by K. A. Tucker
She shifts from my touch, gingerly lifting the bag to my head while on tiptoes. I wince as it touches the bump. “Sorry, but you need to ice it. Come and sit. You’re too tall for me.” She wraps her fingers around my bicep and guides me toward the red folding chair next to her dining table. It’s a foreign feeling, having someone leading me. Ordering me.
Caring for me.
I go willingly, finding myself intrigued by this role-reversal.
Pulling up the other chair, she rests on it with one knee and continues her silent tending to my lump. Luckily, that was it. I don’t want to deal with stitches. Charlie’s mouth works as if she wants to say something but is hesitant. And so she says nothing, content to half stand, half lean while I simply stare up at that perfectly proportioned face. Because I can’t help myself.
Charlie’s eyes aren’t brown. They’re a deep, mesmerizing bluish-purple. I’ve never met anyone with violet irises. I’ve heard they do exist, but they’re rare. Elizabeth Taylor apparently had violet eyes. If they looked anything like Charlie’s, then it’s not a wonder she kept landing husbands. Why the hell Charlie would want to hide those gorgeous things is beyond me.
Everything about Charlie looks different from the woman who showed up in my office two days ago. I knew those big, springy curls probably weren’t natural, but they actually change the shape of her face, making it appear rounder than it really is. And why the fuck does she wear all that makeup? She’s stunning without it. I’ve never seen natural lashes that long before. And her skin is porcelain smooth, like one of those dolls. That’s what Charlie looks like. A perfect little doll. Except with that ultrawide, sexy mouth.
A young, perfect little doll.
I’m not sure that she’s twenty-two. It’s so hard to tell with women these days. I’ve seen fourteen-year-olds look legal. It could be that Charlie’s license is fake and she’s a minor. I’ve already sent her paperwork off to my private eye and I’m expecting a call from him any minute. Short of robbing her previous employer blind or attacking other dancers, I don’t care too much about her past experience at the Vegas club. But I am a little worried about her age . . . fuck.
What if I just put a fourteen-year-old on my stage?
I push that thought out of my head with force. Now I’m just looking for excuses, reasons for why hiring her is a fucking bad idea. Reasons besides my own selfish ones.
Short of being underage or being a criminal, she can have a job at Penny’s for as long as she needs it. That, I know for sure. After distancing myself—with Rebecka’s help—I was able to see that I was overreacting. I thought about telling her she can only bartend but decided against it. The stage means a difference of a couple hundred dollars a night. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to get used to seeing Charlie topless every day. I’m not going to send her off to suck Rick’s cock—or worse—because I want to avoid a case of blue balls.
So now here I am, with this angelic-looking violet-eyed young woman playing nursemaid to me. And all I want to do is touch her.
Fuck.
She clears her throat and then, with a slight chuckle, says, “Can you believe he shot himself in the foot?” The sound of her voice and the way her face softened are so contradictory given the words she just spoke, and what we just went through. Most women—and men, frankly—would be rattled after a bullet barely missed them in their own home. Penny would have cried. Ginger would be throwing a proper fit. Kacey, my former bartender, would have murdered the man with her bare hands. But Charlie continues to be surprisingly calm and unperturbed by the entire experience.
Is this the way she has always been? Or did something, or someone, make her like this?
“Drug addicts,” I mutter, causing her giggle to die off abruptly. Ah, Cain. If only you had a sense of humor, like Ben, she’d still be laughing.
And probably on her back in that bed.
But none of what happened today is remotely funny. “Charlie, I really don’t like the idea of you staying in an apartment next to gun-wielding neighbors. You could have been shot.”
Her unreadable eyes flash to me. “And you could have been shot.”
I sigh, not sure what else to say. I’m trying my best not to come off like the control freak that I can be. These girls don’t need a dominating boss and I don’t own their lives. They need to feel like they’re making their own decisions, even if it’s with my help. But, seriously . . . a bullet just flew past her head and she still doesn’t want to move? Does she not have any common sense?
A cool finger suddenly grazes my skin behind my ear, where my tattoo is. “She must have been someone very important to you,” Charlie murmurs, tracing the letters softly.
I don’t answer, the feel of her skin against mine—despite the reminder of my past—igniting something deep inside. I need her to not be touching me like that right now. The intensity of the day is finally merging with my testosterone, creating a pent-up ball of stress inside. She’s not wearing a bra and that shirt is cut way too low. When she hugged me earlier, I could feel her nipples through the thin fabric. I was so relieved when she pulled away, before she had a chance to feel the response in my jeans. But now she’s basically shoving them in my face, the way she has positioned herself. I wonder if that’s intentional.
“You have blood on your shirt,” she murmurs suddenly, her finger moving from my neck to tap my shoulder.
My skin begins to tingle as I turn to indeed see the dark brownish-red stain. “Fuck. That woman must have bled all over me when she was on my back. I’ve got something in my car,” I mutter, starting to rise as the first beads of sweat begin to form. I don’t have many weaknesses. Other people’s blood on me is a distracting weakness. I’ve had plenty of experience with that, but it never bothered me until the night Penny died, when I couldn’t get her blood off my hands, no matter how hard I scrubbed.
