Ian finished tucking a pale blue pocket square into Tenny's breast pocket, then stepped back, rested his chin on his knuckles, and gave him a critical once-over. "The wig...could be better."
"It's the best we can do on short notice, and it wasn't cheap," Raven said, arranging the ends of it and giving them one last pass with the flat iron.
"I know. All told, not bad. The suit fits well, at least."
Tenny was no stranger to fittings with tailors, with measurements and cosmetics and being fussed over like a bride, all in the name of altering his appearance for an op. This was no different...in the sense that it was an op. But having Ian and Raven primp him felt much more intimate, and also...relaxing, in an odd way. These weren't handlers or techs; one was his friend, the other was his sister, and all of it felt a bit surreal.
Ian took his shoulder and turned him toward the mirror. "Have a look." His lips quirked, threatening a smile.
A jolt moved through Tenny when he caught sight of his reflection. In one of Ian's dove-gray suits, blue shirt, pocket square neatly tucked, with a long, auburn wig, Ian's watch, and Raven's deft application of a little makeup, he hardly recognized himself.
Ian stepped in close, so their faces rested beside one another. His hair had been carefully braided and tucked up into a black beanie, paired with a slouchy black turtleneck and skinny jeans. Tenny searched their faces, wondering if the disguise would hold. Ian's nose was a little larger and sharper than Tenny's, and Tenny's eyes tilted upward at the outer corners. But that freshwater blue was passably similar, and they both had the finely-bred bone structure of an aristocrat. They were of a height and build. Ian's hands and feet were larger, but that wasn't the sort of thing a potential business partner would make note of.
Tenny reached to tweak a lock of his wig, tucked it behind his ear, and let out a deep breath.
"Nervous?" Ian asked, tone sympathetic.
"Only that this thing won't stay on." He lifted his nose to a haughty angle. "I'm never nervous about my acting." He shifted his posture, curved his lips in a mocking little smile, and affected one of Ian's more elaborate hand gestures. "Darling, I'm afraid I can't concentrate on a word you're saying while you're wearing that dreadful hat."
Ian grinned.
Raven let out an unladylike snort as she stepped up next to him. "God, you've even mastered the voice."
Tenny tossed his head and sent his long, auburn hair shimmering back over his shoulder. "Nothing to it, really."
Raven rolled her eyes. "It's a good thing you're useful, because you're an insufferable brat. Both of you," she added, as she turned away.
Ian affected a bewildered expression. "I've no idea what she means by that."
"Neither do I, darling."
Ian made a face. "Do I really say 'darling' that much?"
"Positively all the time."
~*~
Howard Models was conveniently located in the top four floors of the building next to Jack Waverly's NYC residence. Raven knew that, because the boys had found it out in their recon, but it wasn't until she stepped off the elevator into Nikola's sleek, pop-mod lobby that she glanced through a bank of windows and caught sight of the neighboring apartment building's rooftop garden and pool deck. Ugh.
An emaciated girl with spiky pink hair looked up from a magazine as they approached the desk, gaze flicking over their party with a mix of fatigue and disinterest. "Welcome to Howard Models. Do you have an appointment?" Her gaze lingered a bit too long, brows crimping, on their security detail, which consisted of Bruce, two other of Ian's New York people, and Albie, all in black suits. A few inches shorter and less broad, his suit sourced at the last minute, Albie stuck out a bit like a sore thumb, but there was nothing for it.
Arm looped through Ian's, Raven offered a cool smile and said, "Yes. Raven Blake and Jean-Jacque de Jardin to see Miss Howard." They'd been asked the same thing at the security desk in the lobby, and been offered guest passes, but the receptionist still pulled them up on the computer to verify.
She slid a clipboard across. "Sign here."
They did so, Ian muttering, "Unbelievable," in French, frowning beneath the black lenses of his sunglasses, signing with a grand flourish. Every time she glanced at him, with his beanie, and his shades, and his turtleneck, she wanted to laugh. He'd taken to the role of disdainful, bad boy French designer with gusto and skill, and it would be admirable if she wasn't so tickled by it.
