by K. A. Tucker
“What are you doing?” She’s trying to sound casual about it, but it’s impossible. I can almost see the wave of shock as it ripples through her.
“Who’s Sam?” I can’t keep the bite from my tone.
She blanches, her mouth opening to tremble for a second. “You talked to Sam?” Her jaw clamps shut instantly as if she didn’t mean to say that out loud. There’s undeniable fear in her voice and my anger wavers as worry courses in.
So Sam does exist. And she’s afraid of him. “I don’t know, Charlie. The man I just talked to said he was your father but he wouldn’t give his name. So is your father Sam or George?” I can tell by her screwed-up face that she’s trying to process the logic behind my words. I sigh. “You were talking about tobogganing with your dad last night. You called him ‘Sam’ but your dad’s name is George. So . . .”
She averts her eyes to dart around the office, searching for something. An answer. Or an escape. Her eyes suddenly widen as panic flies through them. “Did you give him your name?”
“Yes, I did,” I answer calmly.
Somehow, her face pales even more. “Why?”
“Why not, Charlie? Why wouldn’t I?”
Her head shakes back and forth, ridding itself of panic and fear and . . . everything. “You had no right going through my things or answering my phone.”
Standing, I gently place the phone back in the purse. “I guess not.”
I turn my back on her and walk out to the club.
■ ■ ■
“Some people need sleep,” John mutters groggily.
“Then don’t sleep with your phone by the bed,” I retort.
With a loud groan, followed by a coughing fit that leaves me cringing at the sound of morning phlegm in John’s lungs, my P.I. demands, “What do you need?”
“Is there any chance that her ID is fake?”
“I assume you mean Charlie?”
“Yes,” I snap with impatience. When I came back to my office after half an hour, Charlie was gone. She took either a bus or a cab, because she didn’t have her truck here.
I have half a mind to drive over to her place and force the truth out of her. I can’t bring myself to do it yet, though.
“It’s damn solid if it is. She’s got a valid passport, birth certificate . . . everything. Maybe it’s a stolen ID. You’d need a ton of cash and major connections to pull that off.”
“But it’s possible.” Is everything that I know about Charlie a lie? Has she been lying to me all this time?
His heavy exhales blows into the phone. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay. Can you see what else you can dig up on Charlie Rourke? Old school pictures, gymnastics pictures, anything. And find out if there’s anyone by the name of ‘Sam’ in her life.”
“Will do.”
I hang up. I stare at my phone, the lump in my throat choking. I want to call her. But, right now, I’m pissed off, too.
More, though, I’m something I haven’t felt in years.
I’m hurt.
chapter thirty-two
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CHARLIE
I knew it was coming.
I’ve sat on a park bench overlooking the water for hours, staring out at all the people who live their own lives, who worry about paying their rent and what bar they’re going to go to on the weekend.
Waiting for my phone to ring. And now it’s ringing, the display reading “unknown caller.”
He’s anything but unknown.
My stomach twists into knots as I answer.
“Hello, little mouse.”
“Hi.” I’m still shocked that he called my phone. It’s registered under “Charlie Rourke” and I’m sure he’s using a burner phone, but still, he’s breaking one of his rules.
“How are things?”
“Good.”
“Good. The weather’s lovely at home.” Small talk. Sam always did like to keep it simple.
“It’s nice here, too.”
“Good, good.” There’s a pause. “I need you to check your email.”
My stomach drops.
“What?” No . . . I didn’t hear that right. It’s been only a few weeks. I was supposed to have months, or longer. Or forever. “I thought we were laying low.”
“We were. The problem has been resolved.”
What? “No!” I take a deep, shaky breath. I’ve never said no to Sam. Ever. “I mean . . .”
“Is there something wrong?” There’s a long pause. “Is this because of Cain?”
He may as well have reached through the phone and torn my insides right out of my body.
Now Sam has Cain’s name. How long before he has more? “No.” My hand has never shaken as badly as it does now. I don’t even have the steadiness to push it through my hair.
Why did Cain have to do that? Why? I had to fight the gasp from escaping my mouth today when I came out to find my phone in his hand and that strange, inexplicable look on his face. It was like a punch to my stomach.
And then he started questioning me, as I’ve dreaded him doing for weeks. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, so . . . I turned it all back on him. As if he were to blame for all this.
I could tell he was angry with me. Worse, by the look in his eyes, I could tell he was hurt. When he turned his back on me and walked out, I did the only thing I could think of. I walked out to the street and hailed a taxi.
“Does he know . . .” Sam’s voice trails off, deceptively calm.
“No!” That comes out strong and fast and unmistakable. “Nothing.”
“Then how did he have my name?” Suspicion. I hear it dripping from his voice. He thinks he caught me in a lie.
“I was drunk. I let your name slip. It was something harmless, though, about birthdays and—”
“Nothing is harmless!” he snaps, and I flinch. With a breath, he adjusts his tone, though there’s no mistaking the ice. “You are down there for a reason. You will do what I ask and you will follow the rules! And, if you don’t feel that you owe it to me for giving you all that you have, then do it for your friend’s sake because, if I have to come down there, I’ll make sure he isn’t causing me any more problems. Do you understand?”
