by Julie Kriss
I watched him carefully. I’d dealt with snakes like Craig Bastien nearly all my life, and I knew how to read them. One, he was definitely not talking about a few TV’s crammed with Oxy—that part wasn’t blowing smoke. Two, he knew about the house and maybe some of the money. He didn’t know he was actually talking to a billionaire, a man who could buy and sell him—with all of his drug money—ten times over.
Because, like everyone else, he couldn’t compute Devon Wilder, ex-con, with a billion bucks. And right now, I didn’t want him to. Score one for me.
My best bet, right now, was to play along. “Go on,” I said.
“Aha.” Bastien grinned at me. “Everyone always caves at the money. While you were inside, I’ve been growing my business. Expanding, you know? It’s taken time, and a lot of skill on my part, but I’ve finally put this deal together. The biggest single shipment of heroin our harbor has ever seen. And it arrives in four days. This is going to put every single one of my competitors out of business and establish me in this city. In this state. It’s going to make me.”
“Sounds like you don’t need me,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” he replied. “I do. You’re the grandson of Graham Wilder, the former movie mogul. A respectable guy. You’re his heir. You live in Diablo. With you as an investor, the whole operation looks legit.”
I laughed. “You’re in dreamland,” I said. “I’m a con who just finished a stretch.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re gentry now. The only thing I’ve been missing in this operation is a cover that makes it look good to the cops. And that’s you.”
Was he fucking nuts? I didn’t look good to the cops.
Except, when they’d come to my house, they’d been polite and respectful. And then they’d left.
My money did that.
It was thin. I didn’t have any kind of relationship with the cops. But I thought about my neighborhood—Kenneth with his stupid dog, the IT guy, the producer, the old-school Playboy centerfold. You could hide a drug deal in Diablo, easy. On an everyday basis, unless they were called, the cops left those people alone.
“So what?” I asked Bastien. “We do it through my house?”
“The whole operation will be quiet,” he said. “We need to store the product before we distribute it. Somewhere the cops won’t look.”
“You want to store the city’s biggest-ever shipment of heroin in my house?” This guy was off his rocker.
“There will be people to handle everything,” he assured me, as if this wasn’t insane. “We’ll use vans that have cleaning company logos, gardening company logos, for cover. Rich people always have staff coming and going, am I right?”
I stared at him. My jaw had gone hard and my fingernails were quietly digging into my palms. “Is that it?”
He grinned again. “Not quite. There’s the small matter that I need to front a certain amount of cash to get a big job like this done, and I’m short. That’s where you come in.”
Right. This was the heart of it. This was why I’d been brought here, shown this little display, Craig Bastien lording it over Gray with Amy in his lap. He was trying to impress me. Because he needed money.
“How much?” I asked.
He grinned at me, but I could tell he was tense, saying the number. “I think three million should do it.”
On Bastien’s knee, Amy made a little sound of shock. Gray looked at his hands.
“Three million,” I said.
There was silence in the room, except for the fucking godawful stripper music. Everyone was waiting for me to say something. I looked around at them. No one thought I had that kind of money.
“I can probably get that,” I said, surprising all of them. “But what’s in it for me?”
Bastien found his voice. “It’s an investment.” He ran his hands up and down Amy again. She stared at me. “You’ll get your money back.”
“Sure,” I said. “No one’s used that line before.”
“You will. This is a big deal, my friend. A big deal. You get the money, you supply the house and the cover, and you’re in for a big cut. Your money back and a lot, lot more. You think you’re a rich man now? Partner with me, and you have no idea. No idea.”
As a sales pitch, it was pretty lame, except for the fact that I believed him. About the shipment, if not about my future life of riches. I could say no, tell him to go fuck himself. But something told me that stringing him along was the less dangerous option. The option less likely to get me—or anyone else—killed.
I looked in Amy’s lined, mascaraed eyes for a minute. I’d heard enough. “Four days,” I said.
