by K. A. Tucker
Exhaling slowly and heavily, I move my hands to grip her waist and force myself to step away from her before this goes from zero to naked in sixty seconds. There’s wasting time and then there’s wasting the first time. Taking Charlie in one of my V.I.P. rooms right now would be just wrong. “Come.” I loop my arm around her waist and pull her close to me. “Let’s ice that cheek.”
Charlie remains quiet as I lead her into my office. In fact, she hasn’t said a word aside from thanking Ginger, who—after forcing details out of Ben—ran to us just outside the hall to the private rooms with a bag of ice.
Now she suddenly seems nervous. Or unsure of how to act around me.
That makes two of us.
I pull up a chair and motion for her to sit. Leaning back against my desk in front of her, I pull the chair forward until her bare legs—looking long and sexy in that tiny skirt—butt up against the side of my thigh. Practically, it will allow me to hold the ice against her cheek for her. Greedily, I need to touch her. The fact that she doesn’t shift away tells me she’s okay with that.
The angry red mark will likely be a bruise in a few days, but nothing to damage that gorgeous doll face of hers. Charlie is perfection. She has a face I could lose myself in. And I do right now, settling my gaze on her lush mouth. I can’t help myself from dragging the pad of my thumb along her bottom lip. Her lips are so much softer than I had even imagined.
Glossy eyes look up at me, waiting expectantly. And I still my hand. I don’t know where to go next. What’s right? What do I allow to happen? Do I just let things happen? Do I unload my past on her as I did on Penny, so she knows the kind of man she’s getting involved with, the kind of violence I’ve seen, the kind of company I’ve kept?
Or perhaps Nate is right. Should any of that matter? It matters to me, but will it matter to her? I know Charlie’s coming with her own bag of secrets. But, frankly, as long as she’s not willfully doing something immoral, I don’t give a shit what she’s done. I just want to help her get away from it.
She lifts her hand to press mine against her mouth tightly.
Are we really doing this?
“I don’t know how to do this, Charlie,” I say, barely above a whisper, hoping she understands me. “I’ve never done . . . this.”
After a long pause, her lips tickle my skin as she whispers, “I think you’re doing just fine.”
I feel my lip curl up in a smile, her attempts to build my confidence charming. I’m learning quickly about Charlie and the more I learn, the more I like. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions and yet she always seems to know what to say.
She drops my hand, allowing me to tend to her cheek with the ice again. “Are you sure you want me doing office stuff for you?” she asks. “I have no experience.” She squeezes her eyes shut, adding in a rush, “With office stuff. I have lots of other experience.” Then her cheeks explode with color.
It’s such a rare sight to see Charlie flustered that I can’t help but chuckle, which makes her cheeks burn brighter and a giggle escape her lips. And that giggle is music to my ears.
Parroting her earlier words, I tease, “I think you’ll do just fine.” I, on the other hand, trying to keep my hands off of you while you’re in my office, will not. “How about you come in at four tomorrow afternoon?”
She smiles and dips her head in assent. “Charlie Rourke, administrative assistant, at your service.”
Hmm . . . I like the sound of that. “You know I’m looking for a female manager, right?”
“To do what, exactly?”
I shrug. “To help me manage this place. It’s a lot to do on my own.”
She bobs her head slowly as if considering it.
“Think about it.” Lifting the ice bag off her, I inspect her cheek. If I look hard enough, I can see where his knuckles made contact. If I ever see that guy again . . . My fists clench in anticipation. “Does it hurt?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s just a bruise. Nothing’s broken. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of them.”
“Your father?” Fuck. Did I just ask that out loud? I hold my breath, hoping Charlie missed it.
“No, from . . .” She pauses, her brow furrowing deeply. “My father?” She swallows. “What do you mean?”