Charlie’s hand pushes down against my collarbone, instantly freezing me.
“Stay. I’ll get it. You need to sit for a while.” Removing her hand from my body, she holds it out, her brow arched expectantly.
Normally, I’d dismiss her assertiveness with a gentle shake of my head and smile. Normally, I wouldn’t be in her apartment—ten feet away from her bed—in the first place. But I’m too agitated to focus. Besides, nothing seems to be normal today.
Charlie’s eyes watch my hand as I slide it into my pocket to pull out my keys. I hope she doesn’t notice the other bulge in my pants. “Black Navigator. Golf bag on the backseat.”
I’m on my feet and yanking the soiled shirt off without a second’s consideration, tossing it on the ground. It’s garbage now. I won’t even bother to wash it. Adjusting myself as my eyes roam the space, I wonder where she hid that gun. Or more important, why she has it in the first place. Protection, likely. She’s a single woman in Miami and she lives here. I’d bet good money that the serial number is scratched off and she doesn’t have a license to carry. But she seemed to know how to use it, as steady as her hands were.
Atheist or not, I need to say a small prayer that her neighbors didn’t mention Charlie having a gun when the cops showed up. I doubt that even Storm’s fiancé, Detective Dan Ryder, would have enough pull to bury that legal issue.
My eyes land on the rumpled bed again, on the silky white sheets that Charlie sleeps in. Without thinking, I stroll over to it, picking up the edge and sliding the material through my fingers. These are expensive. People who live in the Miami ghetto don’t spend money on expensive bedding unless it’s a luxury they’ve become accustomed to, a luxury they don’t think twice about. And yet, this is not a place that someone accustomed to luxury would allow herself to be buried in. I mean . . . she knows that it’s infested. The counter is lined with Tupperware containers and there’s a fucking can of Raid next to her toaster, for Christ’s sake. And to top the contradiction off nicely, a pair of fancy heels—identical to Vicki’s—lie next
to her bed. I’m a betting man and I’m betting that these aren’t knockoffs. And if Vicki’s wearing them, then they’re by one of those high-end designers.
Maybe Charlie’s a thief.
Perfect. I’ve hired an underage thief.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the screen for any missed calls from my private eye. Nothing. I let the phone drop back into my jeans and instinctively move to adjust myself again, silently cursing my dick for not focusing on the more pressing matter at hand.
The crunching sound of a piece of mirror glass missed in the cleanup is the only thing that warns me of Charlie’s presence. I turn to find her standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with panic as she stares at me, standing over her bed with one hand on her sheets and my other one on myself. I let go of both, but it’s not soon enough.
In seconds, the panic on her face smooths over. “What are you doing?” Her gaze shifts between my face and her bed. And my upper body, which is now bare.
And my groin.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel heat burn my ears. “Nothing weird.” I think I may have just topped Rick Cassidy in terms of sleaze. Bravo, Cain. “Maybe a little weird,” I correct, having nothing better to say to offset the awkwardness.
She slowly walks over to me, stealing furtive glances at my chest. I’m used to catching women’s eyes on my body. I put several hours in at the gym each morning, so I know I’m in damn good shape—even better shape than when I was eighteen and fighting. But having Charlie’s gaze on me makes my nerve endings spark like electric circuits gone haywire. It makes me unable to think straight.
She ducks her head, but I catch the adorable smile curling her lips when she looks up again, and my shoulders sag with relief that I haven’t completely freaked her out. Holding up the black shirt that I had tucked into a bag for the rare morning of golf, she asks, “Is this good?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” Our fingertips graze when she hands it to me, stirring my blood more. I watch as she turns to walk to the kitchen, her perfect round ass swaying in those little shorts. I need to get out of here before I explode in my pants.
She bends over to pull a small bottle of bleach from under the sink. Forcing my eyes away, I slide my arms through the sleeves and yank the shirt over my head.
Charlie lets out a shriek and jumps back from the sink area, tossing a small cleaning brush away, together with the bleach.
“They like dark, damp spots,” I say softly, putting two-and-two together.
She nods and bites her bottom lip, a mixture of disgust and anger marring her beautiful face as she allows her body to shudder once. I grit my teeth against the tiny smile that threatens. Not because her situation is amusing, but because she finally reacted the way I’d expect her to. Because I finally see an expression on her face that seems unguarded and uncontrolled.
Persuasive Cain is gone. “You’re not staying in this apartment, Charlie. Not for one more night.” I slide my phone out of my pocket. “Pack your things. Now.” I can’t help the severity in my tone; it tends to escape in situations where I have to take control.
Charlie turns to regard me with a hard glare. I wonder how she’ll react to my more unpleasant side. I don’t give her a chance to argue. “This is nonnegotiable. If you want to work for me, you’re not living next door to a bunch of crackheads. I don’t want you anywhere near that shit.” I hit “call” on my phone, adding, “I know of a good place.”
Turning my back to her, I wait. Maybe she’ll launch something at my head. It wouldn’t be the first time . . .