“That’s when the ship comes in,” Bastien said. “Yessir.”
“Do I have a choice?” I asked.
Bastien looked at me. Then he looked at Gray for the first time. He looked back at me again. He still didn’t look at Amy. He laughed.
“We all think we have a choice, don’t we?” he said. “And we’re all so very, very fucking wrong.”
Nineteen
Olivia
On Friday night, they wanted me to stay late at work. And for the first time, I said no.
“I have plans,” I said.
Corey glanced at Mikael, the project manager, with a baffled look, as if he’d never heard of this. Mikael frowned. Corey turned back to me. “But we aren’t finished the mockups for the l’Orifice presentation.”
I gagged inside. L’Orifice was a high-fashion clothing brand that always featured models who looked hungry and miserable, modeling expensive clothes no one would wear. But I focused on logic, not on my revulsion. “The mockups aren’t due until next Wednesday.”
“But we have meetings before then,” Mikael said. “We need to get these mockups done.”
I gritted my teeth. “Then have fun,” I said. “But again, it’s Friday night. And I have plans.” I turned to my desk, opened the drawer, and pulled my purse out. “Good night.”
“Olivia,” Corey said, chiding. “This is a disappointment.”
I turned and looked at him. “I’ve been working here for nearly three years,” I said. “I’ve put in all the hours you told me to. I’ve worked hard. I’ve had no life. I haven’t had a raise, a promotion, or even a hint of either one. I haven’t even had a pat on the back. So don’t be surprised when I have something else to do.”
“You have to pay your dues to move up in this business,” he said.
“Then I’ll move up a week later than I’d planned,” I said to him. “Good night.”
It maybe wasn’t my best move. But suddenly, I didn’t care.
Still, after an exit like that, I was happy that when I flounced out the door and onto the street, I found my ride waiting for me.
Devon Wilder.
I hadn’t seen him since last weekend. Was it possible he looked even better than he had last week? It was hard to tell. He was parked across the street from Gratchen Advertising, in the Chevy I remembered from the night he picked me up from art class. He was standing waiting for me, leaning against the passenger door, his arms crossed. He wore jeans and a dark button-down shirt—casual, but beautifully made. He’d been buying new clothes.
He watched me come out the door, his green eyes never leaving me, the corner of his mouth smiling as I crossed the street, which was damp with rain. At the intersection, a woman nearly tripped over the curb, staring at him as she walked.
I stepped up close to him. “Hi,” I said.
He was preoccupied with something, I could tell. But he looked at me, and without a word he uncrossed his arms, cupped my face, and kissed me. Properly and deep. Right there on the street. I hoped everyone from Gratchen was watching.
He broke the kiss, but his hands still cupped my face. “Date?” he asked.
I shook my head, pressing against his palms. “Let’s order in.”
“Okay,” he said. “Get in.”
In Diablo, he showed me more of the house. It looked a little lived-in now, with clothes i
n the closets and a few dishes in the sink. He took me into the back yard, where we stood in the damp greenery, looking at the professional gardens that were starting to become overgrown. His grandfather’s contract with the landscaping company had expired. Then I followed him into the garage, where he showed me his grandfather’s old cars, including the classic Mercedes he’d fixed.
“These cars were just sitting here?” I asked him, running my hand along one of them.
“I know,” Devon said, watching me. Something was definitely bothering him, but I knew better than to pry it out of him yet—and whatever it was seemed to be slowly loosening its hold the more we talked. “It’s weird. The keys are hanging on a hook by the door. He just had these cars, which didn’t run, sitting in the garage of the house he never went to.” He looked around. “It seems like a waste.”
“Maybe he thought he’d get them running someday.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But he had all of this money, and all of these things, and my neighbor says he was lonely. My father was his only son, and he was a disappointment. His wife died young.”
“But there was you,” I said, turning and leaning against the car, crossing my arms. “And your brother. He could have contacted you, taken you in. He didn’t have to be lonely.”
