to do before he could take Kun over to Figo; he would’ve been cutting it tight even before this latest issue had cropped up.
Ruud got the call to Pato over with first, then locked the door to his office and spent a few minutes kicking his chair to calm down. His toes aching, he finally sat down and was about to put the phone on speaker so he could work and call at the same time. But just then he had an idea, and instead reached for his personal cell-phone.
*’lo?* José mumbled though what sounded like a full mouthful. Then he coughed a few times, swallowed hard and hissed at himself. *Shit. Sorry, Ruud. I’m eating lunch.*
Lunch, Ruud thought regretfully. Then he cut off that before his stomach could fight its way through the four cups of coffee he’d already dumped in it and get any silly ideas. “It’s not a crime, José.”
*I know, but…wait, why are you calling? I thought you said you were busy today till the Duende interview.*
“I did, and unfortunately I still am. Actually, it’s worse because something came up and…anyway, I was wondering if you minded doing me a favor. It looks like I’ll be late, so could you go to Kun’s flat and take him to the place? I’ll meet you two there,” Ruud said, sticking the phone between ear and shoulder. He started rummaging through the stacks of papers on his desk, sifting out the really urgent matters, but then he noticed José hadn’t yet answered. “I can send a driver around. You’d just have to make sure Kun’s not wearing anything…outrageous…and get him out the door on time.”
José began to say something, but stopped before it was anywhere near intelligible. He took in a breath.
“Or if you don’t, that’s fine. I can get someone here to do it, and I only thought to ask you because Kun already knows you,” Ruud added belatedly, trying not to sound harried. “You can say no. I won’t be upset.”
Normally it would be José seeing Ruud was stressed and offering to help, and José had run similar errands without any apparent discomfort before, so Ruud didn’t think he’d overstepped any boundaries. But Ruud always tried to keep in mind that José didn’t work for him and that…he didn’t want their relationship to end up that way. Not just because José’s relatives would kill him, but also because he didn’t want to be seeing someone in the same business as him. That’d been why he’d taken up with—he liked José how the man was, and God knew what José would be like if he ever fully understood what Ruud did.
*Oh, no, I wasn’t…it’s only, I thought you said this interview was really critical, because of how much influence Figo has,* José finally said. *I haven’t helped with anything this serious before, and if I screw it up for you—*
“You’re not going to. You shouldn’t even see Figo, José. All you’d have to do would be to make sure that Kun’s awake and dressed, and that he gets into the car.” Ruud picked up a folder, opened and nearly signed something before realizing he had the wrong folder. He suppressed a sigh and shoved it back into the nearest stack, then got another one. “It’s all right, you’re too nervous. I’ll call someone—”
*No. No, I’ll—I’ll go. I just need a minute…* José’s voice briefly drifted off *…my socks are. No, it’s fine. It’s no problem.*
Right folder, but when Ruud looked closer, he saw that they’d printed it out with the wrong billing code. Some choice words danced on the tip of his tongue, but he held them in and just dug out the white-out. God, he missed having a proper assistant, he suddenly thought. Then he grimaced and shook his head, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Are you sure? Really, it’s all right if I have to call someone else. It won’t be that much slower.”
*No,* José said too sharply. Then he made some odd noises, almost like he was choking. But before Ruud could ask anything, José let out an awkward chuckle and muttered in Spanish about his shoelaces. *Shit. Almost broke my toe there. I’ll be in the car in the second, after I find the keys. Does Kun know I’m coming instead of you, or should I give him a call while I’m driving?*
“He doesn’t—I’ll call him next.” Ruud found the bottle of white-out, but didn’t immediately put it to use. Instead he stared at it, slowly twisting its cap between his fingers. “Don’t break the car next. I’d take an annoyed Figo over you in the ER.”
José laughed again, much more easily. *Sergio’s the bad driver the family, Ruud. So I’ll see you…see you there.*
“Thanks, José,” Ruud said. He hung up, then took down the phone so he could scroll to Aguero’s number. But he stared at that too, still trying to figure out what that nagging in the back of his head was.
He was too damn busy. So many things to do and to remember were flying around in his head right now, and every time he tried to concentrate, he just remembered something else he hadn’t done yet. With a shake of the head, Ruud just hit ‘call’ for Aguero and then unscrewed the top of the white-out bottle. He’d have to get some of his work done before he even had a hope of tracking down what was bothering him now.