Ah, crap. What is it about Charlie that makes me say stupid shit? I never say stupid shit! Quickly trying to cover my tracks, I clear my throat and say, “Nothing. I mean, a lot of girls working here have had abusive fathers and I just assumed—”
“Cain.” The edge in her tone is unmistakable. It’s sharp with equal parts wariness and panic. She adjusts her body so that her legs no longer touch mine and her back is rigid. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Charlie is too damn perceptive. No one but Storm and Nate knows about John and how I have him basically burglarize my employees’ private lives. Now Charlie’s going to know because, though I’ve never done this relationship thing before, I’m smart enough to realize that it won’t work by lying to someone’s face.
I sigh with regret and then begin to rattle off what John told me. “George Rourke, born May first, 1962. Truck driver with a drinking problem and a history of abusing your mother until her death.” Does Charlie even know that her mother died? By the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look, I’m suspecting she might not have known. Fuck! My insides are twisting. This is just getting worse and worse. “You ran away on your eighteenth birthday and there’s been no trace of you until you flew from New York to Miami two months ago. Look, I have fairly extensive background checks done on all of my employees. The private investigative type.”
Clearing her throat, she barely manages to get out, “I need to take the rest of the night off.” I reach for my keys to drive her but she’s already shaking her head, a hand out to stop me, trembling slightly. “No, Cain. Just—” She swallows, her voice hoarse. “No.”
I feel like a dump truck has just slammed into my chest. “Wait. Please tell me you knew about your mother. Please tell me you didn’t just find out.” If she didn’t know, I think I’m going to lose my mind.
I see her hard swallow and then she manages to get out a tight, “Yes. I knew about my mother’s death.”
I reach for her hand but she pulls it away. “I know what it looks like, but you can trust me.”
“You’re wrong, Cain. I actually don’t know anything about you at all.” Spinning on her heels, she’s gone.
Just like that. In seconds, any trust I may have gained . . . lost.
I last about three minutes. I can’t let her leave like that. Despite her protests, I’m on my feet, keys in my hand, and heading toward the door to chase after her. Ginger’s colorful head stops me.
“Is Charlie okay? Levi said she saw her storm out of here.”
I’m already maneuvering my way around her. I don’t have time for Ginger’s antics right now. “No, she’s not.”
Her hand clamps over my arm to stop me. “Wait . . .”
“Not now, Gin—”
“Were you with Charlie yesterday afternoon?”
That slows my steps. Why would she ask that? “No.” I turn to give her a questioning look.
She purses her lips together. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but after what Ben told me happened tonight . . .” She groans. “I need to tell you about yesterday. Maybe you can make sense of it.”
I glance toward the exit door and then back at Ginger, torn between what she might have to say and getting to Charlie.
“I talked to some guy on her phone yesterday. She said he was her father but I’m not so sure.”
chapter twenty
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
Who the fuck is George Rourke?
This was supposed to be a fake ID. Fake! But the way Cain just went on, talking about these people I supposedly know, makes me believe that Charlie has a real life
involving real people . . .
Charlie is a real person.
Apparently, up until four years ago, a person who probably laughed and cried and partied with her friends. People called her Charlie and she responded. She looked in a mirror and saw a face that was not my face, the one that has assumed her identity.
And then she disappeared without a trace? People don’t just disappear. I know, because I’m trying to. There’s only one explanation that makes sense.
Oh, God.
I’m forced to pull off the road. I barely get my seat belt off and the door open before my stomach’s contents spill out onto the pavement. Thank God it’s late and I’m on a quiet side street with no witnesses aside from the stray cat across the way, inspecting a trash bin. When I have nothing left to expel, I climb back into the driver’s seat. Tears begin to stream, but I wipe them away furiously.
I have to know.
With blood pounding through my ears like an incessant drum, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s just after midnight. Sam will still be up. Despite his age, he’s a night owl and an early riser.
I know I shouldn’t do this. I’m never supposed to contact him, but I need him to convince me that my suspicions are wrong. I punch in the number of the Long Island house from the burner phone, hoping it can’t be traced if there’s a wiretap on the home phone.
