It belonged to a resort in Tampa, some place called the Boca Loca. Was that helpful? I had no idea.
But I did know that someone had wanted their phone badly enough to sneak into my apartment. Or maybe they'd broken in. I didn't see any signs of forced entry, but I couldn't be sure.
I was too angry to be afraid. Had the intruder followed me back to my apartment? Or had he already known who I was, and where I lived?
Either scenario was disturbing. Had he gone through my drawers? Ogled me in the tub? Was I even ogle-worthy, given the week I was having? I tried not to think about it. If the intruder had wanted more than the phone, he'd had his chance.
For the second time that night, I debated calling the police. Once again, I imagined the 911 call. "Yeah, someone stole a phone. No, it wasn't mine. It was probably theirs to begin with. Nope, no sign of forced entry. No, nothing else was taken." No matter how I sliced it, calling the police seemed a bad idea.
But this did pose a problem. Now, I had to worry about securing my apartment and Crystal's too. Both of our apartments had doors leading to the alley landing. The store's alarm system didn't extend to the apartments. It hadn't been needed, until now.
I did have something at my disposal – a little Ruger that Bishop had insisted on buying for me all those years ago. It was stored just a few steps away, on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.
Way back when, I'd tucked it inside its original box, and then stuffed into an old milk crate, along with my high school yearbooks. Funny to think I had two more guns in Alabama. Some girls get jewelry for their birthdays. Apparently, I wasn't one of those girls.
But what did it matter? No matter what gun it was, I doubted I'd ever pull the trigger.
As Bishop had told me too many times to count, my own scruples would be the death of me.
Chapter 49
We'd been dating nearly a year when we had our first major fight.
Rather than going off to Florida State, I'd enrolled in the local community college, and convinced Bishop to join me. He hated every minute, and I had a sneaking suspicion that other than the few classes we took together, he wasn't exactly diligent about attending.
I talked him into getting a cell phone, and he talked me into getting a gun. Technically, the gun was a gift, since he was the one who paid for it.
We were also spending lots of time at the shooting range, this outdoor place where Bishop knew the owner. It never did me much good, but I did enjoy watching him.
He was an amazing shot. I wasn't. But that was okay. To be fair, I probably took his stuff just as seriously as he took mine. So, we struck an uneasy compromise. He sucked at school. I sucked at shooting. And by unspoken agreement, we never fought about it.
Until that one night.
It was just after ten o'clock one Saturday night in April. I was camped out doing homework in that storage room, which I'd transformed into a bedroom of sorts, complete with a double brass bed, small night stand, and big antique dresser.
Crystal was off at some psychic fair, and Bishop was off in Detroit, working security for one of Lawton's fights. Although I missed him like crazy, being alone in the building didn't really bother me. I had a mountain of homework and a mystery novel that was just begging to be read, so I planned to make the most of the solitude.
I'd just cracked open the novel when I heard something – a scraping sound coming from the coffee area. Sprawled on my bed, I grew absolutely still, sure I was hearing things. But then I heard it again, this time longer and just a little bit louder.
Slowly, I sat up. I had locked the coffee shop doors. I was sure of it. The store didn't have an alarm system, but the building was old and brick. Except for the windows, the place was practically a fortress.
Moving as silently as I could, I rose from the bed and made my way to my bedroom door. It was open just a crack, and I peered through the opening, scanning the dimly lit book room.
I saw nothing out of the ordinary. But I did hear something, another scrape, followed by the sounds of shattering glass.
My heart hammering, I quietly shut my bedroom door and twisted the lock into place. I dove for my cell phone and dialed 911, whispering a frantic plea for help as soon as the dispatcher answered. After disconnecting, I didn't know what else to do. So I huddled up next to my bed and speed-dialed Bishop.
When he answered, I said in a hushed tone, "Someone's in the shop. What should I do?"
His voice was low and urgent. "You call the police?"
"Yeah. They're sending someone."
"Good. Now grab your gun."
My voice was quaking. "I don't have it."
"Why the hell not?" he said. "Where is it?"
"I dunno," I whispered. "It's upstairs somewhere, maybe in that crate with my yearbooks. I'm not sure."
"Son-of-a-bitch," he said. "You think I bought you that so you could stick it in a fuckin' crate and call it good?"
His words felt like a slap. I wanted to cry, whether from pure fear or the harshness of his words. He had never talked to me like that, not even once. But this wasn't the time to dwell on it. From somewhere in the coffee shop, I heard another crash.
"What was that?" he said.
"I don't know." I swallowed. "Should I go look?"
"Fuck no," he said. "Where's Crystal?"
"Gone. To a psychic fair."
His voice was ragged. "You're there by yourself?"
"Yeah."
Another crash sounded, and I gave a little gasp.
"Selena?" he said, his voice raw. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You locked that door, right?"
"My bedroom door? Yeah."
"Good. Now push the bed in front of it."
"But they'll hear me."
"Just do it," he said. "And then the dresser."
My voice was trembling. "But it won't stop them."
His voice grew eerily calm. "Baby, it'll stop them long enough. You got your phone. You got me. The cops will be there any minute. You'll be alright. Now set down the phone, and do it. Alright?"