* * *
“Go away,” Alessandro said, squinting through his magnifying glass. He frowned and adjusted the photo under the lens, then squinted again. The damn picture wasn’t any clearer, and if he ever had to rely on this photographer again, he’d have them shot right next to the corpse.
The knock came again. Snarling, Alessandro jerked his head up, only to smash his lips together when he saw it was his boss. As usual, Lippi didn’t even look at the potted plant towards which Alessandro’s hand had darted. He just came in and up to Alessandro’s desk, where he started straightening the stacks of files on it. “Sandro, how do you feel about traveling this week?”
“I’ve got three dead bodies, fifteen witnesses, one pending conviction, six more to start the paperwork for and another senator trying to intimidate me.” But Alessandro put down his magnifying glass anyway. As much as it irritated him, he knew by now that he was going to do whatever Lippi said. “No.”
“I’ve already told Rino to start briefing Pirlo and Totti on your current docket, and Alberto is down getting your travel arrangements in order,” Lippi said pleasantly. He moved from the files to the damn plant, admiringly touching its delicate stalk of red-and-white flowers. “I have to admit, my wife has never had any luck with keeping these alive, though she loves bleeding hearts. You have quite a green thumb.”
“I tried to let it die, but Alberto keeps feeding it fertilizer and water behind my back,” Alessandro muttered. “Why can’t Totti go? He’s got half my workload, since the Swiss nipped in first and got his main case extradited to them.”
Lippi stopped harassing the plant and picked up Alessandro’s mug. He looked into it, grimaced, and dumped its contents into Alessandro’s trashcan before Alessandro could stop him. “Francesco’s dealt with the senator who’s trying to intimidate you before. And before you start, you know very well that he won’t let the case slip through his fingers. You also know that you’re far too competent for me to be taking cases from you on those grounds.”
After a long moment, Alessandro exhaled the breath he’d been going to use for his rant. He slouched moodily back in his chair and suspiciously eyed Lippi as the other man gingerly poked at the Styrofoam container that held Alessandro’s lunch. From yesterday, admittedly, but…Lippi looked up and his stance had subtly but undeniably shifted. Here came the real business.
“It’s not because you’re working yourself to death again, even though you perpetually are, Sandro. It’s because we have an extradition proceeding that’s potentially going to be troublesome, and I think you’re the most qualified individual to send to deal with it,” Lippi said, calm and deliberate and implacable. He stopped attempting to improve Alessandro’s environment—that would happen when the world stopped allowing injustices to win out—and merely looked at Alessandro as if he expected Alessandro to meet his expectations. “You’re worked with the local authorities before.”
When Lippi mentioned ‘extradition,’ Alessandro’s stomach underwent a funny turn that didn’t show on Alessandro’s face because he’d long ago mastered the art of the ironclad frown. But still, it’d been damnably intense…but if Alessandro was going because he knew the local authorities, then it was…no wonder Lippi had bothered coming to tell him directly, instead of letting Gila break the bad news. “I don’t know how much of a recommendation that is, considering both times I’ve ended my stay there in a hospital here.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But it’s not in the…” Lippi thought about being tactful; it went through his eyes, right before he just said it straight, in that sympathetic, disarmingly genuine way of his “…it has absolutely no connection to your previous cases there, even to being in an entirely different city, but I’ve still insisted that you receive some sort of protection while you’re there. You’ll be doing most of your business in the federal enforcement’s headquarters, at any rate, and your contact with the locals will be limited to—”
“Oh, just have Gila bring me the logistics report. And I hope you told them that whoever’s minding me had better not be an idiot,” Alessandro snorted, pushing himself back up. During their conversation, his desk had eaten his magnifying glass, but he soon forced it to cough that up and reapplied himself to the crime scene photos.
“Sandro, I know they were terrible ordeals. If I could send anyone else, I would—”
Alessandro rolled his eyes. “And when I learned about it, I’d ask you why the hell you’re sending somebody less qualified. I am the one with the experience.”
Lippi had this way of making Alessandro acknowledge him without even moving. It got on Alessandro’s nerves, particularly because it was a kind of reminder itself. “That still doesn’t necessarily mean you’re the best one to go.”
