“My job? Oh, there are all sorts of dangers and threats,” I reply, grinning though I sound dire. “I mean, paper cuts can make even a tough guy cry.”
She laughs again, and it’s like listening to angels from above. Her laugh is musical, genuine, and pleased, and when she looks at me, I feel that same spark I felt yesterday pass between us.
But this time, it’s not just a spark, it’s damn near a flowing current, white-hot in the air between us as I look up at her from my bench seat.
“I don’t mind it if a man cries . . . for the right reasons,” she teases. “Paper cuts might make the list, under the right circumstances. Big paper?”
“Oh, the biggest,” I tease back, a moment later realizing how naughty that sounds.
I see the flash in Isabella’s eyes when she gets the unintentional innuendo too. She looks down at her order pad, twirling a toe against the floor nervously. “So, what’ll it be?”
Too far, man. Don’t scare her off. Not yet.
Returning to the innocuous conversation, I say, “Hmm, such a tough decision. How about this . . . you bring me one of each, and I’ll brown bag whichever my stomach feels like not eating?”
“Deal. You know, if you’re going to come in all the time, I’m going to have to start remembering your favorites and your name. Personalized customer service is kind of our thing around here.”
It seems like a big step for her to ask my name, like she’s not used to doing that. And I wonder if it’s because guys follow her like the Pied Piper or if it’s because she doesn’t date at all. Either way, I’m glad she set us back on course, leaving the awkwardness of a second ago behind.
“Gabe . . . and when I find what I like, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know,” I reply, smiling easily as she writes my order down and walks away. “Wait, what’s your name?” I ask, remembering to cover my ass even though I already know the answer.
She stops, looking over her shoulder with a smile that nearly stops my heart. “Isabella, but everyone calls me Izzy.”
While she’s gone, I watch her interact with the other customers, the cold, ruthless part of me cataloging the ways I could do the job without leaving a trace. I already know so much about her . . . her routine, her vulnerabilities, and even a way to make it look like Carraby did it. Maybe a little posthumous justice for Isabella, and punishment for a bastard like Carraby is always warranted.
But I . . . I can’t find that detachment.
I can’t judge her as evil.
No matter what I do, what mental gymnastics I’ve twisted through my head over the past couple of weeks, I can’t.
It’s never been a problem before. Clean or messy, I get it done before disappearing like smoke in the breeze. I’ve never felt guilty about it.
Not since . . .
“Okay, I talked with Henry, our cook, and he says the sauerkraut isn't good today,” Isabella says, interrupting my thoughts and actually surprising me a little. “So would you maybe like to change that into a grilled club?”
“No, I’ll just tackle the Country Special,” I reply, smiling. “As long as you don’t mind me sitting here for a couple of hours afterward, letting it settle.”
Isabella blushes a little, nodding. “Not at all.”
“It’d be a lot nicer if I could have someone to share, say, a slice of that mud pie I see behind the counter with. Maybe?”
I can see it in her eyes, a flash of excitement, and I can see she’s just about to say yes when there’s a dinging sound from the kitchen window, jangling and cutting through our talk.
“Hey, Izzy! Order up!” Henry yells from the kitchen, and Isabella’s eyes pinch down a little.
Jolted back into reality, she sighs, looking tired again, more docile. It pisses me off, because watching her eyes light up when I flirted a little with her . . . it was like discovering a treasure that nobody’s ever discovered before, a diamond in the rough unearthed in front of my eyes.
Now it’s hidden again, buried under minutiae and unimportant details.
By the time she comes back with my Country Special plate, the fire in her eyes is just a dim ember, barely flaring when I give her the patented heart-stopping, panty-dropping smile that I’ve had since long before I got into this line of work.
“Here you go,” she says, setting the admittedly huge platter in front of me. “Anything else, Gabe?”
I like the sound of my name on her lips, would love to bend her over this table right here and make her scream it. “How about that mud pie?” I ask instead, raising an eyebrow. “Or better yet, your number? It’s less embarrassing than coming in for lunch here tomorrow.”
I have the number already—it was part of my background check—but I would absolutely do it, come in day after day just to see her. As I look at her expectantly, every little detail comes into sharp focus.
Not just her beauty but her exhaustion. It makes me feel like a shit for thinking obscene thoughts about her, and suddenly, I imagine myself caring for her, laying her in a hot bath, rubbing the knots out of her shoulders as she soaks away the stress weighing her down, and curling up around her and holding her as she sleeps.
She’s mulling it over, and I can see her pen moving toward her order pad like she’s going to write her number down when her face falls and with a frown, she looks down.
“Ah . . . I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I need to check on the other customers.” The words are mumbled, disappointment woven through them.
She scurries off, and as I watch her go, I can’t tear my eyes from her. She glances at me again before taking an order from a young couple obviously here on a cheap date, her flawless skin flushing before she turns back to her work.
I look at my Country Special, and I realize I’ve got a problem in front of me. There’s no way in hell I can eat all of this. The plate’s nearly as wide as my shoulders and covered in about a week’s worth of food. No wonder the football coaches send their players here to get hefty for the season.