Somehow, his quiet tone calmed me too, at least a little. "Okay," I said, dropping the phone onto my bed. And then, crouching beside it, I shoved the bed hard toward the door, wincing as the scraping sound of metal on wood echoed through the small room.
Almost immediately, I heard steps just outside my door. The doorknob rattled, and a male voice called out, "Who's in there?"
I dove for the dresser and gave it push toward the bed. It was so big, and so heavy, it only budged a foot or two. "Go away!" I called, pushing harder. "The police will be here any second!"
I gave another shove, putting everything I had into it. Finally, the dresser practically slammed into the bed, providing a double-barrier against the door.
"Shit," the guy said, calling out to someone, "The cops are coming."
A new voice joined the first. "Nah. She's bluffing."
"I'm not bluffing!" I called. "Get the fuck out of here. Now!"
"You're awful mouthy for someone hiding in a room," the first guy said.
"Yeah," the second guy said. "Come on out. We'll be nice."
The first guy laughed. "Yeah, we'll be real nice."
Logically, I knew it had only been a minute or two since I'd called the police. And yet, it seemed like it was taking forever.
"What do you want?" I called through the door.
"I don't know," the first guy said. "Come on out. We'll take a look at ya."
A burst of laughter followed this statement, and the second guy said, "Yeah. Open up."
A voice coming from my phone drew my attention. Bishop. I dove for the phone and picked it up. He was speaking frantically. "Selena! You there?"
"Yeah," I whispered.
"Get under the bed," he said. "Right now."
"Why?"
"So you don't get shot, that's why. And for fuck's sake, quit talking to them! It only lets them know where you are."
Silently, I crawled under the bed,
ignoring whatever the guys were saying. And then, the kicking started. The door was old and thick, made of solid oak. I thought the door itself would hold, but about the hinges, I wasn't so sure.
The first guy was calling to me. "Where'd you go? Come on, say 'hi' or something!"
Still clutching the phone, I said nothing.
Again, the kicking started. The sound was deafening in the small room, and I realized I was crying. On the phone, Bishop was going nuts. Whatever he was saying, I could barely understand, much less hear him, with all the racket just a few feet away.
And then, the kicking stopped. I heard a new sound, something that made my stomach churn and eyes squeeze shut – the cocking of a gun.
Chapter 50
A split-second later, a gunshot exploded somewhere above my head. I heard myself whimper as I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to throw up.
My ears were ringing, and Bishop was raging. I hardly knew what he was saying, because the door was rattling again. "Shit," the first guy said. "Hit it again."
I braced myself, waiting for the sound of another gunshot. But it never came. Instead, I heard a quick thud, followed by another, and then a smashing sound that rattled the door against its hinges. This was followed by dead silence, except for Bishop, going crazy on the other end of the phone.
"Selena!" he was yelling. "Talk to me! You okay?"
I clutched the phone. "Yeah," I whispered. "Something happened."
His voice was a strangled choke. "What?'
"I don't know."
My stomach was churning, and I peeked toward the slim crack under the door. My room was still lit, but out there, it had gone utterly dark. Tentatively, I reached out, looking for what, I don't know. And then I saw it, a spot of red, creeping under the door.
Blood?
"I think I'm gonna be sick," I said.
"Why?" he said. "What happened?"
My voice was shaky. "I feel blood. At least I think it's blood."
His voice was ragged. "Yours?"
"No. Not mine."
"Thank God."
To my infinite relief, I heard sirens. The sound grew louder. "The police are here," I said. "I'll call you back, okay?"
Before he could respond, I disconnected the call and set aside my phone.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing with a couple of uniformed officers, looking down at the two bodies – two big guys in dark clothes. They weren't dead, at least that's what the police said after checking their pulses. But they didn't look too good.
One guy's face was a mess of blood, like he'd been slammed, face-first, against something. The other guy's hair looked gooey with red. The police had already called an ambulance.
"What happened to them?" one of the officers asked.
I shook my head. "I have no idea."
The officer's gaze drifted to something lying a few feet away. That old baseball bat that I kept by the register. He walked over to it. "Is this yours?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah, but it's normally by the cash register."
"Weird," he said.
An hour later, the place was quiet. It was late. I didn't know what to do, or where to go. Probably, I should have packed up and gone to my dad's. But I couldn't exactly leave the store unattended, and Crystal would be back eventually.
I found some old lumber in the basement and was doing a half-assed job of nailing the boards across the broken window when a vehicle squealed into the parking lot.
I looked up. It was Bishop's Nova, which he was still restoring. The vehicle had barely stopped when I saw him bolt out of the driver's side and sprint toward the store. I threw open the door and met him halfway, falling into his arms, flooded with such relief that I wanted to cry.
Detroit was two hours away, and yet somehow, he'd made the drive in nearly half that. I didn't even want to think of the traffic laws he must've broken along the way.
His voice was a strangled choke, "You're okay." He squeezed me so tight I could barely breathe. "Baby, I was so worried."
Nodding, I burrowed into his embrace.
He pulled back and looked toward the store, his gaze traveling from the smashed window and back to my face.