After a few more seconds to trying to ignore the man, Alessandro gave up and lifted his head. He was tired all of a sudden, feeling the night’s sleep he’d skipped and the lack of a decent lunch today. “Marcello. They were the worst days of my life. But that doesn’t mean that they’ve put me off that place forever. You do know I’ve gone back there once since then.”
“Yes, but you have a very peculiar idea of what constitutes a vacation. And your ability to function in the face of adversity is not a reason to throw you into it,” Lippi said. He paused. “Paolo Maldini is actually visiting relatives in Milan at the moment.”
“Who told—” Alessandro started, furious. But his anger was a mere reaction, nothing else. As soon as he started thinking about it, he wasn’t even surprised. “You made up your mind to send me no matter what I said before you walked in here, Marcello. Stop feeling guilty about it.”
“When you start admitting that you want to be angry with me for it.” Lippi smiled a little sadly, but then briskly moved back from Alessandro’s desk. He turned towards the door, no hesitation in his step now. “Oh, and eat something, Sandro. It’ll reflect badly on our department if we can’t even send a full prosecutor.”
“What do you mean, can’t send a full prosecutor? I’ve had my…”
But Lippi was already gone, and Alessandro’s exasperated words addressed themselves to an empty door. Alessandro stared at the space for a moment, his frustration impotently bottled up in his tight throat. Then he hissed out a breath and pointedly turned back to his desk.
His throat didn’t loosen as fast as it should have. No, he didn’t want to go back, but because he just didn’t like the damn place, with what he’d seen of it. Not because he was afraid of it, or…he closed his eyes, then opened them and put his hands on the edge of his desk. He’d settled all of that, truthfully. It’d been painful but it was over.
Alessandro sucked in air through his teeth and looked up, and his eyes fell on the pot of bleeding hearts. A damn stupid gesture, he thought. But not so stupid that it would’ve been that either. And he would have known before Lippi; he wouldn’t have let anyone else surprise him over that.
He was a damned man, Alessandro reflected, feeling something almost like amusement bubble up in him. Then he dismissed it, and got back to work.
* * *
In nearly two decades of being a professional hitman, Henrik hadn’t run through nearly as much shoe leather as he had in the past few months. It might be driving both Cristiano and Freddie up the wall, but Henrik, at least, was grateful that the pyrotechnics had hit a snag so that the rehearsal had ground to a halt. He could finally sit down and see if his shoes would last till they got back to the hotel, or if he’d have to do something about them instead of having his coffee break.
They’d be fine, he finally decided, and put his left one back on. “Cristiano went to wait in the green room,” he said.
From behind him came a curse and a rattle of metal as Heinze fumbled on the metal steps of the staircase. Then the other man muttered a thanks and breezed on by Henrik, his hands full of what was probably expensive sushi and even more expensive artisan bottled water. He didn’t look down and Henrik only looked at Heinze when the man’s path took him into Henrik’s field of vision. Henrik put on his other shoe.
A couple minutes later, Freddie announced himself with a kick at the staircase and his flapping coat hitting Henrik’s shoulder as he sat down by Henrik. “I am so fucking glad this is the last show,” he said.
“I think they’re pulling something,” Henrik said blandly.
He’d read that rasp in Freddie’s voice right; the other man was so exhausted from being enraged that he had to sit and think about what Henrik had said. Freddie didn’t even have enough breath to make his eyes bulge in frustration.
“Are you taking care of it or am I calling Jens?” Freddie finally replied, after a few gasps. “God, that fucking overgelled piece of shit. He couldn’t wait till we got back.”
“Which is odd, don’t you think?” Henrik’s PDA beeped and Henrik took it out to check, then stuffed it back in its holster. “Finishing that album of his is really important to him and he’s only a few days away from getting back to it, yet he’s messing around.”
Freddie rolled his eyes and yanked his tie-knot loose. “Henke, Ronaldo’s not famous for thinking rationally, you know. Look, what’s he doing? Is this why Heinze’s been so damn quiet lately? Usually he’s all in my face about being shitty to Ronaldo. Goddamn pet attack dog.”
To be truthful, Henrik rather respected Heinze for showing such a stubborn sense of dedication, even if the man wasn’t as subtle as he could be about it. But then, if everyone had the intelligence to go about things carefully, Henrik wouldn’t have stayed in the assassination business for eighteen years. “I think he’s trying to find himself another agent.”
