Becoming Rain

by K. A. Tucker

  “Yeah, you do.” She drops her gaze down again. “Go shower.”

  “Join me?”

  She only smiles, snapping her fingers at Stanley. He trots over obediently. “Here.” She stands and tosses me a paper bag that was sitting beside her on the bench. “Your lunch for today, and tomorrow, and the next day . . . so you don’t have to eat that awful street meat.”

  I let my phone ring as I watch her walk down the path, those slow, sleek movements stirring my blood.

  Chapter 20

  ■ ■ ■

  CLARA

  “Good save on that, Bertelli,” Warner’s voice fills my ear as I walk along the path, not ready to go back to my condo yet.

  “Thanks.” I toss the ball for Stanley. For the hundredth time today. Somehow he still hasn’t lost weight.

  “I can’t believe he came right out and admitted to the bartender. Surprised me.”

  “Yeah, me too.” More like flabbergasted, actually. Criminals don’t admit to doing jerky things because criminals don’t realize that they’re in the wrong. Hell, almost any other regular guy would consider that a pass, seeing as we barely know each other. And yet Luke came right out with it, those beautiful baby-blue eyes staring at me in earnest.

  “What a fucking lie, though, that he didn’t bang that broad.”

  “Yeah.” But Luke was telling me the truth. I know it was the truth.

  What I can’t believe is that he could read me in the first place. That I walked in prepared to act like nothing was wrong, like I didn’t want to punch him in the face for the not-small twinge of disappointment stirring in my gut. That I couldn’t hide my true feelings. That I even have true feelings.

  “You played it up perfectly. Not too upset but just enough.”

  Played it up, that’s exactly what I did.

  And the massive relief I felt when he said he didn’t screw that whore? Also not real. Not at all.

  Chapter 21

  ■ ■ ■

  LUKE

  A Jaguar sits to my left and a high-end Volvo sits to my right.

  I’m not out of place here, I think to myself, smiling as I hit the “arm” button. My Porsche chirps. My fucking beautiful Porsche.

  Man, I’m so lucky to have Rust in my life.

  I stroll through the downtown parking lot, my keys swinging casually by my finger, a cover for the nervous knots twisting in my stomach as I head toward the building Aref instructed me to go to. I’ve talked to him several times since Sunday. Sometimes about business, other times just to shoot the shit. I can see why Rust likes him. I like him. For all the money he’s got and as arrogant as he is, he’s still a cool guy. And making the arrangements for this Ferrari? Piece of cake. I’ve done nothing besides make a few phone calls to Dmitri and Nikolai. There’s been virtually no risk to me.

  Not until now.

  “Gold Bonds,” I say to the security guard behind the desk, and he waves me through, directing me to the fourth floor without another look.

  I’ve never stepped inside a jewelry wholesaler business, so I don’t know if the security level is normal. All I know is that it’s tight. Four cameras, two armed guards, three bulletproof security doors, and one metal detector later, I’m heading down a narrow, sterile hallway to the office of Jerry Rosenthal.

  Anyone paying Aref, anyone taking money from Aref, gets it through this guy. He doesn’t do dark motel parking lot drops. He’s too classy—and too smart—for that. Apparently that’s been a bone of contention with the Russians, but the simple fact is they need Aref’s ships. He doesn’t need them for anything.

  “Sit.” Rosenthal waves his stubby hand toward to the chair across from him before dialing his phone. “He’s here,” he mutters into the phone. “Yes . . . okay.” Shrewd gray eyes glare at me. “Address?”

  I dig the folded sheet of paper out of my pocket and slide it across the desk. The one with detailed instructions to the garage where the Ferrari’s sitting, waiting to be driven into a moving truck trailer and taken away by Aref’s guys. They’re already in the general neighborhood, but Rust told me not to hand over the address until I was sitting in front of Rosenthal. Just in case. This is our first deal like this with Aref and, while I don’t think he’s going to screw us over . . . I’m going to trust Rust.

  Rosenthal reads the address and then throws the page in the shredder and hangs up.

