Cash Plays

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “It’s this case. It’s distracting me, eating up all my time, making the days blur together. I didn’t even realize today was Thursday.”

  “You’re not . . .” Carlos said, and left the sentence hanging.

  “God, no, of course not,” Dominic lied. He felt smaller than the ants crawling in and out of the weed-choked cracks in the sidewalk.

  “Okay. I’m gonna go reschedule the appointment. I’ll text you the details.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry, Carlos.”

  “Uh-huh.” Carlos hung up.

  “Fuck!” Dominic banged the side of his fist against the wall. The violent outburst drew frightened reactions from a few people nearby, and he shot them an apologetic grimace as he shook out his hand.

  Gambling excited and empowered him in a way he craved relentlessly, but it also made him feel this—this thick, noxious shame, like choking on bitter smoke, when he hurt the people he loved.

  Jesus Christ, what was he doing? He’d left work in the middle of the day to gamble. He’d been ignoring calls from Carlos, Levi, his mother, his siblings. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than five hours, and he didn’t know if he’d eaten today.

  He needed to tell someone. But the thought of Levi knowing he’d relapsed made him physically ill. If letting Carlos down made him so sick with self-loathing that he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, how could he survive seeing that disappointment in Levi?

  Besides, he was in too deep with the gambling ring now. He’d committed to this course of action, and if he gave up before he accomplished his goal, everything he’d done would have been for nothing. He had to go tonight and schmooze Volkov so he could lock down the invitation to the poker tournament Jessica had promised him.

  His original plan had been to quit gambling again once the case was over, and he could still do that. He just had to be more careful and make sure things didn’t spiral out of control in the meantime.

  Once Jessica was safe and Volkov and Williams were in jail, then—then he would tell Levi everything.

  Dominic was shrugging into a sports coat when a key sounded in his apartment door. Rebel started dancing around before Levi even walked inside.

  “Levi,” Dominic said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I called you a couple of times.” Levi crouched to greet Rebel with an ear scratch.

  “I turned my phone off.”

  After his sobering conversation with Carlos, Dominic had gone back to the office and worked all afternoon. He’d shut off his cell so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it to gamble, and he’d installed a filter on his work computer that prevented him from accessing gambling sites.

  Rising to his feet, Levi said, “Have you had your phone off all fucking week?”

  “I’ve been busy.” Dominic’s skin itched with impatience as he looked at the clock on his cable box. Volkov was expecting him soon—Levi couldn’t have picked a worse night to surprise him. “You can’t keep showing up here unannounced.”

  “Isn’t that the reason you gave me a key?” Levi gave him a once-over. “Where are you going?”

  Levi looked like a hot mess, Dominic realized. His suit was wrinkled like he’d worn it two days in a row, his eyes were shadowed with purple bruises, and a fine layer of stubble dusted his angular jaw. Despite Dominic’s irritation at the wrench that had been thrown into his plans, a surge of instinctive protectiveness rose inside him.

  “It’s not important.” He stepped forward, gathered Levi in his arms, and gave him a gentle kiss before meeting his eyes. “Hi.”

  Levi slumped against his chest. “Hi.”

  They kissed languidly for a few minutes, entangled in a tight embrace. It felt good to hold Levi again, to feel that wiry strength pressed against his body, to bury his face in Levi’s hair and inhale the scent of Levi’s shampoo. Dominic had missed him fiercely.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so out of touch,” Dominic said. It had been shitty for him to keep blowing Levi off; he’d just been afraid that Levi would figure out what was going on if they spent too much time together.

  “It’s fine. I know you have things to do. But . . .” Levi exhaled a shaky breath.

  Dominic traced a thumb over his cheekbone. “What’s wrong?”

  “The money Bryce was paid for Barton’s murder was traced back to the Barclay Foundation. Specifically, to Stanton himself.”

  “What?” Dominic said, taking an incredulous step back.

  Levi told him everything, up to and including his painful confrontation with Stanton this morning. By the time Levi finished, they were sitting on the couch and Dominic’s head was swimming.

  He agreed with Levi that Barclay couldn’t be the Seven of Spades, though not because he shared the same faith in the man himself. He was familiar with every instance of communication between Levi and the killer, and never once had those interactions included the slightest sexual or romantic overtones. Barclay was massively hung up on Levi, and there were some things even a wily serial killer wouldn’t be able to hide, not for this long.

  Besides, although Barclay had been polite the one time they’d met, Dominic knew the man hated his guts. If Barclay were the Seven of Spades, he’d be leaving Dominic booby traps rather than witty little gifts.

  “I just feel like shit about the way I treated him,” Levi said, tipping his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes.

  Petty though it was, Dominic was annoyed that Levi was so worked up about this—because he knew it was only a function of the guilt Levi felt over the way his relationship with Barclay had ended. Dominic got it, breakups sucked, but adults got dumped and then they moved on. They didn’t sulk and whine and hold the circumstances over their ex’s head for six months like Barclay had been doing to Levi.