I also have a professional problem. Because no matter how much I twist it, no matter how hard I try, there is no way I can justify killing Isabella.
But the most powerful man in the Pacific Northwest hired me to do just that.
Chapter 4
Blackwell
Roseboro Community Health Fair! Sponsored by Goldstone Health. With special thanks to Thomas Goldstone!
I turn away, growling at my driver. “Get us out of here.”
He responds immediately, no questions, no hesitation as he accelerates, turning right at the next intersection to remove that hated name from my sight.
A year ago, I had the world in the palm of my hand. Well, maybe not the world, but at least the city of Roseboro, and with it, the linchpin of the entire Pacific Northwest. If you wanted to make an impact anywhere between San Francisco and Vancouver, you came to me.
While I never greeted anyone with buona sera, and nobody called me it, I was the Godfather.
Until he came along. Thomas Goldstone . . . the usurper, the upstart . . . the Golden Boy.
At first, I was content to let him build. I found his forays into business amusing as he made choices I would never consider, stepping left when I would recommend right. He’d been like an experiment playing out before my very eyes.
As out of sorts as I found his style to be, he was successful, shockingly so, and at first, I’d been delighted, like he was my own personal dog and pony show. But he wasn’t supposed to be this good, this fast.
I’d assumed he’d be the one to take over the mantle of Roseboro after I’m gone, not that that’s on the horizon anytime soon.
But I thought I’d pass along my empire to capable hands, ones that would laud my brilliance and impact on Roseboro and beyond. He was supposed to be just a caretaker, maybe add a little few pebbles to the mountain that I’d built . . . and now he’s eclipsing me.
I can’t have that. I won’t have that. My legacy will live on.
One weakness Thomas Goldstone has is
that while he’s smart, and he’s nearly as ruthless as me, he won’t go as afoul of the law as I will. I can’t believe he’s totally innocent. No man with as much money and power as he has is totally clean, but he’s never cultivated the connections I have.
So I started hamstringing him. At first, it was subtle, using my backdoor connections to take profits away from him, hobbling him through several projects he’d planned.
Yet still, he rose.
I stomped his dreams into the dirt. I destroyed his attempts at expansion.
Yet still, like a phoenix from the ashes on a mighty wind, he rose.
Finally, I had to take direct action, and through a bitter, angry employee, I conspired to break him, to destroy not just his business, but his mind, his very soul.
I had him. I was so close . . .
And yet he rose.
Now, he’s more successful than ever.
He’s gone from one of the most well-known men in this part of the country to the darling of the entire nation. There are already whispers that when the next election rolls around, Thomas Goldstone would be a shoo-in if he chose to throw his name in the ring. Senator? Representative? Governor?
There’ve been whispers that the governor’s mansion wouldn’t be his last stop, either.
He’s untouchable. I’ve spent millions trying to find more skeletons in his closet. Yet my best attempt, the most direct intervention I could try . . . and now he’s actually gained power from it.
I could cry over the failure, beseech the gods to grant me this demand, or I can change direction and try again. I already know my course of action.
I’m going to teach Thomas Goldstone about the nature of power. Power isn’t just money or fame. It’s fear. It’s pain. It’s about being willing to go all-in and do the ugly deeds truly required to intimidate and inspire those around you.
And I’m going to give Thomas Goldstone a very educational lesson.
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out my phone and dial. It’s my normal phone—no reason I should be the one buying ‘burner’ phones.
“Hello?”
“You’re taking too much time.”
On the other end, the man hums. “You knew when you hired me that I do things at my own pace. I don’t rush.”
“There is such a thing as taking your time, and then there is wasting my time,” I remind him. “Do not cross the line between the two. I want to see results. Soon.”
“As in?”
“You have seven days. Or else . . . I will be upset.”
The line goes dead, but I don’t mind. My message was received.
Up ahead, a flash of white and silver catches my eye, and I wince as I see the building we’re approaching. The Gravy Train Diner.
Where she works. Isabella Turner.
The woman who took my carefully-laid plan using Goldstone’s employee, a man I’d manipulated for months, and demolished it in a single conversation.
She thought she’d been doing her friend a favor, but favors have consequences, and I have seen to that personally.
Within a week, she’ll get her comeuppance. I have hired the best of the best to see to her punishment. And the happy byproduct is that it will devastate Goldstone and his woman, crumbling their very foundations and insuring that they understand just how vulnerable they truly are.
Though the thoughts race through my mind, I whisper them to the window, giving them power by declaring them aloud. “Soon, very soon, my little waitress, you will be doing me a favor of sorts.”
My limo slides past The Gravy Train and we start to approach my building, my tower . . . my home. “You’ll help me send The Golden Boy a very important message—don’t interfere in my business. This is still my town, and your death will prove it.”
It almost makes me smile.
Chapter 5
Isabella
The music plays on the TV, and I feel a wave of energy fill me. It’s not the tune, a tired old piece of trumpet fanfare that’s been used by this station since I was a kid. It’s what the music represents . . . the hour it represents.
“Tonight on News at Ten—” the voice in the background says before Elaine turns it down.
