“I heard you.” Marshall eased off his stool. “But I can’t do that. I’m invested now.”
“Oh, yeah. How? The woman’s with us.” Ernie took a step forward, yet still retained his distance.
“Maybe now. But once she sees your boat…” He trailed off, letting her fill in the blanks.
“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my boat.” Warren sounded like a snotty-nosed kid defending a Tonka toy.
“Yeah? You fixed the toilet yet?” Marshall went straight for the jugular. With the women, it was always about the facilities.
“Shut the fuck up. We fixed that last week.” Warren’s lip twitched, alerting Marshall to his lie. Shithouse poker face front and center. Warren squared off at Marshall, just like he’d done a week ago. The dumb shit didn’t learn.
“Don’t do it, Warren.”
“What?”
“You know what. Didn’t you learn your lesson last week?”
Marshall didn’t miss the woman’s resolve melting. He felt sorry for her. She’d made a tough call, got through the negotiations, and committed. Now he was throwing a wrench in and making her look like an amateur.
But when she adjusted her stance, embodying that of a nimble warrior—light on her feet, but ready to strike—his opinion of her changed. She wasn’t here on a whim. She was determined to go through with her harebrained idea. And that made him even more involved.
If he didn’t take her across the water to Cuba, then she’d find somebody else. Of that, he was certain. He just had to change her mind about the brothers.
He’d planned on letting his verbal communication skills win the debate, but when Warren and his stupid siblings formed an arc in front of his bar stool, he got a better idea.
Unconscious men can’t captain boats.
“Don’t be fools. Haven’t we done this enough already?” Despite his words, Marshall was grateful they’d started it. And something unprecedented also shot across his brain…he was actually looking forward to showing this woman his skills. It was a strange realization. There was something about her that took him back to his long-forgotten youth, reminding him that he was a virile, young man…still well and truly in his prime.
In that frozen moment, when the threesome shifted their gazes from him to each other, Marshall assessed his surroundings, calculating distances and possible weapons with clarity and commitment.
Good opponents would ensure their faces were unreadable. Not these guys. Their intentions were written on their expressions like they were advertising blimps. None of them wanted to fight, but they were stupid enough to go through with it anyway. And each of them was waiting for the other to go first. Marshall didn’t blame them.
“When you men finish beating your chests,” the woman’s clipped voice cut through the tension like a machine gun, “I’ll be waiting outside.”
Marshall was utterly bemused by her actions. Bar fights were like watching a train wreck; while you know there’s going to be injuries and blood, you can’t help but watch. Not her, though. Maybe she’d already seen her share of fights. Or blood.
He tucked that observation away, wondering how soon it would be before he’d need it again.
“Well, you heard the lady,” Marshall egged them on after her departure. “Either walk away or get this over with. Your choice.” His words were final, yet he knew nothing would change their minds.
These guys were dumb, dumber, and damn stupid.
Warren balled his fists, announcing his impending attack to Marshall and potentially to his brothers; he was ready. Marshall was ready too, though he resisted showing it. He was even tempted to sip his lemonade just to prove how undaunted he was.
The growl that tumbled from Warren’s throat triggered his charge, as did his size-twelve boots pounding across the floorboards. Warren lowered his shoulder, going for a linebacker charge, and Marshall braced for it side on, giving him less of a target. At the last second, he dodged aside, wrapped his arm around Warren’s neck, trapped him in a headlock, and squeezed. Sure, Warren’s arms flailed, attempting blows that failed to land, but without the blood flow to his brain, his attention quickly turned to Marshall’s bicep. Warren’s fingers clawed at Marshall’s upper arm, and he made a mental note to put antiseptic on the scratches later.
Marshall eyeballed the ugly twins, even grinned at them as their brother slipped into unconsciousness.
Why the three hadn’t charged simultaneously was beyond Marshall. If they had, it’d be a much fairer fight. But it was like they were waiting to see the success, or failure, of their sibling before they launched their own attack.
Ernie was next to step up. He had a temper like dynamite; once it was lit, it was near impossible to snuff it. Ernie chose the same attack plan as his older brother. Shoulder low, full-blown run, fury-driven growl.
“Really?” Marshall even had time to drop Warren’s lifeless body and shake his head before Dipshit reached him. This time, though, Marshall repeated the move he’d made the other day and simply stepped aside and timed his shove perfectly to torpedo Ernie into the bar. He too fell to the floor in a puddle of useless flesh and bone.
“Now, Buck.” Marshall spoke in a fatherly tone, which given their upbringing, the three brothers had probably never heard in their life. “Do you really want to lose another tooth?”
His head bobbled, and his tongue pushed through the gap in his teeth.
“Good decision. Now, I’m going to walk out this door, and you’re going to buy your brothers a few beers when they wake up. Come dinner time, you’ll be laughing at this.” Marshall tugged out his wallet and tossed a Benjamin onto the bodies. Buck’s eyes followed the hundred’s flutter downward, and Marshall wondered if he’d even tell his brothers about the cash.
“Buck.” Marshall commanded his attention. “Do we have an agreement?”
Buck dragged his eyes from the money long enough to give a nod.