  “What now?”

  “Now . . .” He strums his fingers, each one decorated in a gaudy gold ring, an unfriendly look on his face. “. . . we wait for the phone call.”

  I let my eyes wander over his desk, which is clear except for one neat stack of papers in the top-right corner and a strange metal contraption with various metal rings hanging off it. I can’t help but eye it, thoughts of mobsters and cigar cutters and missing fingers flashing through my mind.

  “Give me your hand,” he demands abruptly.

  As much as I don’t want to, I don’t know what else to do, so I humor him. He picks up that weird metal thing and slips one ring over my fourth ringer. “You’re a size eleven. Would you like to see the latest wedding bands that just arrived?”

  “Only if they come with a noose.”

  Finally . . . his face breaks out in a wide smile, displaying a gap between his middle front teeth. “Okay, okay.” Rolling over to a wall panel, he punches in a few buttons and a lock pop sounds. Pushing open a hidden display case full of gold and diamonds, he says, “How about a piece of jewelry for a lovely woman? You must have one. Or two.”

  This guy is unreal. Is this what he does while waiting for drops to take place? I open my mouth to decline his offer when a particular piece catches my eyes.

  “Ahh . . . of course.” How he knows exactly what I’m eyeing I have no idea, but the little man stands—and he truly is little; I’m guessing five-foot-two—and seizes the necklace from its hook. “One flawless carat in each. White gold, rhodium-plated.”

  The mention of rhodium reminds me of the pile of catalytic converters back at the warehouse. I know it’s worth a lot. Rosenthal dangles the necklace in front of me, letting it sway back and forth, the sparkling raindrops almost hypnotic.

  I’m picturing it around Rain’s slender neck. “How much?”

  “Ten.”

  I laugh. “What’s that, a five hundred percent markup?” Rust filled me in on this guy before I got here. While he runs a legit wholesaler’s business, that doesn’t mean he buys completely legit. A good chunk of his stock is coming from smuggled inventory at 50 percent less than what’s considered market standard.

  “What are you saying? That I’m trying to rip you off?” That sour look has returned.

  Trying to rip me off is exactly what he’s doing, but I need to be careful. He’s still holding our money. “No, I’m saying that I didn’t come in here to spend ten grand for a necklace.”

  He hangs the necklace back up, but I know he’s going to come back with a lower offer. This is all negotiation 101. Before he does, we’re interrupted with ringing. He’s on the phone for all of three seconds, long enough to say, “Hello . . . Okay.” Punching a code into a safe behind his desk, he pulls out an overstuffed manila envelope and drops it on the desk, sliding it across. Stacks of money sit inside. Stacks that will earn Dmitri’s wide grin, no doubt.

  Hell, I’m grinning because some of this is mine. Handler’s fee, Rust calls it. I glance at the necklace again, hung so intentionally front and center. I wonder how Rain would react to that? She’d probably tell me I’m fucking crazy. I’ve known her for only a few weeks. We’ve barely kissed. But it’d be a good gift down the road, maybe. “How much are you really going to sell that to me for?”

  He twists his mouth tight. And then smirks. “Only because you’re a good friend of Aref . . . two.”

  I dig the cash out and slap it on the table. “Now that’s more reasonable.”<
br />
  He has the jewelry wrapped and packaged in under a minute, certificate of authenticity and everything. When I walk out of there, it’s with a smile and a handshake and an “until next time.” I make it all the way past the last security door before my smile falls off abruptly.

  Vlad is here.

  His eyes widen in surprise, and then narrow as they drop to the messenger bag hanging over my hip, where I’ve tucked away a shitload of cash. “What are you doing here?”

  I should probably bite my tongue, but I don’t like the way he’s talking to me. It makes my brass balls come out. “None of your fucking business.” What am I doing here? What is he doing here!

  He takes a step closer, the smell of black coffee and salmon assaulting my nose. “Why are you here?”

  I decide that starting a pissing contest with this guy isn’t the best idea. “Buying my girlfriend a necklace.” I pull the long, slender box out of my jacket pocket and hold it up as proof.