With trembling hands and ragged breaths, I wait, my heart feeling like it’s going to give out soon if I don’t find some relief for it. I don’t even know if he’ll be home. He’s hardly ever home . . .
Sam answers on the third ring.
Forcing my fear aside with a hard swallow, I waste no time. “Who was Charlie?”
I hear nothing.
Nothing.
And then a click.
I force myself to breathe as I press the phone to my chest. Did he hear me? Did he think it was a prank call? Should I call back?
The ring that breaks into the silence makes me jump.
I hit “talk,” and listen, pursing my lips.
“Why are you asking?” His tone is low and harsh. Sam can be demanding, but I’ve heard him use this voice only once before—with Dominic that night. I’ll bet he switched phones. He’s probably also in the unfinished cellar. The room is completely bare, making it difficult to hide any bugs within, should someone ever manage to get past Simba and Duke—two of the largest and most unfriendly rottweilers I’ve ever seen.
I grit my teeth, searching for an excuse. In my frenzy, I didn’t consider how this conversation would go. I was simply looking for an answer to calm me. I can’t tell him what I know. I can’t tell him anything about Cain or his investigative practices. Stupid girl! What is happening to me? I’m always so vigilant. Now, when I most need to keep my head, I’m losing it!
But it’s too late. Sam needs an answer. I swallow my fear. “Was she a real person?”
His low, menacing chuckle makes me cringe. “Well, of course she’s real. She’s you.”
I shut my eyes as dread swirls. He’s being evasive. “Was she someone else before she was me?”
There’s a pause and then, to my surprise, Sam actually answers. “Yes.”
Prickles run down my neck. “Where is she now?”
“So many questions, my little mouse . . . I have to wonder why.” I hear the familiar pull of the chain affixed to the light in the cellar. On . . . off . . . on . . . off . . . and I think back to the day he handed me all of Charlie’s identification. The day he collected all of mine. What was he going to do with it? Sell it to someone else so she can pretend to be me?
I press my lips together to keep from speaking. I’ve never questioned Sam. Never. And now he gets a phone call from me in the middle of the night, riddled with unspoken accusations. It’s going to make him suspicious.
“Answer me!” he finally demands.
“I’m just wondering if she’s . . .” I force down the bile rising again in my throat. “What happened to her?” Did you kill her, Sam? Was it for me? Did you have this all planned out four years ago? Maybe earlier?
Of course I don’t expect Sam to admit to anything. He’s never shared anything incriminating with me. If I ever went to the cops, I’d have nothing but accusations and circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t hold up. Certainly no valuable information to barter for my exoneration. Aside from Dominic and now Jimmy, I’ve never met any of his associates. I rarely step foot inside his legitimate companies. I don’t know how he gets the heroin; I would never ask. I know he’s made a few trips to the Middle East over the last few years on “business.” But I highly doubt his real estate firm, his roofing company, his franchise steakhouse, or any of the other dozen ventures he’s involved in has anything to do with the Middle East.
I’m sure the DEA would question his trips as well, if they were watching. I’ve never felt their presence, though. Then again, I don’t know what having the DEA’s attention would feel like. For all I know, that guy sniffing around me last spring wasn’t Sam’s friend and was in fact the DEA. Either they’re discreet or they haven’t caught on to Sam yet. I guess when you’re really good at what you do, it’s harder to pin things on you.
I hear the hiss of air through Sam’s teeth on the other end before he offers in a phony nonchalant tone, “Who knows? Maybe she betrayed someone who gave her everything. Maybe she wasn’t a good little mouse.”
My heart begins to race, pounding against my rib cage. He evaded the question but to me, it’s clearly an answer.
And a warning.
“Is that what you wanted to know?”
Clearing my throat, I manage to get out, “Yes.”