Devon was quiet. He seemed to be thinking this over.
“It was a choice, Devon,” I said softly. “To not have connections. To be alone. To have an empty house with no one in it. To be that way all the way to the end of his life.”
Still he stayed quiet. This was one of the mysterious things I loved about Devon—his ability to stay silent when he wanted without the need to fill the air with words. Silence terrified most people. I had yet to come across a single thing that terrified Devon Wilder.
I glanced at the tattoo on his hand again, visible below the cuff of his shirt. No Time. Graham had chosen loneliness; it couldn’t be lost on Devon that he could choose it, too. He could end up the way his grandfather had. He was tough, solitary, an island. I could see it even now, as he stood in front of me, this man I’d shared more with than anyone else in my life. And now the money would isolate him further. I felt a soft pulse of worry deep in my gut, along with the throb of sexual attraction that never quit when Devon was anywhere in view. I hope he can be happy. I hope he finds a way.
“Are you going to find your brother?” I asked into the silence.
He shifted, tense, and put his hands in his pockets. “I’m hiring a detective agency,” he said. “I paid the retainer this week. Cavan has been hiding long enough. It’s time to track him down.”
“He really just vanished? You have no idea where he is?”
“He split after our mother died,” he said, the words a little short. “Let’s go inside.”
We didn’t even bother ordering in. We scrounged some bread and cheese from the kitchen, and found a bottle of wine in Graham’s wine cellar, and that was all we needed. We didn’t even get halfway through the wine before we ended up in Devon’s bed, pulling each other’s clothes off.
And it started again. The heat, the madness that always came over me when Devon touched me. I just needed his hands on my skin to turn into someone else, some Olivia I wasn’t familiar with, who dug her hands into Devon’s hair and bit his lip softly. I’d been a good girl for a week, but now I had this man—this big, sexy, muscled, complicated man—in bed with me, and I was done being good. I pulled up my work skirt and he took my invitation, sliding his fingers into my panties as he kissed me hard. I moaned and arched up into him, urging him to rub me harder.
After our last time, I’d found bruises on my skin. One on my inner thigh, now turning yellow. Two on my hips, in the shape of his fingerprints. There were red marks on my breasts from his teeth, and my skin had been tender and burned from his stubble. My lips had been raw, my bones sore, and I’d had aches in muscles I hadn’t even known existed. It hadn’t been tender, sweet lovemaking. I had gone to work aching, my clothes feeling harsh on my skin.
I had never felt more alive. I wanted more.
I unbuttoned his shirt, and he pulled it off so I could run my hands over his shoulders, his chest. He kissed me again, his mouth delicious and familiar on mine, and for a second I was so overwhelmed with it that I was almost afraid. Afraid of who I was, of who we were when we were like this. When he broke the kiss and pressed his mouth to my neck, undoing my blouse, I said, “Have you been with a lot of women?”
It took him a second to process the question. He paused and lifted his mouth from my neck. “What?”
My heart was pounding, my ears ringing. I wanted to slow down the panic, but at the same time I also wanted to know. He must have gotten all of this experience somewhere. “It’s okay if you have,” I said. “I just—I’d like to know. About you.”
He pulled back and looked at me, his green eyes bemused. But instead of scoffing or telling me to be quiet and get on with it, he answered the question. I felt my heart cave a little further in my chest.
“Not a lot,” he said. “A normal number.”
I bit my lip, looking up at him. “Was there anyone special?”
A muscle in his jaw tensed. “No.”
I was watching him closely, and I could feel every line of his body. He wasn’t lying. “So, you just dated, then,” I said.
That earned a short laugh. “Olivia, the time I took you to dinner is the only date I’ve ever been on.”
He wasn’t lying about that, either. I’d been on dates—too many dates. Boring, awkward dates that never seemed to end. Dates that appeared polite but were actually a negotiation for sex, namely that the man wanted sex and I didn’t. I tried to imagine how you did it without dates and couldn’t. “So, what then?” I asked him.