  The way he pushes his tongue over his teeth, he doesn’t seem too impressed with my explanation. “How’s the Ferrari?”

  Shit. Has he truly figured out that we went through Aref to move it? “Don’t know what Ferrari you’re talking about. I have a Porsche. And it’s awesome.” I stroll past him, out the door.

  Feeling his eyes on my back the entire time.

  I don’t trust that guy at all.

  Chapter 22

  ■ ■ ■

  CLARA

  An incoming text message wakes me up. I paw at my nightstand, squinting to read my screen through one eye.

  What are you doing today?

  It’s Luke. Suddenly I’m wide awake and sitting up.

  Gym. Shopping. No big plans. Why?

  Road trip?

  I smile.

  Where?

  Into the mountains.

  My glee gives way to wariness. Into the mountains? Kind of random. Unless . . . Knots begin to form in my stomach. Has someone tipped him off? Will this end with a bullet in my head? Things a normal person doesn’t have to worry about, but I have to make sure that I don’t ever forget. Not for a minute.

  I’ll need some more information about these mountains of yours.

  I have to check out a car.

  To buy?

  To sell.

  My sheets fall away from my body as I crawl out of bed, frowning at my phone. To make sure I’m reading it right. What? Does he mean . . . Could he be this stupid? This trusting of me? A slow, sinking burn ignites in my chest. It’s not curiosity or excitement, like what I normally feel when I’m about to nail someone to the wall.

  It’s disappointment. He’s about to prove the Feds right. He’s about to prove to me that he’s a criminal. But that’s what I’m here for, I remind myself. He is what he is. It doesn’t matter how nice he is, or how attractive, or how he makes me feel.

  I quickly punch out:

  I like road trips.

  Great. Pick you up in an hour.

  Where EXACTLY are we going?

  This podunk town in the interior. Called Sisters.

  I immediately dial Warner’s number, my resignation already taking over whatever stupid fantasies my subconscious may have spun about all this being a big mistake. There’s no thrill in my voice. “Get dressed. You won’t fucking believe it.”

  ■ ■ ■

  “I just had it washed, too,” Luke grumbles, deftly steering his Porsche around the potholes as we crawl up the old dirt driveway. “They need to pave this, or some shit.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would cost,” I say, not really listening. Too busy taking in the line of trees ahead on this mile-long drive to somewhere unseen. High mountain peaks create a striking background for the vast acreage of fields and trees surrounding us. “Stop for a sec?” I ask, rolling down my window.

  He does, and I aim my lens out to capture the view. My instincts tell me that, no matter how this all ends, this picture—full of beauty and tranquility and peace—is one I’ll pull out many years from now, with fond memories. “Who did you say lives out here?”

  “A good friend of mine named Jesse. He used to be my roommate.” Rounding the bend, we stop in front of a farmhouse with a big front porch and an old swing that sits empty, save for a colorful quilt stretched across the back. A dog lies at the top of the stairs, his chin resting on the wood as he takes us in, whiskers twitching but otherwise unmoving. “They’ve done some work around here.” Luke’s eyes graze the matching red roofs over the house, garage, and barn.

  A row of cars sits in front of the large barn, the shiny black muscle car and dingy yellow farm truck so odd next to each other. Corrals and fence lines stretch out behind as far as the eye can see.

  The sound of horses pounding against dirt pulls my attention to our right. “Do they live here?” I point out the two little girls on the backs of galloping thoroughbreds. Several other horses nibble peacefully on the fresh spring grass.

  “No. They board horses here.”

  I trail Luke to a garage, inhaling the fresh air, absorbing the tranquility. The peace I don’t often find in my life. “It’s beautiful out here.”

  Luke’s eyes are hidden behind a pricey pair of sunglasses, but I feel them studying me all the same. “If you like this sort of thing.”

  Does he not? Does he want a city girl whose nose twitches at the sight of a horse? Not sure what to say, I finally go with, “You have to admit, it’s nice to visit, at least.”