On the other hand, the threat of laughter was doing a wonderful job of keeping her petrified nausea at bay, so there was that, at least.
"What?" the girl asked, glancing up at Ian, and then Raven.
Raven pressed a hand to her mouth and stage-whispered, "He's used to being recognized. You know the French. So fussy." She rolled her eyes.
"Yeah..." The girl skated a nervous/curious glance at Ian again. "You can follow Molly."
Molly proved to be another too-thin girl in a black dress, though she was at least friendly. "Right this way, Ms. Blake, Mr. de Jardin."
They were led through an open-plan office area, where the desks were long, minimalist tables, everyone working side-by-side without cubicle walls, the workspace bordered on all sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. Mere feet beyond the glass, the rooftop pool next door glimmered turquoise in the sunlight; women lounged beneath umbrellas, though it was too cool outside to do so; Raven supposed it was for the benefit of the men who were already taking drinks from the little thatch-roofed bar in one corner. How often, she wondered, did Waverly go up to stroll through the raised beds of the garden or sip Scotch by the pool? Did he day-drink with a pair of binoculars and watch the young women come and go?
"Hm," Ian hummed, quietly, as if reading her thoughts. "Nice view."
"Too nice."
He patted her hand where it rested on his arm.
Nikola's office was walled in frosted glass and occupied the whole back half of the floor. They couldn't see through it, but the sound of raised voices carried. Molly's shoulders hunched a fraction as she knocked on the door, and then eased it open only far enough to peek through.
"Miss Howard? Miss Blake and Mr. de Jardin have arrived."
"Mr...who?" Nikola's voice was even more shrill than Raven remembered. "Fine, fine, send them in. I'm done here," she said, with obvious disgust.
Molly pushed the door wide and stepped inside to hold it for them. "Your security can wait down the hall if you'd like," she offered, and Raven froze.
She looked at the girl – demure and uncertain – and wondered if this was some sort of trap.
Molly's throat jumped as she swallowed. "W-we have a nice lounge, just down there." A glance proved it to be visible from the office door, a little nook with uncomfortable-looking chairs, a sink, and a coffee maker.
"Fine," Raven said with a sigh, and motioned to Albie, who gave her a not-at-all-subservient glare in return. She snapped her fingers for emphasis, knowing she'd pay for it later.
Alone, she and Ian proceeded into the room.
The long space was a veritable bowling alley of white on white on white on white. Blocked off into three separate areas – office proper, changing area complete with screens, platform, and three-angle mirror, and a sitting area with couches and a coffee table – everything from the chairs to the rugs to the bookcases to the knick-knacks on the bookcases was white. The only pops of color belonged to the three people standing in the changing area: a designer in a splashy kimono with a measuring tape around her neck and an array of pens clenched between her teeth; a model in a highlighter-yellow frock with too much tulle around her shoulders; and Nikola herself: tall, rail-thin, her pixie cut slicked back severely, in a black minidress and blood-red stilettos.
The model dashed at her eyes with the back of her hand, clearly upset.
The designer reached to pinch a fold of fabric at the girl's waist. "Maybe," she said, quite clear around the pins, "if we take it in a little here, then–"
"No, no, no," Nikola snapped, hands interlacing at the back of her neck. "The whole thing's a trainwreck. Toss it and start over."
The model closed her eyes, a single tear tracking down her cheek.
The designer pulled the pins from her mouth, expression pained. "Miss Howard, we've been at this since yesterday, maybe–"
"Are you giving me excuses, Emily?"
"No, ma'am." She took the model by the arm and helped her down off the platform. "Come on, sweetie," she said, softly, and the two of them hustled out of the office in a rustle of skirts, not so much as glancing at Raven and Ian.
Nikola stood a moment, head bowed, still gripping the back of her neck, muttering to herself. Raven caught the phrase fucking stupid more than once. Then Nikola heaved a deep sigh, dropped her hands, and turned to face them, small, insincere smile on her lips.