Normally Freddie would have exploded, and that should’ve held no matter what Henrik said. The other man just hated having things go on behind his back and didn’t really give any weight to mitigating circumstances. But today Freddie just pressed his lips tightly together and rubbed his fingers around his temples. He bowed his head, then raised it and struck the heels of his feet into the step that was supporting them. While the metal rang, Freddie fidgeted with his thoughts some more.
“All right, I’m calling Jens,” he said, voice dropping slightly. “Goddamn it.”
“It’s better to have him prepared than not,” Henrik quietly commented.
“Yeah, I know. But fuck, I really wanted to keep Cristiano out of Jens’ hair for a while.” Freddie began to get up, then paused and bent to put his hand on Henrik’s shoulder. He bent further and pecked Henrik on the side of the mouth before quickly straightening up, like he was embarrassed. Except he dragged his hand over the top of Henrik’s head, so Freddie was only in a hurry; they were just hours away from the night’s concert. “I have a feeling I’m going to ruin your suit after I’m done with it, so sorry in advance.”
Henrik snorted and laced his fingers together. “Freddie, that’s why I bother taking a salary for this.”
The other man didn’t answer, his feet already clattering near the top of the staircase. For a few minutes Henrik watched the crew on the other side of the stage work, and then he got up himself, frowning. They were wiring the lights wrong again.
* * *
Luís got back on his elbows and raised his head, listening hard. He grimaced, sighed, and looked down: Adrian stared back, panting, the hollows of his cheeks already flushing to match the wet red of his mouth. “Damn it,” Luís said, dropping his face into Adrian’s wrenched-open collar. “They’ve actually shown up.”
Adrian wriggled. His shoes scraped against the table-top and his knees nudged frantically at Luís’ legs. “What? Wait, you’re meeting someone? I thought—”
“Well, I thought I was going to get to fuck you after dinner too, but trust Lehmann to actually follow through on a promise now.” After pushing himself up again, Luís swept a glance past Adrian’s invitingly swollen lower lip, then regretfully buttoned the man’s shirt back up. He patted a still-disbelieving Adrian apologetically on the cheek as he slid off to the right, rolling over into a sitting position. “Usually he comes up with something to get me to back off. Either he’s losing his touch or he’s got bigger fish to fry.”
The mirror on the far wall said Luís’ hair-gel had more or less resisted Adrian’s attempts to dishevel it, but Luís’ shirt had visible strain marks on it. For a moment Luís thought about putting his suit-jacket back on to hide those, but then he said to hell with it. He wasn’t embarrassed and FC had more than enough money to pay for whatever trauma Aguero might get from seeing it. Though if the kid got freaked out just from that, then he wasn’t going to last very long at FC anyway, so Luís would probably be doing him a favor by giving him an early warning.
“Bigger fish,” Luís also decided.
There was a snort amid all the rustling noises. When Luís looked, Adrian widened his eyes and arched his brows in a stab at innocence, but the irritated slouch and the thinned line of the man’s lips gave him away. Then Adrian shrugged and desultorily picked at his unknotted tie a couple times before actually getting around to doing it back up.
“Look, eventually I’ll find the time to rip off your clothes, tie you down to whatever’s handy and suck you off till you’re so hard you’re crying for me to fuck you,” Luís said, exasperated. “My God, I never should’ve introduced you to Pep. Your pouting was bad enough already.”
Actually Adrian looked a good deal more perked up, down to the way he was biting hard into his lip. He tried to slip the thin end of his tie through a loop without looking, completely missed it and so almost strangled himself when he pulled on it. After a choke and some red-faced fussing, he got the damn tie on right. “So I’ll just catch a ride back with Xavi then, after they sign all the paperwork, and I guess you’ll pick me up when you’re done with this?”
“That’ll do.” Luís got off the table and hunted around till he found where his notebook had fallen.
He straightened up in time to catch Adrian trying to sneak out, like the man always did when he thought he was getting in the way, annoying Luís, insert the current insecurity. Adrian muffled a yelp against Luís’ lips, then looked nicely dazed as Luís opened the door behind the man.