  Slowing his footsteps, he reaches back long enough to give my hand a squeeze. “It is really nice to visit.” Letting go, he cups his hands around his mouth and booms, “Welles!”

  A clang sounds, followed by a few curses, and then a moment later, a young guy with a red-and-black checkered shirt and worn jeans streaked with black emerges.

  “Boone.” He sticks a dirty hand out.

  Luke laughs. “Get the fuck away from me before you wreck my clothes, you gearhead.” Reaching under the back of his shirt to produce a thick envelope that I didn’t know was there, he slaps it in the guy’s palm.

  My stomach tightens. I know an envelope of cash when I see it. And lots of it. Now that I’ve seen it, it’s evidence. It’ll hold up in court. But what has Jesse done to earn that?

  “Never could stand getting dirty, could you?” Eyes so dark they look black settle on me, catching my breath for just a moment.

  “Rain, Jesse. Jesse, Rain,” Luke says by way of a quick introduction.

  “Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” Jesse holds his up in a blank-faced apology. I get the impression he doesn’t smile a lot. I’ve met guys like him before. They’re smart, hard to read. That tends to make them more dangerous for undercovers.

  And then his gaze drifts behind me and he lets out a loud whistle. “Uncle Rust finally gave in to your whining, did he?”

  “I earned it,” Luke corrects with a smirk.

  Exactly how, I’d love to ask, but I bite my tongue. He’s never said much about the recent “gift,” but by the way he gently shuts his doors and generally babies it, I can tell it’s a source of great pride on his part.

  “We can race,” Jesse suggests. So, I’m guessing the black Barracuda is his.

  “On these roads? Hell no. But I’ll let you play with it later. So?” He nods toward the garage.

  “Come see for yourself.” Jesse leads us in, a slight swagger in his step, suggesting he doesn’t have a care in the world. Or that he has everything he wants. Another glance around this ranch would make me believe it.

  At the far end of the spacious garage is an old pea-green Mustang, its engine out and in pieces beside it. Jesse and Luke stop in front of a Corvette with faded red paint and rust panels, its hood up, an array of tools lying all around.

  Are these stolen cars? Are they fixing up stolen cars? What exactly is g
oing on? A horse ranch with boarders and children coming in and out, and a small car theft ring in operation right here, out in the open with the doors rolled up? That doesn’t make any sense.

  Jesse leans in and cranks the engine. It comes to life in a loud purr.

  “Wow. Sounds a helluva lot better than before,” Luke exclaims, his face lighting up with childish excitement.

  “I’ll need another week, probably,” Jesse answers, offering the tiniest smile of pride. Even covered in black grease, he’s an attractive guy. And perhaps another criminal.

  “That’s fine.” Turning to me, Luke says, “Jesse’s somewhat of a god when it comes to engines.”

  “Is that who I think it is?” a female voice calls out. A few seconds later, a pretty blond rounds the corner and heads straight for Luke, throwing her arms around his neck in a friendly embrace.

  “Oh, man. Are you two dressing the same now?” Luke jokes, peering down at her red-and-black checkered jacket, that typical cockiness suddenly edged out and replaced with something soft. “This is what happens when you move out to the mountains, isn’t it?”

  “She keeps stealing my clothes,” Jesse mutters, but his eyes are twinkling as he takes her in, all pretenses of being aloof vanishing.

  Luke gestures to me. “Rain, this is . . .” He holds his hands out, palms up, in question. “How should I introduce you?”

  What?

  “Hi, Rain, I’m Alex.” She smiles and turns to face me, giving me full view of the thin scar that runs down the right side of her face, from temple to jaw. It’s a clean line, like that from a blade or a sharp piece of glass. Something she was slashed with. I avoid gawking openly at it by focusing on her eyes instead, the color a mesmerizing reddish-brown, reminding me of rich terra-cotta tiles.

  “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Alex stands behind Jesse, wrapping her slender arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Jesse may be complicit in something illegal, but they make a really cute couple. “What color are you going to paint this one?”