"Raven! It's been too long." She glided forward and took Raven's hands so they could exchange air kisses on each cheek. "You look wonderful." She pulled back at arm's length, smile showing a calculated flash of teeth, nothing about her expression sincere.
Raven put on her own false, agency smile. "So do you. That dress!" She tilted her head toward the door. "One of your own?"
Anger flashed in Nikola's gaze a moment before she made a face and dropped Raven's hands, waving dismissively. "No. One of my apprentices'. She has a lot to learn, as you can tell."
It had never been said aloud – because some things could be said with undercutting barbs and vicious grins – but Raven had expanded her own agency with a line of couture frocks years ahead of Nikola, and been successful enough to sell them overseas. Nikola was obviously still struggling to get that sector of her business off the ground.
Nikola's gaze shifted to Ian, and became alarmingly warmer in a cunning, predatory sort of way. "Oh. And who have you brought with you?" She offered a hand, grinning with all her white teeth showing.
Ian took her hand in his much larger one and bent in a bow too gallant for his getup, ghosting a kiss to the backs of her fingers. "Jean-Jacque de Jardin at your service, madame," he said in a bored, though perfectly accented voice. He drew back to his full height and released her hand, face expressionless behind his shades the whole time.
"Madame." Nikola flicked her fingers at him, chin tilting coquettishly. "Please. It's mademoiselle." To Raven: "Where'd you pick him up, you lucky, lucky girl?"
Raven hugged his arm and laid her head on his shoulder, knowing her grin had gone shit-eating. "We connected at Paris Fashion week. You should see his menswear line. Utterly delicious."
Nikola gave him a lingering, up-and-down scrutiny. "I don't doubt it." She sighed, then turned and minced her way around her desk, motioning to the chairs opposite. "Sit. I'll ring for some green teas.
"Now," she said, once they were settled, and she'd snapped an order into the intercom on her desk, "what's this about, Raven?" Her brows lifted. "You've finally come around on that merger?"
Raven had never liked Nikola – she didn't like most people in her industry, truly. It was a cutthroat business full of eating disorders, back-stabbing, and excoriating insults. It took a lot of grit to survive, and that she had in spades. But it was one thing to dislike the woman for her manners and reputation as a vicious manager...quite another to know that she was also involved with Waverly and Abacus and all the debauchery and immorality that entailed. She felt something like hatred curdling in her belly, and fought to keep her expression neutral.
"Something like that," she said, hedging. "Your associate in London was very persuasive."
Nikola smiled, lips closed, smug.
"A bit too persuasive, if you catch my drift." Raven sniffed. "We're not quite so blunt as you Americans."
The smile slipped. "Marie can be a tactless idiot, I'll grant you. Apologies."
"She continually stressed your interest in Kyra Blacklock."
"Did she?" Nikola's jaw tightened, though she attempted another smile. "Kyra's a hot item, obviously, but she wasn't the reason I suggested us joining forces."
"She wasn't?" Raven asked, all innocence.
"No. It's like you just said yourself: we Americans are too blunt. Expanding into the UK would go much more smoothly if it was with you as the European brand ambassador. Mutually, we could help you expand further here in the States. It would be mutually beneficial, and the models could hop between locales for work, obviously."
"Obviously," Raven echoed. She crossed her legs. "Let's say, for sake of argument, that I was interested."
Nikola's mouth puckered unflatteringly in pleased surprise. "Let's say you were."
"I have some concerns."
"Of course."
"Jean-Jacque and I" – she laid a hand over the back of Ian's where it rested on the arm of the chair; someone had let him borrow some rather gnarly and out of character rings: a jolly roger and a wolf and a rose – "have talked about joining forces: his male models and designs walking in my shows, my girls and my designs appearing in his photoshoots when they want men and women pictured together. A true partnership."
"How lovely."
"If I were to join you, I'd want to make sure Jean-Jacque was comfortable with the arrangement."
Nikola's smile deepened and sharpened, gaze sliding Ian's way. "Of course," she repeated in an entirely different tone, almost purring.