“I hope I don’t have anything to worry about. Remember, we’re in this together. There’s no room to get sloppy. Yesterday, you were sloppy.”
Sloppy. The same thing he accused Dominic of being.
“I know, S—” The coppery taste of blood taints my taste buds as I bite my tongue hard, to avoid saying his name. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good. Because we have a really good thing going. And it’s going to get much better.” There’s a pause. “I see you’re running low on money. I’ll deposit another ten in your account tomorrow. Go buy yourself something nice.”
“I will. Thank you.” Money . . . It all comes down to money. How Sam values that over everything else and how he assumes everyone else does, too. The funny thing is, Sam could deposit ten times that much into my account without feeling it financially. But he never gives me too much. Just enough to keep me around, needing him.
I listen to the static on the phone for I don’t know how long after Sam hangs up. Finally, I sink back into my seat.
Charlie Rourke was a real person.
And the real Charlie Rourke is dead.
I’ve been obliviously pretending to be a dead girl for months now. I’ve turned her into a stripper and a drug trafficker. I’ve looked forward to the day I can shred her ID up into little bits and pretend that she never existed.
But she did exist.
And Sam likely had a hand in her death.
Was she just some unfortunate girl who met the wrong person one night? Someone looking for a blond runaway who no one would miss? Or did Sam know the real Charlie Rourke? Was she running drugs for him? Did she do something to fall into his bad graces?
Am I about to fall into Sam’s bad graces? With Ginger answering my burner phone, with the sudden questions, with whatever he may have yet to hear from Bob. What if Bob tells him about Cain?
Cain.
My chest throbs as his name touches my thoughts. I was too distracted, running from Penny’s tonight, to think about all that had transpired. I don’t know what that was back there, but I know I didn’t want it to end. He seemed intent on keeping his hands on me and I was intent on letting him do so, all the way to his home and into his bed, if he invited me.<
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But now Cain is right in the thick of it. He’s made an enemy out of Bob. He thinks he has my entire history. I can’t be angry with him about hiring the investigator. I understand why he does it. It’s to protect himself from people exactly like me.
But he’s not protected. Sam’s too smart for him. Sam’s too smart for everyone.
This foolish plan I have? That’s all it is . . . foolish. I’m never going to be able to buy an identity like the one Sam arranged for me because Sam probably killed for it. All I can do is take my money and run.
I have twenty-five grand in my account—a “secret” account, different from the joint one with Sam—saved. Add ten grand coming tomorrow and another twenty or so for my SUV and I can make a clean break with a good chunk of money. Of course, I’ll have to drain both accounts and, what . . . carry 55,000 dollars in my gym bag? Because I can’t open a bank account without any ID and I won’t risk using Charlie’s. I don’t know if Sam could find a way to trace a bank account in her name, but I can’t risk it. To be safe, I have to assume that if the second “Charlie Rourke” is entered into any computer, he can find me.
I’ll just jump on a bus and go . . . where? I’ve always wanted to see the Deep South. Maybe somewhere in Louisiana or Alabama. Some low-key town where I might be able to work under the table and rent a small apartment without all the necessary background checks. Or I could cross the border into Mexico. But then I’ll never get back in, because I’ll never get a passport again. No . . . I have to stay in the country. Forever. I’ll never get to go to Europe or the Caribbean. Not until Sam dies and I somehow assume my real identity again. When will that happen? In twenty years? Thirty years? After thirty years of anonymity?
Heaving a sigh, I take a look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I’ll cut my hair, for sure. Maybe dye it. Would I still wear colored contacts? Hide my violet eyes?
What name would I use? Not my real name and not Charlie. Something new.
A month ago, when I thought about this—leaving all of my past behind and starting completely fresh—a feeling of exhilaration coursed through me. Like locks releasing, chains tumbling, and being able to just run without ever looking back. Now, though, now that it’s really happening—not as I had planned it but happening nonetheless—I somehow feel more trapped than before.