On top of me, Devon grew tense. He didn’t want to talk about this. “Okay,” he ground out. “You want to know the kind of woman I usually fuck?”
I blinked at him, not sure I did anymore.
“Waitresses,” he said. “Bartenders. Women drinking alone who come on to me. Strippers, occasionally. Divorced women who want a revenge fuck, and want it rough.” He looked in my eyes, challenging me. “That kind of woman.”
I opened my mouth, closed it again. He was trying to disgust me, turn me off. But all I could think of was that it sounded lonely. And that I may not have had the same experiences, but I knew how lonely felt, even when you were in bed with someone. I knew that feeling so, so well.
“I stopped,” Devon said, as if reading my mind. “I don’t know why, but I did. When I met you, I told you I was having one-handed sex. That was the truth.”
“I hadn’t had sex in eighteen months before you,” I said in a rush. “We’d been on three dates, and I knew he expected it. I barely even remember what he looked like. I just didn’t want to sleep alone.”
Something flickered across his eyes—understanding, maybe. Because even though we were so different, he knew. He leaned down and kissed me again, and then he broke the kiss, unbuttoning my skirt. “Forget those guys,” he said.
I lifted my hips so he could get the skirt off. “I told you, I already have.”
“Forget them more.” He tossed the skirt away and pushed up my cotton camisole, which I’d been wearing beneath a light sweater I’d long ago taken off. He ran his hands over my breasts, then pulled down my bra to expose my nipples. Then he lowered his head and sucked one.
I arched my back, pressing up into him. The fear was gone. The past was gone. Everything was gone except for me, and him, and his hands on my skin. His teeth grazing my breast.
“Don’t…” I tried to form words, to say what I wanted. “Don’t be gentle,” I said.
One of his hands moved up and cupped the back of my head, then twisted powerfully but gently into my hair. He lowered his mouth to my ear. “You think I don’t know what you want?” he said to me, low and dirty. “You think I can’t tell exactly what makes you crazy? What makes you come? How you like me to touch you?” His hand twisted harder, hi
s other hand pulled my bra down further, and I moaned, wrapping my legs around his thighs. “I know exactly what to fucking do,” he said. “I know exactly how you fucking like it. And it’s just the way I like to fuck.”
I pushed up harder into him, wrapping my legs around him, and sunk my teeth into the hard, hot skin of his shoulder. “Do it,” I panted.
He did. He took my clothes off. He pushed my legs apart. He used his big, hard, body, his expert hands, his incredible mouth. His big, blunt cock. He pulled me to pieces and made me sore all over again. And when I came, it was like white-hot fire twisting through me, burning me until I could feel nothing but flames.
Twenty
Olivia
Saturday was chilled and rainy, and we spent it together, sometimes in bed, other times on the sofa in the living room at the side of the house, overlooking the deck. We put the TV on and I lay next to Devon’s big, sprawled body, watching lazily as he read through endless sheafs of paper.
He was, I discovered, reading everything there was to know about his new situation—what he owned, what the different kinds of investments meant, when they were bought, what they were worth. It was how he’d spent his week. On the surface it looked like a greedy accounting, a tallying of his money, but I already knew Devon well enough to know that was the last thing he was doing. He’d been given, without asking, a massive amount of wealth he didn’t understand. So his first self-appointed task was to understand it.
I was no help. I knew a little about acting residuals from my mother, but as far as complex money matters went, I had no idea. I was an art school dropout. Devon was a getaway driver and a mechanic, but as we lay on his sofa hour after rainy hour, his green eyes focused on page after page, I started to get the idea that he was more than that. That he could be more than that. Once Devon Wilder was not only rich, but understood everything about his wealth, there would be no stopping him.
Something was bothering him, though. There was a shadow behind his eyes, and when he thought I wasn’t looking, he’d get a look of deep concentration, as if he was thinking through a puzzle he didn’t much like.