Ian was sitting with his legs spread wide, slouching in the chair in a way he never would as himself. He dragged in a reluctant-sounding breath and said, "Who is your backer?"
Nikola blinked. "My what?"
"My agency started very small," Raven said, "as an offshoot of my mother's. I took what I'd earned walking the runway and opened up a little one-room office, to start. I eventually took a loan from my mother until I could pay her back. But you didn't have any family connections in the industry," she said, smiling sweetly. "And you opened up this incredible agency your second month off the runway. Surely you had a financial backer. One who perhaps is a part-owner still?"
Nikola, Raven knew from old gossip, had been born plain old Nikki Howe, naturally dirty-blonde, the daughter of a Nebraska corn famer who eventually went to prison for beating his wife half to death. She hadn't come from money; she'd been stunning on the runway, but had been plucked from obscurity. She'd had a backer then, and doubtless still did. New hair, new name, always waxed, and glossed, and dressed to kill, no one ever associated her with those old, forgotten Nebraska headlines about Hank Howe.
Raven knew, though, and Nikola's resultant look was downright venomous.
"If we're going to do business," Ian said, "we need to share our financial information, no? To ensure it's a smart decision?"
Nikola ground her teeth a long moment, looking between them, hesitant in a way that no one should have been had this been a normal meeting. She was as dodgy as anyone part of a smuggling ring could hope to prove.
"Nikola?" Raven prodded. "Problem?"
She took a slow breath and exhaled, nostrils flaring. "My silent partner is Jack Waverly."
~*~
Lucky for the Dogs, Jensen Waverly was addicted to Instagram, had a public account, and posted everything. He tagged his location in nearly every photo, which was how Evan knew to find him at Crew, a place that couldn't decide if it wanted to be a pub, a club, or a burlesque dinner house.
There was a bouncer at the door, and a twenty-dollar cover fee; dim as nighttime inside, it was styled like an old-fashioned pub, with touches of glamour: crystal chandeliers on low settings; ornate wall sconces and paintings illuminated with art lights. A stage occupied the wall opposite the bar, and on it, a woman in complicated lingerie was doing something equally complicated with a stool and a series of scarves to the low throb of dated music.
The tables and couches were full of day drinkers, but Jensen Waverly was easy to spot. He had the couch with the best view, seated in the center of it, arms draped across the back, sunglasses pushed up on top of his head. He wore cargo shorts and a t-shirt, was utterly unremarkable in every way...save for the fact he was surrounded by sycophants. He slouched like a king, taking up more space than he needed, glancing lazily between the stage and whichever of the ten young men grouped around him was speaking at the moment. He never leaned toward any of them to hear better; they leaned into him. He was sipping something clear out of a tall glass, and he smiled rarely, looked bored more than anything.
A spoiled little prince holding court.
Doubt gripped Evan, sudden and tight. His orders were simple: get in good with Jensen and see what he could learn. The idea was to mimic what Luis had (supposedly) done, and get tucked under Jensen's wing. But he'd never worked a job like this, and he had no idea if his acting skills were up to snuff. For the most part, Tenny's constant beratement didn't bother him. That was just Tenny, and he was an asshole to everyone. But now, standing here in the low light, sweat beading up between his shoulder blades, he felt like the useless idiot he'd been called so many times.
Oh God, he was going to fuck this up.
No. Focus.
Fox had told him not to get drunk – "God knows what'll fall out of your stupid mouth if you get sloppy" – but he headed to the bar because a little liquid courage might be the only thing standing between him and nervous embarrassment.
He sipped his rum and coke at the bar for a few minutes before he finally worked up the courage to walk over.
Act casual, Fox had said. Like you just happened to run into him.
But don't act like a stupid tit, Tenny had added.
He took a deep breath that was far too unsteady, tried to think of the last good joke he'd heard – something Deacon had said about a donkey – and plastered an easy smile on his face. Just act natural, dude, he told himself. You're always smiling. Easy peasy.
He started past Jensen's couch, then paused, and did a double-take. Here went nothing. "Whoa! Hey, dude!"