  Still, it was clear that Levi was in need of solace. He needed to be held, comforted, reminded that he was a good person even if he fucked up sometimes. Any other night of the week, Dominic would have been happy to do those things.

  Not tonight. He was already running late, his agitation increasing with every passing second. Tonight was too important for him to be distracted. Innocent lives were on the line.

  He had to get Levi out of here in a way that didn’t raise Levi’s suspicions—and he knew exactly how to do that, even if the mere idea made him feel the need to shower.

  Levi Abrams never backed down from a physical fight. Uncomfortable personal emotions, though? Those sent him running like a jackrabbit on speed.

  Dominic could trigger that reaction with one simple sentence.

  He shifted closer to Levi and pulled him into another kiss. Levi responded beautifully, arching against him with a soft moan. A few seconds later, Dominic diverted his mouth to Levi’s graceful throat.

  “I want you to fuck me tonight,” he said.

  Levi went completely rigid. Dominic squashed his guilt. When this was all over, he would explain everything and apologize. Levi of all people understood the necessity of sacrificing for the greater good.

  “What?” Levi pushed him away and put some space between them on the couch.

  “I want you to top,” Dominic said, like he didn’t know that was the last thing in the world Levi wanted to do.

  They had never talked about this in an explicit way, but Dominic knew Levi was an exclusive bottom and he didn’t care. Some guys were. Though Dominic liked to bottom every once in a while himself, he didn’t need that to be sexually satisfied. It wasn’t a deal breaker in his relationship with Levi and he had zero interest in asking Levi to do something in bed that made him uncomfortable.

  Yet while the whole top/bottom thing was a complete nonissue to Dominic, for some reason it was a really big deal to Levi. If it weren’t, he wouldn’t fall all over himself trying to change the subject whenever it seemed like one of them might mention it. This was a button Dominic had known not to push since they’d first gotten together.

  Now that he had pushed it, however, he was starting to think
he’d underestimated what a sore spot it was. Levi didn’t just look uncomfortable; his face was ashen.

  “You’ve never wanted that before,” Levi said with a complete lack of inflection.

  Dominic shrugged, forcing himself to remain casual. “I’m not usually in the mood for it, but it’s been a while for me. Why, you don’t want to?”

  A muscle twitched in Levi’s cheek. “You know I don’t.” He got off the couch and took a few agitated steps away before facing Dominic with crossed arms. “I don’t know why you’re playing dumb, but you know that I don’t top.”

  “You’ve never said anything.”

  Levi’s nostrils flared. Despite Dominic’s remorse at putting Levi through this, he found himself morbidly curious. Why was this such an emotional issue for Levi? There had to be something deeper at work.

  “I didn’t think I had to.”

  “Why don’t you top?”

  Making a flailing motion with his arms, Levi said, “There’s no specific reason. I just don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right; it’s not what I want from sex.”

  “What about what I want from sex?”

  Oh, he was getting closer to the mark. Levi was even more tense than before.

  “What do you mean?” Levi said warily. Now who was playing dumb?

  “Maybe I don’t want to top all the time. Have you ever thought about that?”

  Levi was breathing shallowly.

  “Or maybe,” Dominic said, “you’re too much of a pillow queen to care.”

  The shot hit home, much harder than it would have if Dominic had been the first man to say something like that to Levi. Bingo.

  It probably hadn’t been Barclay, or Levi wouldn’t have been with him for so long. But at some point, most likely early in Levi’s sexual explorations, some douchebag had made him think being an exclusive bottom was selfish or shameful—which was total bullshit and something they were going to have a serious conversation about in the future.

  Levi stared at him, visibly shaking. It ripped Dominic apart to see Levi in pain, and he had to use all his willpower to keep himself from revealing everything and begging Levi’s forgiveness.

  He’ll understand. Once you tell him the truth, he’ll understand.

  Levi grabbed his jacket and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  Levi was awake when the knock sounded on the front door of his apartment, but he didn’t bother getting out of bed. One hand snaked out from under the covers to check the time on his cell phone—a few minutes after 1 p.m.

  The door opened and shut, and the wireless alarm system Dominic had installed began its warning beeps.

  “Levi!” Martine shouted. “What’s the code for this freaking thing? I can’t remember.”

  “Four-seven-six-one,” he called back. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and rolled over toward the wall.

  The beeping stopped, footsteps crossed the apartment, and Martine entered the bedroom. “Four-seven-six-one?” she asked from the doorway. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s sixty-nine times sixty-nine.”

  She snickered.

  “Dominic set it.”

  “I’m sure. So what’s up, are you sick? Wen said you called out.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “You sure? There’s some kind of stomach bug going around. Carmen’s out today too.”

  He knew what she was really asking. “I haven’t been throwing up,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder.

  “Good.” She came farther into the room and sat at the edge of his bed. “What’s going on, then?”

  Burying his face back in the pillow, he said, “I just needed a day off.”

  “Levi, I’ve known you for almost a decade, and the only times you’ve ever called out were when you were so sick or injured that you literally wouldn’t have been able to drag yourself into work on your hands and knees.”