Dread seizes my lungs. Somehow I don’t think a simple conversation with a teenage boy—as he most likely had with Ryan Fleming—is what Sam has in mind now. “Okay,” I manage to get out in a raspy voice.
“Good thing, little mouse. Right away.” The line goes dead.
Quickly logging in to the Gmail account, I find the draft folder. Sure enough, the instructions are there.
Ten tonight. Eddie and Bob. Fuck . . . Bob. How is that going to go? I have to hope he realized his own mistake after he sobered up. Maybe he’ll apologize?
Maybe I’m the biggest moron in the world.
I have to get out of work tonight. I wonder if Cain even wants me there anymore.
If Sam gets hold of him, he’ll wish I’d never walked through his door.
■ ■ ■
I never noticed how heavy that black door at the back of Penny’s is.
I could have just phoned Cain. Or texted him.
And yet here I am, walking toward it, aching to see him, ready to crawl on my knees to beg his forgiveness. I can’t think much beyond right now, except that I need to see Cain. And that I’ll be doing the drop tonight, to make Sam happy. To find some reprieve.
After that . . . I can’t think about it. I know what needs to happen and I just can’t face it right now.
On the third knock, the door opens and Nate’s giant body fills the doorway. His face immediately splits into a wide grin when he sees me. Hope sparks. Maybe Cain doesn’t hate me after all. If Cain hated me, Nate would know about it.
I walk down the hall toward Cain’s office, butterflies stir
ring, preparing to give an award-winning performance on deathly female cramping—complete with hands pressed against abdomen and hunching over. That’s the only thing I can think of and, given that my period is due any day now, it should work well.
I push open the door to find China, with her skirt hiked up around her waist, straddling Cain’s lap on his chair, her lips locked onto his.
And the butterflies drop dead.
chapter thirty-three
■ ■ ■
CAIN
Fucking perfect.
I was one second away from forcefully removing a brazen China from my lap because she wouldn’t get off voluntarily—after leaping on, uninvited—when she decided to plant her lips on mine, crushing my dismissal.
And of course that’s the exact moment that Charlie would show up unannounced. Because that’s the kind of luck I have.
By her wide eyes and hanging jaw, I can tell that Charlie is both surprised and hurt.
And I can’t blame her.
In one quick motion, I remove China from my lap—trying not to shove her too hard as I push her off—and I stand, straightening out my pants. Charlie’s eyes drifting down tells me that the bulge in my pants is noticeable. Dammit! That wasn’t from China! That was because, while China was working on a basic math problem, I was eyeing the silver tie hanging on my door, remembering how I walked in to find Charlie wearing it—and only it—a few nights ago.
This is exactly why I should never have sex in my office.
Clearing her throat, her voice is strangely calm. “Sorry, I should have knocked. I came by to tell you I need the night off. I’m not feeling well.”
Not feeling well. Bullshit.
Neither am I. Fuck, China!
I stall. “What’s wrong, exactly?” Stupid question.
“Female issues.” Her eyes avert to the floor and I know without a doubt that she’s lying. But what can I say, except, “Sure, okay. I’ll drive you back to my place.”
“No. That’s okay.” She threw that one back fast. She begins to turn and my hand instinctively flies out, clasping onto her forearm. Not tightly, but enough to keep her there. “That wasn’t what it looked like, Charlie. I promise.”
She responds with a tight smile. Twisting out of my reach, she turns on her heels and briskly walks out. I hear the heavy exit door slam shut a moment later.
And that’s when I explode. “What the fuck was that?” I spin around and settle a deadly glare on China, who has the decency to keep her eyes on the ground as she bites her lip. “What made you think that would be okay?” Picking up my glass from my desk, I swig back the last mouthful, those few seconds of emotion on Charlie’s face replaying in my mind. “Dammit, China!” The empty glass is sailing out of my hand and toward a far wall before I realize that I threw it. It detonates into countless shards.
I’ve never lost my temper like this with an employee, but, tonight, I can’t help it. I look like a more polished but equally slimy Rick Cassidy.
It takes me a moment to stop my shaking, and then I finally make myself turn around to face China again.
And my heart sinks.
There she is, backed into a corner behind my desk, trembling, her shoulders pulled in tight as she cowers. All color from her face has vanished. The China who works the crowd like she’s got puppet strings affixed to their backs is gone, replaced with a pitiful young girl whose father used to scream and throw dishes at her. Right before he raped her.
My hand flies over my mouth as I realize what I’ve done.
Shit.
“Christ . . .” I start to rush over but when she shrinks farther, I slow my steps, holding my hands up in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I approach her with extreme caution, until I’m close enough that I can wrap my arms around her shaking body and pull her against me, all while the thickness in my throat grows. I smooth her sleek black hair back with my hand as her tears start to flow, dampening my shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she offers between sobs, her voice so pitiful, so weak, so childlike. “I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy.”