Several heads turned his way, the entourage regarding him with a blend of curiosity and immediate judgment. Jensen sipped his drink, gaze still fixed on the stage.
Shit.
The music wasn't that loud, but Evan raised his voice anyway. "Hey, Jensen, right?" The man in question finally turned his head a fraction Evan's way, gaze flicking up bored and flat. "Yeah, it is you! I'm Kyle." He thrust his hand out for a fist bump. "We met at Steveo's party last week." Thank you, Instagram. "You did that keg stand. Bro, it was sick!" Said keg stand had been part of a multi-pic post showing the before, during, and after; Jensen hadn't looked like he would remember much of that party.
Reluctant understanding dawned on Jensen's face. It wasn't a particularly good face. His shirt cost five-hundred bucks, his shades two-grand, and his haircut was sharp...but he had his dad's nose, chin, and heavy brows. When he got older and heavier, it wouldn't be pretty.
"Yeah," he said, after a beat. "Kyle. Right." He didn't return the fist bump, so Evan let his arm drop.
"Dude, you told me about this place!"
Jensen frowned.
"It's sweet!" With an inner cringe, he dropped down into the empty spot on the sofa beside Jensen. Jensen looked affronted – a few members of the entourage looked like they thought he was about to get punched – until he added, "What are we drinking? Next round's on me."
~*~
Sunlight flashed through the tinted windows of the Suburban, warm against Tenny's closed eyelids. The hum of the engine, the light bounce of the SUV each time they hit a pothole – he could have been in any city, any country, any car. He'd done this more times than he could count; had started at thirteen, a prop in someone else's operation. He'd been flying solo at fifteen; indispensable at eighteen. At some point, there was always a car full of handlers, and he'd always done this. Everything faded; he was only the steady breaths filling and leaving his lungs, his slow, regular heartbeat. He lifted each finger individually and tapped it back down on his thigh. Tensed and then relaxed each muscle, a cascade of tension that rippled from his jaw down, leaving him humming and loose afterward. He didn't have a knife or gun on him, but this was his greatest weapon: his body. His reflexes, his muscles memory, his years of training. Nothing else mattered so long as he had this. Had himself.
The Suburban slowed, and then stopped.
Tenny opened his eyes, and the light seemed electric, colors oversaturated.
The driver – a New York Dog named Topino – twisted around in the seat to look at him. "I'd go in with you if I could," he said, expression apologetic.
"Not necessary."
"Right. Well. You've got these guys."
Through the windshield, he watched Ian's black-suited security team exit the lead car and take up posts on the sidewalk. The guard in the passenger seat of his own car climbed out and moved toward the rear door.
Topino frowned. "You sure you got this? This is...a lot."
Between one breath and the next, Tenny tugged on his newly-acquired Ian mask. Donned his posture, and the tilt of his head, and the quirk of his lips. "Clearly," he said in his Ian-voice, "there's a shortage of true skill in New York."
Topino's eyes widened. "Damn." He grinned. "Godspeed, then, Mr. Shaman."
Tenny allowed himself one true, feral grin – the real him, according to Reese – and then resettled in his Ian suit and climbed out onto the sidewalk as his detail opened the door. It had been more than a year since he'd worked a proper op, as someone undercover, someone posing as someone else, and for a while there, back at the hotel, he'd worried he'd be rusty. But now, clothed and ready, he found it was no effort at all to stand as Ian would stand; to button his suit jacket and glance up at the restaurant's marquee with superior indifference.
Sal Moretti was the part-owner of a dozen restaurants across the city, but his son, Matt, had two that were his babies: Bella and Clara Luna, where Tenny now stood as his security detail flocked around him like so many blackbirds.
One guard opened the door, and the rest fell into place in front of and behind him. Tenny had never had an entourage; it was a bit of a power trip, to be honest.
Inside, the restaurant was of the type that felt like nighttime no matter the hour. Dark wood paneling and low lighting; small round tables with wine-colored cloths and candles in glass lamps. Decoration was sparse, a few potted palms in the corners and some somber, framed portraits on the wall. The place reeked of money: its clientele expected prompt service, small portions, and exclusivity. Tenny was already familiar with the layout thanks to Topino's sketches back at the hotel. He knew where the kitchen was, and all the exits. Already had his escape route planned.