“Okay then.” Marshall stepped over Dumb and Dumber and strode back to the bar. Red was shaking his head with a look that said he’d enjoyed the show more than he wanted to admit. “Hey, Red, buy these guys a side of ribs, will ya? Actually, make it two.” He slid a fifty over the counter.
Red slipped the note into his top pocket. “Sure thing. Hey, I hope she’s worth it.”
Marshall glanced over his shoulder to see the woman watching through the glass. When she saw him looking, she spun away, showing him her back.
“You know what. I think she just might be.”
The dazzle in Red’s eyes had Marshall laughing as he strode away from the bar.
She greeted him with hands on hips and a crease in her brow. A silver cross, nestled in the dip of her throat, glinted red from Pirate Cove’s tacky neon sign. “Is that the way you settle all your disputes?”
“Only with those three. They don’t listen to reasoning.”
“Reasoning.” She huffed. “Is that what you call it?’
He narrowed his gaze at her. “What would you call it?”
“Railroading.”
“Well…” Her forthrightness was a refreshing change, yet it still caught him unawares. “I was actually doing you a favor.”
“Really?” It was sarcasm rather that a question.
“When you see their boat, you’ll be thanking me.”
“And what will I do when I see your boat, Mr.—”
“Crow. Marshall Crow.” He held his hand forward. “And you are?”
She hesitated for a little too long, and he couldn’t decide if she was nervous about giving her name or touching his hand. But when her eyes met his and he saw both the gold flecks in her caramel irises and the determination in her glare, he decided it was neither. There was something else going on behind the scenes. Which, he realized, was blatantly obvious given that she wanted to do a covert run to Cuba.
“Charlene Bailey.�
�� Her grip was firm enough to show that she wasn’t a pushover.
“So, Charlene, I understand you need to get to Cuba.”
She nodded. “Fast.”
“I can do fast. But I have to know why didn’t you approach me in the first place, rather than those three goons?”
She hesitated, seemingly stewing on her answer. “You looked too intelligent.”
He did a double take, and his brows shot up. “And that’s a bad thing?”
She glanced about, and her wavy brown hair fell around her bare shoulders. “It is…if you plan on asking too many questions.”
Nicely played. In one sentence she’d both flattered him and told him to keep his nose out of her business.
“Alright then. Meet me at the marina entrance over there at nine tonight,” he pointed toward the arched metal gateway over the main wharf. “And I’ll have you in Havana before the sun comes up.” He didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he turned on his heel and pictured her blazing eyes throwing daggers in his back as he strode away.
He didn’t usually go for dramatic exits. But he liked this one. There was something about her that riled him, and it wasn’t until he’d nearly reached his shack on the beach that he realized what it was. For the first time in years, he felt the need to protect someone.
Lucky for him, she was a feisty beauty who promised to make the next day or so very interesting.
The midnight run had never looked so enticing.
Chapter 12
Charlene had to walk several streets before the anxiety snaking through her brain subsided. She’d seen men fight before, but they’d been drunken bouts of wild fist throwing after an ugly exchange of insults and profanity. Usually it was over a woman. What Marshall and the three brothers did, though, seemed almost practiced. Choreographed. From the limited verbal exchange to the physical one, it was obvious it wasn’t their first brawl.
She half expected to see Marshall around every corner she rounded. Or the three brothers, but so far, so good. She did feel a bit of a fool for choosing them. Her desperation had made her reckless. Her choice had been based purely on their half-witted behavior. They seemed a long way from intelligent, which would’ve played into her plans for utilizing her feminine touch to get them to do anything. Including not asking too many questions.
But if it hadn’t been for Marshall, she would’ve climbed aboard a boat with three men with the intention of making an illegal trip across a hundred miles of ocean. Three!
She could handle one man, possibly two, given that they were so scrawny. But three at once, was highly unlikely.
Shaking her head, she bristled at her stupidity.
Her brain snapped to a mental image of her body being washed up on a beach. With no ID and nobody to report her missing, she’d be labeled a Jane Doe and live out the rest of eternity in a nameless metal tube. As much as she hated that her brain went there, she needed that reality check.
The fact that nobody knew where she was going was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it gave her the freedom to make the illegal move unhindered. On the other, she could vanish forever and nobody would know. Not one person.
She could’ve told Detective Chapel, she supposed. But she didn’t want him questioning her motives. When she’d found the Cuba connection, it’d taken a few days of debating before she’d decided to leave without communicating her intentions to Chapel. It might take a few days of zero communication from her before he went around to her apartment. It might take him another day or two before he convinced the landlord to open the door.
Once he did, though, he’d find the place empty.
By now, all her father’s clothing would’ve been farmed out to worthy recipients via the Daughters of Charity donation service. A share of her clothing had made the charity bin too, reducing her total assets down to just one suitcase and a bundle of money that was now in a tin she’d found at a secondhand shop. She’d kept the cane too. For some reason, she couldn’t part with it. The wise owl was her last connection to the life she’d lived until three months ago.