Predictably, Xavi was standing there and perfectly placed to give Adrian a push back so the man didn’t fall out into the hall. While Adrian was using Luís’ shoulder to get his balance back, Xavi held out a sheaf of papers and pointed to the signature at the bottom. “Kun’s signed off on everything.”
“What about Van Nistelrooy? He’s supposed to be here—I can’t believe he’d let Aguero walk into this by himself, even if he’s had problems lately,” Luís said. He twitched his shoulder away from Adrian, didn’t grimace as the other man covertly and viciously poked him in the side, and swiveled so he’d have a view of Adrian’s ass as the man squeezed by him and Xavi. “Is he—”
“He called and said he’d be a little late, he was coming separately…actually, I think that might be him.” Xavi turned around, then went back down the hall towards the approaching voices.
After a moment’s hesitation and a look at Luís, Adrian trailed after Xavi. The two of them seemed to get along fine, which was probably helping with Adrian’s post-rehab socialization skills more than hanging around all the time with a confirmed degenerate like Luís. Adrian was already showing signs of improvement: he hadn’t gotten halfway down the hall before he was anxiously fiddling with his hair.
Since the personal things seemed like they could handle themselves for a bit, Luís had a quick skim over his notes and list of prepared questions. He’d just finished that when he heard some footsteps and looked up, but it wasn’t Van Nistelrooy or Aguero, but a rather nervous young man with distinctly Spanish features who wasn’t exactly famous, but who was certainly known in the music world at this point. Anybody who could manage to replace Cristiano Ronaldo in anything would be.
Though Reyes hardly looked the part: he wasn’t hard on the eyes, with delicate olive skin and doe’s eyes, but he came close to just disappearing into the shadows, so tentative was he. A couple years ago Luís would’ve bitingly pointed that out to the man, but his supply of sarcasm was stretched thin between his staff and Adrian these days. “The interview’s going to be in here, if that’s what you got sent to ask.”
“Oh, all right,” Reyes said after a moment, blinking. He paused, then went back the way he came.
A couple minutes later he returned with Aguero and Van Nistelrooy. Aguero seemed to think this was some kind of amazing thing and actually bounced up to hug Luís, babbling something about reading Luís’ review as a kid in Argentina. Luís had to bite his tongue to keep from mentioning that as far as he could tell, Aguero still was a kid.
Van Nistelrooy, on the other hand, plainly wasn’t happy. He was polite and made a good pretense of friendliness, but his eyes kept flicking away from Luís. He almost seemed eager to get Aguero into the room for the interview, in fact.
“Well, I have to admit, I never thought I’d be getting an interview from one of your finds again,” Luís said. “I wrote you off after you actually let Deco kidnap Cristiano to Russia because you didn’t have the balls to tell Cristiano to his face that it was over.”
Okay, Luís didn’t have to say that kind of thing to Van Nistelrooy. The papers were all signed and Van Nistelrooy and FC couldn’t pull out of the interview now, so Luís had won. He could’ve been gracious. And also he could retire to a little cottage in Setúbal with Adrian and pretend it still didn’t get up his craw that talented people had to sell their souls to get recorded, yet the music business would happily pump in money to salvage parasitic agents like Van Nistelrooy. So he did have to say it, in a way.
Van Nistelrooy’s look attempted to freeze and barbecue Luís at the same time, while Reyes gave first Luís and then Van Nistelrooy an odd look. With a shrug, Luís turned away and went into the room, where an oblivious Aguero was trying out one of the seats—not the one where Luís and Adrian had been doing some heavy petting, Luís was relieved to see. The kid didn’t deserve that, not till he’d earned it, so Luís surreptitiously moved that chair away as he took his own seat and started the interview.
* * *
Henrik wasn’t picking up. This was the fifth time Zlatan had tried to call him and the other man wasn’t answering, and Zlatan was so damn frustrated that he almost was stupid enough to leave a voicemail. That sure as hell would’ve gotten Henrik to return the call, but it wasn’t like Zlatan wanted to spend the weekend hog-tied and locked in a car trunk.
Finally Zlatan just hung up and set his phone to alert him specially if Henrik tried to get in touch with him. He shoved the phone in a pocket, gave his luggage a last critical look and then zipped up the bags. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he threw on a coat and got his bags, and headed out the door. He had a plane to Portugal to catch.