“I know.” She needs to get back into therapy. She was doing so well. Then she started focusing on beating her learning disorder and she let the therapy part slip. She shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let that happen. China still needs professional help. And lots of it.
When she quiets but stays pressed against my chest, I ask, in as gentle a voice as possible, “What made you do that? We’ve already talked about this. I thought you understood.”
There’s a long pause, during which she reaches up to wipe away some tears. “I don’t know.”
“China.” Playing clueless has never suited her.
“I just thought you needed it.”
I heave a sigh and curse my fucking dick for starting this. The girl makes her money sniffing out hard-up guys with cash to burn. Hell, she’s got erection radar.
“What I need, ” I say as I pull China away from me to look directly into her pleading green eyes, “is for you to accept that I will never use you like that.”
She drops her gaze to my chest and nods. With pursed lips, she whispers, “Do you love her?”
Of course. I should have known that this is what it was about. I don’t avert my gaze as I say very slowly, “I don’t know yet. Maybe.”
She can’t keep the tears from welling in her eyes. “Why her, Cain? Why not me?”
Ahh . . . fuck me . . . I’m still angry with her but my pity trumps it. “I don’t know. These things are beyond our control, sometimes.” Pulling her to my body as she starts crying again, I mutter to myself, “I’m not sure it’s going to matter either way, now.”
I give her ten more minutes of my time.
And then I hand her off to Nate—who is not too happy about the prospect of a sobbing China on him—and I go after Charlie.
chapter thirty-four
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
I so badly want to pick up that phone.
My hand falters, picturing the other end pressed up against Cain’s stubble.
The slow but heavy rhythmic beat of my heart speeds up with thoughts of him, of what happened between us, of seeing him with China. He claimed it wasn’t what it looked like—and it looked like China was giving him a lap dance while her tongue was down his throat. I almost buckled, the sight like a punch to my stomach.
I feel like a fool.
Has that happened before, between them? Has that happened since he’s been with me? My arms curl tightly around my body at the crushing thought. Has he been lying to me this entire time?
Do I have a right to be angry with him, given all the ways in which I’ve lied to him?
Maybe Cain would be better off with China. Or a woman like China. Or anyone other than me, really. Anyone who wouldn’t be putting him in danger as I have, by being so selfish, and so stupid as to believe I could have a future with him. My cluster-fuck of a life feels ready to explode, right here in this gas-station parking lot.
I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. Cain would track me down and then I’d fall apart into a mess of sobs. Maybe I’d even be brainless enough to tell him everything.
And that would put him in real danger.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
chapter thirty-five
■ ■ ■
CAIN
“I hope you enjoy it,” the young woman behind the counter offers, flashing me a teasing smile as she hands the key lime pie to me, intentionally grazing my fingers. She’s pretty, but she can’t be more than eighteen years old and that’s way too young for me. Plus, I highly doubt I’m what she’s looking for, unless she has daddy issues.
“Thank you,” I offer politely. I don’t recognize her, but I haven’t been to this café in months. It has the best key lime pie in the
city and I’m on my way to see Storm. I don’t know what to do. Charlie’s not at her apartment, she’s not at my condo. She’s not answering her phone. I’m going out of my fucking mind.
As I walk out the front door and pass by the patio, I note the newly occupied tables.
A pretty doll face catches my eyes.
It’s Charlie’s twin.
She has the same nose, the same big brown eyes, the same wide mouth. Only her hair isn’t blond and curly, it’s jet black and long, like China’s. My feet slow of their own accord as I blink several times. I’ve finally lost it. I’ve finally become so obsessed with Charlie that I’m seeing her everywhere.
She’s hunched over at a table, sipping a lemonade, opposite a large graying man in a red golf shirt. I can’t see his face, but whatever he said must be funny because she tips her head back and laughs.
Just like Charlie does.
I know I should move on, but I stand there and watch as she slides that straw into her mouth for another drink, letting her eyes skitter over the tables around her, to a television up in the corner, to the walkway.
To me.
All the color drains from her face. Her jaw drops as recognition flashes in her eyes.
And I instantly know that I’m staring at Charlie.
chapter thirty-six
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
This can’t be happening.
Of all the places in the world for Cain to be right now, the goddamn café where I’m meeting Jimmy should not be one of them. This is beyond bad. The only thing that could make this worse is . . .
This.
My pulse begins pounding in my ears as I watch Cain step onto the covered patio. It takes everything in my willpower not to squeeze my eyes shut and pray. Pray that he’ll keep walking. That this is all an illusion. That Cain’s not really here. That I’ve finally gone crazy.
“Charlie, how are you?” His tone is so smooth, as if there’s nothing at all unusual about this situation. That I’m not at a café, wearing a wig, clearly trying to disguise myself, instead of at home with a hot water bag and a bottle of Midol. He’s used my name and there’s no inflection, so there’s no question. He recognizes me.