A hostess hurried to meet them, smile harried. "Mr. Shaman?"
"Yes."
"If you'll follow me?"
She led them to a private dining room in back, through a set of dark wood French doors. The table that waited was large enough to seat at least ten, and at the far end, there was Jack Waverly.
Tenny had never been one for pop culture – mostly because he'd never had the luxury. But he'd seen several of the many, many movies Waverly had produced at this point, and even the most basic Google search had pulled up countless photos of the man posing with starlets at events. He donated to array of political candidates and charities; hosted a lavish auction each year, the benefits of which supposedly went to a children's hospital.
He was exactly the sort of overfed, oily weasel Tenny had been sent to kill in his previous life. Not a handsome man to begin with, age and rich-living had tuned him lumpy and bloated. Perpetual eyebags turned his already small eyes to buttons pressed into dough. He was in the middle of sipping red wine when Tenny walked in, and paused, glass hovering in front of his lips as his gaze roved Tenny with an intensity that tried hard to look like disinterest.
He lowered his glass and motioned to the man standing against the wall, who then stepped forward to intercept Tenny's guards.
"Your men will have to wait outside."
Tenny nodded. "That's fine," he said in his Ian voice. He held his arms out, as Waverly's guard approached, and submitted to a quick, but thorough pat-down. He swallowed the impulse to elbow the man in the throat, and was grateful it was him here, and not Ian; that Ian, without Tenny's years of training, didn't have to walk unarmed and unarmored into enemy territory.
"All clear," the guard said, and then pulled out a chair for him.
Tenny settled; unbuttoned his jacket and arranged its halves, tugged at his cuffs, smoothed his hair.
The guard turned over a clean glass and filled it with merlot, catching the drops at the rim of the bottle with a towel, smooth as any professional waiter.
"I took the liberty of ordering," Waverly said. "You like porterhouse?"
"Of course."
Waverly grunted an approving noise and stared at him, elbows on the table. He hadn't been born into money, unlike his son; according to Wikipedia, his father had been a welder, his mother a homemaker, and Jack himself had spent his teen years loading and unloading trucks for minimum wage. He entered the world of film production as a PA, fetching coffee and granola bars, and the story goes – according to his website – that he "worked his way up from there."
In Tenny's experience, that sort of meteoric rise was the result of knowing some very ugly things about some very important people.
"So," Waverly drawled. "You're him."
"Hm?" Tenny hummed, that quiet, agreeable sound Ian made that could have meant he wasn't bothered or was planning your murder. It was a clever façade, one Tenny intended to make the most of.
Waverly gestured in an impatient way. "This Shaman I keep hearing about." His gaze raked like claws. "Not what I expected."
"Really?" Tenny affected one of Ian's seemingly casual poses, leaned back in his chair, hand raised to a lazy angle. "Taller or shorter than you imagined?"
Waverly's stare was contemptuous. "Prissier."
Tenny tossed his hair back with a quick flick of his fingers. "I prefer to think of it as 'fastidious and well-dressed.'"
"I bet you do."
"Mr. Waverly," Tenny said, as a waiter arrived bearing plates of steak and angel hair pasta, "you doubtless have far more experience in the area than I have, given our respective ages and years in business, but I don't typically begin a meeting with personal insults."
To his credit, the waiter didn't react. He dropped a basket of bread in the center of the table and retreated.
Waverly smoothed his napkin over his lap, picked up his silverware, and then settled a glare on Ian.
Ian grinned. "Can we not have at least a pretense of cordiality, Mr. Waverly?"
A long, tense moment passed, and then Waverly snorted and dropped his gaze to his plate. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as he cut into his steak. "Well, they got one thing right: you're a real smartass."
Heh. Tenny kept his smile restrained and serene, though inwardly felt the warm glow of victory. "An exceptional one, even."