* * *
Cristiano grabbed the knob and yanked open the door, looking as tired and annoyed as he could. Which wasn’t that hard, seeing as he’d just wrapped up a two-hour concert at the end of a tour and felt like every bit of him had been pounded with LP shards. “What the fuck now? I need my beauty sleep.”
“You know that that’s an old wives’ tale, don’t you? You’d have better luck with Botox, princess,” Ljungberg said, grinning. He had that glint in his eye that usually he only got when he’d been in a bar-brawl. “Besides, you’re already special without needing the looks. At least, you’d better believe that that’s not why Jens is flying in tomorrow to talk to you.”
“What?” Cristiano hissed.
Gaby came up behind Cristiano and tried to push in between Cristiano and Ljungberg. “What? What are you talking about? We’re supposed to fly out tomorrow.”
“Think again. Honestly, did you think that we weren’t going to find out about your little plans?” Ljungberg jerked back, then snickered and almost danced forward again, just asking to be slapped. “Have a good night’s sleep, Ronaldo.”
Cristiano bit his lip, then cursed and grabbed Gaby just as the other man was going to grab at Ljungberg. He dragged Gaby back inside the room and kicked the door shut, then smacked at the locks till he managed to throw the bolts. Then he stalked over to the bed and looked down at him.
“That—that fucking asshole!” Gaby snarled, hitting some piece of furniture. A little too hard, because he yelped and jumped around for a while. Then he suddenly appeared next to Cristiano, almost flopping on the bed as he tried to crane around to look into Cristiano’s face. “Cris? Cris, listen, I have no idea how they found out. I—”
“I know. I don’t think it was—I don’t blame you, Gaby. They’re good. I fucking hate them, but I can’t say they don’t do a good job,” Cristiano said after a moment. He shifted his weight on his feet, then folded his arms over his chest. Then he unfolded his right arm and reached up to scratch absently at his jaw.
Gaby kept staring up at Cristiano, like he didn’t believe he was forgiven that easily. “Cris, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll fix it. I’ll—”
“No. No. You don’t do a thing, Gaby.” Cristiano squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and looked hard at the other man, till he got a reluctant nod from Gaby. “No. First of all, it wouldn’t help, and second, it’d give them a real reason to get rid of you. So far we haven’t actually done anything yet, and I’m just—I’m so fucking sick of them taking people from me. So don’t let them do that.”
It took several long, slow breaths, but finally Gaby grunted. He rumpled his hair and looked at Cristiano again, then sighed. “But then…are you just going to let them…”
“No, of course not,” Cristiano snorted. He scratched his jaw again, then spun on his heel and headed for the bathroom. “No, I’m going to sit down and talk to Lehmann, and we’re going to talk it over. I think he might actually listen, once he gets the cracks about how I’ve finally grown up out of the way.”
“…Cris, are you—”
“I’m not okay! I’m pissed off!” Cristiano snapped, whirling around. He glowered at Gaby, then remembered Gaby was his friend and irritably jerked himself back around, into the bathroom. There he turned on the sink taps and bent down to start washing his face as Gaby’s feet slowly shuffled up to him. Cristiano scrubbed his fingers hard into his eyes, then sighed and lifted his head. “Gaby. Look. Lehmann might be mad but he’s had a couple weeks and he hasn’t gotten a replacement for Deco. He can’t keep Ljungberg on me forever. And for once I’m not coked up or hysterical over Ruud or anything like that. I’m sane, I have an album that I need to finish, and he needs me to get him some hits. Neither of us want a delay, so I think I’ve got some room to work.”
Gaby didn’t say anything, and eventually the water running down Cristiano’s neck got too annoying. So Cristiano turned around and got himself a towel. He dried off his neck and face and hands, then reached for his toothbrush, only to have Gaby hand it to him. When he looked up, Gaby was smiling crookedly, still uncertain and mad about that, mad for Cristiano’s sake, but at the same time…believing. He believed in Cristiano.
“Well, if nothing else, you’ve got a good shot at giving Lehmann a heart attack,” Gaby said.
“If he gets one, you’ll have to give him CPR. Him dead is a delay, too.” And Cristiano was serious about that. But all right, he laughed at the face Gaby made. “Go make sure I locked the door right, okay? I need a good night’s sleep for this, so I can’t have Ljungberg barging in on me again.”
“All right,” Gaby said, going out into the bedroom.
***