"Apparently," I said in a shaky voice, "ours was the third store they hit. They didn't expect anyone to be here, so, I dunno." I shrugged against him. "Who knows what they were thinking."
His voice was fierce. "I knew exactly what they were thinking."
"I dunno. Maybe." I pulled back. "But the weirdest thing. We couldn’t figure out what happened to them. It was almost like they turned on each other or something."
Wrapping his arm over my shoulder and pulling me close, he started leading us toward the store. "No," he said. "That wasn't it."
I stopped moving and turned to look up at him. "Really? How do you know?"
"I know," he said, "because I called in a favor."
"What sort of favor? From who?"
"My brother."
"Who?" I asked. "Lawton?"
"No. Jake."
I guess it made a weird kind of sense. Jake was still living with Bishop's dad. By car, it was less than two minutes away.
"So what'd he do?" I asked.
"He busted their skulls, made it look like an accident."
I shuddered. "That's some accident."
"He should've killed them," Bishop said.
Knowing Jake's reputation, I was almost surprised he hadn't. "Why are you telling me this?" I said.
"As opposed to letting you think it all worked out on its own?"
"No. As opposed to making me drag the whole story out of you."
"You wanna know why?" he said. "It's because you need to know that if it weren't for dumb luck, you'd probably be dead by now."
"Oh c'mon," I said. "I would not." At least, I hoped not.
"You don't think?" His face was deathly pale. "What if Jake hadn't been around? What if the police never showed? What if those guys had gotten in?"
"I don't know," I said. "But none of that happened, so–"
His voice rose. "What if instead of looking at you, touching you –" His voice choked. "–what if I'd come back to find you dead?" He reached out, squeezing my arms in a death grip. He shook me, hard. "What then?"
I pulled away. "Stop it!"
"No!" he said. "Enough bullshit. I'm not gonna stop it. I'm not gonna lose you. Not like that."
"You're acting like it's my fault." My voice rose too. "What do you think? I gave those guys a written invitation?"
"No," he said through gritted teeth. "I think you weren't careful. You were here by yourself. And your mom's so fucking stupid, she never locks the goddamn door."
"She does too," I said. "Most of the time." I glared up at him. "Wait a minute, did you just call her stupid?"
"When it comes to safety, she is stupid. And you're not much better."
"So now I'm stupid?"
"You're acting stupid."
"Why?" I said. "Because I'm not toting a gun around? Look at you," I said. "You're not as smart as you think you are either."
"Yeah. Why's that?"
"Because," I said. "Look at the thing with Russell."
"What about it?"
"Well, what if you'd been packing your gun then. I mean, as mad as you were, who knows what might've happened?"
He made a sound of derision. "What do you think? That' I'd shoot some unarmed frat guy who's drunk off his ass?"
"I'm just saying, you don't know what you'd do."
"Yes," he said. "I do. Because I did have my gun, and I sure as hell wouldn't pull it out for something like that."
"You did?" I said. "But I was with you that night. And I never saw it."
"What do you think? I'm gonna wave it around?"
"I never felt it either," I said.
"Yeah? Well maybe you weren't sitting close enough."
"But why do you need one at all?"
"After tonight, you've really gotta ask?"
"But tonight was a fluke,
" I said.
"Was it?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," he said. "Here's a fluke for you. Two of my brothers, they're dealers."
"Of what?"
"You don't wanna know."
"And living there?" he continued. "You know how many times I woke up to find some scumbag rummaging through our house? Then there's Jake. He's got some real interesting friends. And even more interesting enemies. You know I look like him, right?"
I felt myself nod.
"You know how many times someone thought I was him? Pulled a gun on me?"
My breath caught. "Really?" I said. "When? And where?"
"Last time," he said, "it was in my own fucking bedroom. You think I'm a good shot because I think it's fun?"
"I guess."
"Well, guess again," he said. "I'm a good shot because I sure as shit don't want to be sitting there, waiting for some loser to blow my brains out because they want drugs, or money, or because they think I'm one of my fucking brothers."
My eyes grew moist. "Is that why you stay here?"
His voice softened. "No." He reached out, pulling me into a desperate embrace. "Baby, I stay here because I love you. If something happened to me, what the hell would I care? But if something happened to you…"
Whatever he was about to say, he didn't. Instead, he clutched me tighter as his body shook against mine. "I can't lose you," he said. "You're everything to me. Everything."
That night, he held me in a death grip. And when dawn came, he started working on an alarm system. I don't know where he got the parts, or what design he was using, but within a couple of days, the store had one of the most advanced systems I'd ever seen.
As for my dresser, it now had a secret drawer packed with a .357 Magnum, loaded with hollow points.
Other than that, along with the Earth-shattering sex, my life was as normal as any nineteen-year-old girl's – or at least that's what I kept telling myself.
Chapter 51
The morning after Lucy's death and the disappearance of that strange cell phone, my head still throbbed, but the swelling had gone down. I replayed the night's events. Lucy was dead, I'd caught someone skulking around Edgar's house, and someone had broken into my apartment.
Illegal Fortunes Page 19