  “That was when I was good at my job.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “We’re never going to catch the Seven of Spades,” he said dully. “We’ve been running on a hamster wheel for months. Eventually they’ll get bored and move on and they’ll get away with everything. So who cares if I take a day off? Let Rohan handle it.”

  She laid a hand on his head, brushing back his curls. He closed his eyes.

  “This isn’t only about the Seven of Spades,” she murmured. “What else is going on? Did you and Dominic fight?”

  “No.”

  What had happened really couldn’t be described as a fight—Dominic had been pointedly, deliberately cruel to him, and the worst part was Levi didn’t even know why. When he’d come home last night, he’d showered and gone right to bed; he hadn’t gotten up since except to use the bathroom.

  “I just can’t keep going to work every day knowing it won’t make a difference,” he said, pushing all thoughts of Dominic aside. “Confronting my failure over and over.”

  She sighed. He shifted around to face her, and she continued stroking his hair in silence.

  Martine had the kind of quiet inner strength that drew people to her like flowers turning toward the sun. She didn’t tolerate bullshit, but her iron will never restrained the warm, nurturing side that was equally integral to her personality. He felt a little better just being in her presence.

  “Levi,” she said after a while, “I think you should start talking to Natasha again. You know, professionally.”

  He opened his eyes. “I don’t—”

  “You’re depressed. You can see that, right? It’s affecting your relationships, your work, your health . . . I know you’ve been losing weight. Have you been having those nightmares again? The ones about being trapped and chased?”

  “That’s not what they’re about anymore,” he muttered.

  She frowned but didn’t press him for details. “If not Natasha herself, ask her to refer you to someone. You’re under an insane amount of stress, and you don’t need to carry it all on your own.”

  “Leila said I was one stressful event away from cracking like a dropped egg.”

  “Well, she’s not a woman known for her tact, but I can’t say I disagree.”

  He worried his bottom lip. He could barely handle discussing emotional topics with people he loved and trusted—how could he possibly talk to a stranger about the things that weighed on him?

  Martine’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, said, “Hang on a minute,” and left the room.

  Levi pulled the covers over his head. Minutes later, he yelped as Martine yanked them off.

  “You’re going to want to get up for this,” she said. “Sawyer’s on his way to the substation with his forensic accountant. They found something.”

  The forensic accountant Sawyer had hired on Stanton’s behalf was a reedy white man with a scraggly goatee who introduced himself simply as Garrett. He set his laptop up in the conference room so he could demonstrate the steps in his investigation so far, though most of it went over Levi’s head.

  “On the dates of the two payments in question, Mr. Barclay’s account was accessed by an IP address that doesn’t belong to any computer within the foundation,” Garrett said. “It was actually bounced around various proxy servers to make it untraceable. Now, that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be a foundation employee, but it was someone careful who knows their way around a computer. And it got me thinking about the origin of the funds.”

  “They originated with the foundation,” said Martine.

  “Not really. Where does the Barclay Foundation get its money to begin with? A mix of donations and long-term investments. So did the Seven of Spades steal from a charitable organization to hire an assassin?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Levi said. “That doesn’t sound like something the Seven of Spades would do.”

  “Because it’s not.” Garrett tapped a few keys. “The two payments of one hundred fifty thousand dollars here and here—that money was transferred into t
he foundation’s operational fund moments before it was transferred back out again. It didn’t belong to the foundation at all. It just sat there for about thirty seconds in transition, then went on to bounce in and out of various other accounts as well on its way to Nick Bryce. Same pattern both times.”

  “Where did the transfers to the foundation come from?”

  “A bank account in the Caribbean with no legitimate ownership information. I have to say, if your computer specialist was able to trace the payments through the maze of all the other accounts involved, I’m surprised she would miss this step.”

  Levi’s mouth went dry, and he met Martine’s horrified gaze. “She wouldn’t.”

  When Carmen jogged into the parking lot of her apartment complex with a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder, Levi was leaning against the driver’s-side door of her car, his arms folded across his chest. She stopped short, whirled around, and cursed as Martine stepped into her path.

  “We thought you’d be long gone by now,” Martine said.

  Carmen looked back and forth between them. Levi could see the exact moment she decided not to bother lying.

  “The friend I’d planned on leaving my cat with had a family emergency,” she said. “I had to scramble to find someone else, and it took longer than I anticipated.”

  Levi pushed himself off the car and walked toward her. She watched him approach, looking unafraid—just resigned.

  “Are you the Seven of Spades?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “But you’ve been working for them.”

  “With them. Yes.”

  Levi and Carmen had never been close, but she was a colleague, someone he’d trusted and worked side by side with on this case for months. The betrayal cut deeply. “Do you know who they are?” he asked, shoving the unpleasant emotions down when they rose in the back of his throat like bile.

  “I swear I don’t. They contact me via dead drop and self-deleting texts from burner phones. I’ve done everything I can to find out who the Seven of Spades is, believe me, but I have no idea.”