The aromas drifting from a burger bar overlooking the ocean smelled so good that she decided to pause for dinner. She hadn’t eaten since the pie she’d wolfed down at the bus stop at seven o’clock that morning. After ordering the special—cheeseburger, curly fries, and onion rings—she chose a seat at the far edge of the eating area, where she could see both the diner and a 180-degree, uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean.
According to the brochure from the travel agent, Cuba was approximately a hundred miles across that stretch of blue. It was hard to believe that’d be her next destination. It’d taken just one day to find someone willing to take her to Cuba, and that was either pure luck or because she’d asked the right people the right questions to direct her into that bar. One thing she hadn’t thought to ask any of those men, though, was how long the journey was expected to take. Could it be days?
The longest train trip she’d ever taken was from Chicago to Portland, approximately twenty-two hundred miles. And that had taken two days. It wasn’t really a comparison, but surely crossing a hundred miles of ocean would take only a couple of hours, not days. It’d be one of the first questions she’d ask when she met Marshall again.
Marshall hadn’t discussed his fee either, and she mentally debated whether that was because he assumed she had a lot of money or because he could tell she was desperate enough to pay anything. Or maybe it’d slipped his mind. She was convincing herself of the latter when her meal arrived courtesy of a young woman in denim shorts and a T-shirt that would’ve been better suited to playing Frisbee on the beach.
It was a rare occasion when the burger that arrived on her plate matched the burger displayed on the menu board. But this one did. It smelled divine too. Wrapping both hands around the squishy bun, she bit into the burger and groaned at the delicious combination in her mouth. It’d been way too long since she’d ordered a decent meal. Wracking her brain, she realized that the last restaurant meal she’d eaten was the entree she’d shared with her father. Peter.
With the information she now had, confirming that he’d lied on many occasions, she was fairly certain Peter wasn’t his real name. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was also not her father. It suddenly occurred to her that she’d put zero thought into who her real father was. She’d been so fixated on finding out more about Peter that following up on her own lineage had slipped her mind.
With a bit of luck, she’d have all her answers within a couple of days. If Marshall came through. Once she finished her burger, she turned her attention to the fries and onion rings. As she stared out over the ocean, she wondered what the crossing to Cuba would be like. And, in particular, what it’d be like sharing that limited space with a complete stranger…Marshall.
She’d met enough armed forces personnel to know one when she saw one. Yet there was something about Marshall that set him apart from the others. First, he had tried to talk those silly guys out of fighting. Every other military man she’d met would’ve been itching for a fight. Then, the way he’d handled himself afterward, talking the third brother down and paying for their drinks and food. Now, that was new to her.
And she’d worked in more than enough bars to know that Marshall wasn’t drunk, and not just based on the pale soda he was drinking. He was in control of all his faculties, and he didn’t smell of alcohol. That was strange too, given where they’d met.
But that wasn’t all. Marshall had an unusual demeanor about him, simultaneously awkward and confident. Like he knew what he had to do but was embarrassed by it. He’d also said he had no choice but to help her.
Whatever that meant. She just hoped he had that same feeling come nine o’clock tonight.
When she’d made the decision to cross to Cuba illegally, she hadn’t actually thought it through enough to realize it’d be done under cover of darkness. It mad
e sense now. But it also hit home just how risky her plan was. Worst-case scenario, she’d vanish from the face of the earth. Best-case scenario, she’d find out who her parents were. She decided she’d be happy with anything but her body being washed up on shore. Besides, Charlene had absolutely nothing to lose. The money maybe, but then she’d been penniless many, many times before.
The one big thing that was about to change was that for the first time in her life, she was about to break the law. Big-time.
Charlene didn’t even jaywalk.
That aspect of her plan hit her with such brutality it felt like a hive of bees had exploded in her stomach, and she couldn’t swallow the onion ring already in her mouth. Pain nipped at her insides—once, twice, a thousand times—as she contemplated that winding up in jail would be worse than her lifeless body floating up onto a deserted beach.
She’d always had freedom.
Freedom to do whatever she wanted.
Being caged up would kill her.
She wanted her old life back. To be curled up with her feet on the sofa, watching reruns of Friends with her father. Back when running out of popcorn was a major catastrophe. Back when the worst day of her life was a figment of her childhood imagination.
But it wasn’t a young child’s fabrication. Every single bit of it seemed to be true.
She was ripped from her mother’s arms. By Peter. The man who claimed to be her father.
Charlene swallowed the onion ring and shoved the plate aside. She needed answers.
No matter what happened in the next couple of days, she would never be the same. Then again, she hadn’t been the same since that woman had plunged the knife into Peter’s chest. Now Charlene literally had nothing to lose.
Quite the contrary—she had everything to gain.
Crossing to Cuba illegally was a dangerous risk, but not only was it imperative, it was also her last card. If she still had no answers after Cuba, she had nowhere else to go. She’d still be lost.
With her belly full and the sun kissing the horizon, she left the café and forced her feet to maintain a stroll along the road that skirted the beach. It would’ve been more natural to run. She was good at it too. The only times she’d ever stood out in a crowd was when she’d won the track event at school, which happened several times in her childhood. Running was her therapy. All she had to think about was placing one foot in front of the other and concentrating on her breathing.
Out of Luck Page 9