“I don’t need to listen to the organ grinder of doom three times a damn day,” I say, putting the remote back down. “Anyone wants to find out what’s going on, they can read the captions.” I say it like I’m daring the handful of customers to argue about it, but no one so much as blinks at me.
I nod silently as I take a late-night order for pork chops from a delivery driver who just got off shift, but my brain’s on cruise control.
It’s him. Gabe.
I know it’s stupid. I mean, I totally chickened out when he asked me for my phone number, reminding myself again that I don’t have time to get involved with anyone.
But still, I’d gone home last night to an empty house and kicked myself in the butt for not at least considering. I mean, even if it didn’t lead to much, a slice of pie with a hot guy or maybe more would be the highlight of my week.
All right, more like my year. But I’m focused, determined . . . and lonely.
Hot dreams had kept me tossing and turning all night, and in the light of day, he’s been on my mind constantly. The way he smiles, the little twinkle in his eyes as we tossed a few double entendres back and forth . . . the dimples on his cheeks that highlight his perfect teeth.
I mean, how weird is that? I’m getting heated up thinking about a guy’s teeth.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I’ve gotten through the day without feeling like hundred-pound weights are tied to each ankle.
I’ve felt lighter and brighter, like my lungs are full of helium and there’s a glimmer of sunshine warming my back. It’s been like this all day, through classes and the first four hours of my shift here at The Gravy Train.
Glancing over at the table where he sat last night, I remember the note he left on his bill, along with the tip, and I swear my belly floats up to the rafters.
Bella . . . gotta be out of town tomorrow, but I’ll see you Wednesday. Gabe
Yeah, it’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about him. Even the fact that he called me Bella. I’ve been Izzy ever since I was five. Almost everyone calls me Izzy. But the way Gabe wrote it . . .
Well, to quote my besties, I left work moister than an oyster. I shiver at the word moist. There’s always been something about it that makes me cringe.
But more than that, in the few minutes I’ve talked with him, I’ve been able to forget about the shit storm that is my life. I felt almost . . .
“Hey, you alive over there? Bueller? Bueller?”
I look up, realizing I’ve been spacing a little as I wipe down an already clean salt shaker. The delivery driver who wanted the pork chops is trying to get my attention, full-on snapping at me with his dirty fingers.
He seems to have missed the lesson on rule number one of diner life—don’t ever snap at your waitress. Fixing my best coolly professional smile on my face, I walk over, clearing my throat.
“Did you need something?” I intentionally don’t apologize because fuck his rudeness. I might’ve been off in la-la land for a moment, but he got his dinner in less than five minutes and looks to have been shoveling it in Hoover-style.
“You can start by answering the question,” the driver challenges sarcastically, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “You alive?”
“Sometimes, I’m not even sure myself,” I answer honestly, blanking out my face.
I know this guy’s type. He’s been dealing with shit all day, probably been stressed out by half a dozen things that have forced him into having dinner here at ten at night. So of course, he’s going to try to make me share the pain.
Misery loves company, they say, but I ain’t visiting the Sad-Lands tonight. Not with Gabe on my mind, even if it’s just a pretend fantasy where I’d given him my number and we’d gone out on a date.
“Can I get you something?�
�� I ask with faux pleasantness.
“These pork chops . . . they’re overcooked and dried out,” he says, poking a fork into the small amount of meat left on his plate. “Unacceptable.”
I can hear that it’s a word he probably uses often. I do my best to limit my eye roll and pick up his plate.
“Can I get you something else instead?”
It’s a pretty common scam for someone to eat half their plate, complain, and then want a replacement. Sometimes, I call them on it, but right now, I just want this guy to eat and not kill my happy buzz.
“Burger. Well done,” he barks. But I see the tiny uptilt of his lips as he internally celebrates his successful schtick.
I head back to the kitchen. “Henry?”
“Yeah, I heard the asshole,” he growls quiet enough the customers don’t hear, a fresh burger patty already sizzling on the grill. “Son of a bitch should be glad I don’t serve him a fried shit burger and make him choke on it. He sure as fuck ain’t getting fries though.”
“How’s the ulcer?” I ask, and Henry grumbles again. “That bad, huh?”
“No, what sucks the most is that the doc’s got me on the special diet,” he says, sticking his tongue out to let me know exactly what he thinks of his modified menu.
“Prilosec and yogurt, but no milk or real cheese. Kimchee, sauerkraut, any sort of cabbage until I’m swimming in the shit, but no way can I have a sausage to go with it. All this weird frou-frou hippie dietary crap, no real food. And no booze. How the hell am I supposed to get the eight hours they say I’m supposed to get if a man can’t have a post-work beer before bed?”
“Don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Hope you get back to normal soon. You’re more fun that way.”
“Yeah, well, tell Happy McAsshole out there five minutes and I’ll have him another round of dinner,” Henry says, giving me a pained smile as he rubs at his bothersome belly. “At least it ain’t the big C, am I right?” He kisses his fingertips and holds them up, looking beyond the ceiling. Henry’s not particularly religious, but I guess he figures a bit of prayer won’t hurt.
Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Page 4