The familiar, gruff voice answers on the third ring. “Tanner here.”
chapter ten
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
“You drive a brand-new Sorento and you live in the slums?” Ginger’s pretty face twists up in bewilderment from my passenger side. She climbed in the second I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, behind Cain. Her hair is styled poker-straight and smooth today, reaching all the way to her chin in multicolored stripes.
“I inherited it.” The lie slides off my tongue so easily. It’s the same lie I gave to Cain when he helped load my belongings into the back. I could tell by the blank stare that he might not buy it, but he didn’t call me out.
Thank God Sam didn’t send me here with another Volvo—this whole charade would be that much harder to sell. Then again, I imagine a Volvo wouldn’t have lasted one night in the other apartment’s building’s parking lot. The truth is I almost sold my SUV to bank the money. But that could get back to Sam through Jimmy, and it would raise questions. I figure I can get about twenty grand on its sale the second I’m ready to leave.
My eyes roll over the white-stucco apartment building in front of us. Despite the bars on the bottom-floor windows, it looks nice enough and well maintained. Nothing fancy, but hopefully not a place where I have to worry about getting shot, standing in the middle of my studio.
I think I did a pretty good job of hiding my emotions from Cain today. But, considering I carry a constant feeling of threat on my shoulders nowadays, I don’t think this was as shocking for me as it would be for someone else. Either way, I didn’t want to appear vulnerable in front of my new boss, so I did my best to focus on making light of the situation while I iced the bump on his head.
“So, you live here?”
“A bunch of us do. Me, Mercy, Hannah, China.”
“China?” I repeat, tossing a sidelong glance at Ginger. “The China?” The viper who almost made me cry last night?
She snorts. “Yeah, the one and only. Bad news is she’s a bitch. Good news is she’s fine if you get on her good side.” That’s Ginger. She’s blunt and snarky, but she always tries to keep things positive.
“Does Cain live here, too?”
“Cain?” Ginger snorts. “No way. He lives somewhere downtown. But he owns the building. Bought it two years ago.”
“He owns this building,” I repeat, my tone flat. “And four of his strip club employees live here.”
“Five, now,” Ginger corrects with a grin.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I’ll be stripping for him and living under his “roof”? If I don’t get fired for providing false references, that is. What the hell? In my haste to get away from my domineering drug-dealing stepfather, have I allowed myself to be acquired by a pimp?
Ginger seems oblivious. “I know it’s a little strange. Cain is a little strange. But you’ll be my neighbor now!” She lets out an excited squeal. “We can have coffees in the mornings with Mercy and go to the gym together. You can be my guinea pig for test recipes.” Ginger is taking culinary classes but refuses to eat anything she makes, for fear of turning into a portly chef, she says. “We can drive to work together, too! I hear you’ll be working with me every night.” With a raised brow, she adds, “That’s a lot of Ginger time for you. I hope you realize how lucky you are.”
Oh, man. Laying low is hard to do when you have people watching your every move . . . Shit . . . I can’t have anyone seeing me heading to a drop, in disguise. That’s how questions begin. I can’t have people asking questions.
None of them can ever know what I’m into.
I should have kept my roach-infested apartment, but Cain made it clear that wasn’t an option. He walked me to the superintendent and, after watching them have a heated conversation about bullet holes and appalling conditions, followed by threats about having the place condemned—I don’t know if Cain can make that happen, but he sure as hell sounded convincing—I handed in my keys and the landlord handed me back my security deposit.
I watch as Cain’s lean body slides out of his driver’s seat, with his phone to his ear. I don’t know whether to be thankful or angry with the way things played out today.
Or worried.
Sure, the fact that I might get a night’s sleep without having to leave the lig
hts on is more than enticing. But . . . why is he doing all this? I now have a job and what I assume will be a better place to live. What will he want in return? Everyone wants something.
Sam sure does.
And Cain is doing it all despite not knowing anything about me. Except that I have a gun, which he didn’t even say a word about.
“He sure likes to get involved with his employees’ lives,” I say out loud.
Ginger’s gaze locks on her boss. Now, our boss. “Yeah, he tends to.” She pauses. “But not in a bad way. He’s a good guy,” she assures me. “A little different, sometimes. Reclusive. Charming, occasionally. And he can be moody, but who wouldn’t, with all the shit he deals with.”
I have to agree with her. I caught rare glimpses of a joking, playful Cain earlier today, with his soft chuckles. They were few and far between but when he loosened up, I couldn’t deny there was a magnetic pull. Most of the time, though, he seems stressed—his back rigid, his keen eyes boring into me as if scouring for answers.
I watch him now as he begins to pace, one hand deftly adjusting the collar of his new shirt while he talks. By the deep wrinkles in his forehead, he doesn’t look impressed with the conversation. Maybe it’s my background check.
Not good.
When I came back from grabbing that shirt from his Navigator—a spotless, well-maintained vehicle that smelled fresh and clean, like him—I found him standing next to my bed and I immediately panicked. I thought he had discovered the wigs I’d hidden. But then I was distracted by the fact that my sheets were in his hand. The 1200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that I had to buy because cheap sheets make my skin itch and keep me up half the night, paranoid that bugs are scurrying all over me.
And he was shirtless.
And his other hand was on his groin.
That was a super-awkward moment.
