Not a hint of movement, no change in her breathing greeted what he considered to be a particularly momentous proclamation, and Dean fought a smile despite his chagrin. Great timing. Shit. She was in deep sleep, breath puffing out in those short exhalations, making him smile wider.
His ribs ached from a couple of punches, and there was one really tender spot on his right thigh from a steel-toed boot. Amy would no doubt react to those black and blue marks in the morning.
He thought about the unexpected melee that afternoon. They’d clawed back their territory and feathered out a couple of blocks, certain to get some attention. It had been like sending up a flare. He was impatient for the next move, additionally frustrated by the inability or refusal of those they’d battled to share the whereabouts of Saul Burnett, despite the message he’d sent.
Chapter Nine
The combination of the booze and physical exertion the day before, and probably his emotional outburst, albeit to deaf ears, made Dean sleep in. He ached dully and tentatively touched his lip. Shit. The condo felt empty and he impatiently shoved the covers back. Amy’s side was cool to the touch, although her scent lingered. He hitched over a little and buried his face in her pillow, then willed his body upright.
There was coffee in the carafe on the counter, a note held in place under his favorite cup. Well, he didn’t have a favorite cup but Amy bought him one, and it was a cup and a half, nicely weighted to fit his big hand, fingers never trapped by the oversize handle. She noticed everything. Amy’s childish sprawl advised him she had some shopping to do and to let her know if he’d be home for dinner if he had to leave before she got back. He poured a coffee and took it with him into the bathroom.
Standing under water as hot as he could stand, soaking out the residual stiffness and forcing the bruises to better manifest themselves, Dean considered his day. Probably best to show his face at the office later, drive around a little, pick up something to eat, maybe brunch, as it was close to mid morning. He was shaving, cautiously sipping his coffee around his puffy lip when his cell shrilled. Randy.
“You need to get down here. Now.” He knew better than to ask questions after hearing his lieutenant’s tone.
“Leaving in five.” He dropped the razor beside the soap dish and rinsed his face quickly. Boxers, jeans, shirt. He sat to pull his socks on and hustled to step into his boots. It had taken a bit of convincing for Amy to leave them by the door instead of tucked out of sight in the closet. He hustled back to scrawl on her note, confirming dinner. That was hours away and he figured he’d deal with whatever Randy had uncovered by then. He called her too, on the way out to the truck, not surprised when it went to voice mail. Amy was smart enough not to use her phone while driving. He just wanted to hear her voice so listened to it asking him to please leave a message then told her he wanted lots of meat for dinner, forget the green stuff she always prepared, ever hopeful.
Randy called again, telling him to drop the truck and come in through the back. What the fuck? The conversation was cryptic and short. Not a good sign.
Leaving his vehicle on the street a couple of blocks over, Dean worked his way through a maze of alleyways, ducking in the back of buildings, many of which he either owned or rented space in. It was then a simple matter to use the side door of the storage unit attached to the back of his office and make his way inside. Randy hunkered over his computer, using both hands, the bandage discarded, although it had to fucking well hurt.
Speaking over his shoulder, he said, “Saw you coming on the feed. Didn’t see anyone else. I’ve been fielding calls all morning. Seems you struck a nerve, buddy.”
“You should have called me earlier,” Dean groused.
“No sense in both of us getting our shit in a knot. And you took a pretty good shot to the temple, too. Your eye is fucked up.”
“Amy iced it, cleaned me up. I’m good. No vision problems, not even a headache. Catch me up.”
“The last place we convinced to join the parade closed up this morning, early, burned to the ground. No word on anyone inside.”
“Fuck, I hope not. I didn’t think he’d retaliate so quick.”
“At least we know we got his attention.” Randy’s voice was devoid of humor. “We need to be prepared. Burnett’s obviously gonna pull out all the stops.”
“Agreed. Put a guy in our new ventures and in the ones we took back.”
“That’ll leave us spread thin,” his lieutenant warned.
“We’ll ask the police for support, warn them anonymously about some hot spots.” And he’d give his handler a call too.
He didn’t relish that idea. The man would question him about his long term relationship with Amy and put additional pressure on him to keep things quiet. She was a distraction, but one he couldn’t imagine living without.
They strategized a few more scenarios, trying to predict the push, after Randy called and assigned the crew, telling Olsen to come to the office. The man’s lock-picking skills were beyond the pale, and he could assess a building’s weaknesses in a heartbeat, but he was useless in shoring up confidence, and even more useless with his fists. He was a social isolate, by choice. Dean’s stomach complained, and he called Olsen back, asking the man to pick up some breakfast burritos and good coffee on the way, eschewing Randy’s bitter brew.
Now, there was nothing to do but wait and wonder as time crawled.
The front door creaked open and Olsen’s hands pushed into view, although he hesitated just out of sight. Dean moved to grab the precariously leaning tray of java, and the grease stained bag perched on top. The smell of eggs and spices had him ripping open the sack and extricating a burrito, wrenching off a huge bite while forcing the lid off a black coffee. Not as good as Amy’s but close. He ignored the sting in his lip. Another bite of the combination of eggs, beans, cheese and soft tortilla calmed his gut and he chased it with another swig of coffee. Randy fished a burrito out and slowly unwrapped it. Olsen shut the door and dropped a big envelope on the desk, reaching for a cup. His nicotine-stained fingers were repellent and the stink of second-hand smoke made Dean lean back.
Gesturing to the envelope, he asked around a final mouthful of breakfast. “What’d you bring?”
“It was on the step. Figured it was too big for the mailbox, got dropped there.”
“We get our mail down the block, Frank.”
Olsen shrugged and dug a cigarette out of the package, heading back to the door to smoke on the sidewalk. Dean had an edict of no smoking in any of their offices and he was glad to see the man followed it.
Randy wiped his hand, the bruised fingers still swollen, and pulled the envelope over. Slitting the end with his pocket knife, he stowed the lethal weapon back in his pocket before spilling out the contents. His eyes popped and his face suffused with color. “What the fuck?”
Dean leaned over to look and blinked. He snatched the top photo out of Randy’s suddenly lax grasp and stared at it. Blind, intense rage snuffed out the initial incredulous reaction and he barely suppressed the urge to choke the messenger. The burrito surged up his throat to gag him and preclude any thoughts he might have expressed.
Olsen poked his head in the door and coughed.
Randy forestalled him from coming in. “Enrico needs you over on Dundas, Frank. Thanks for bringing breakfast. I’ll return the favor.”
Forehead a mass of furrows, Olsen looked at them both, then shrugged. “No problem. Dundas?”
“Yah. ’Rico’s nose is making things tough to concentrate. Needs another guy.” Randy prevaricated with the ease of long practice as he excluded Olsen from Dean’s revelation.
“Sure. I’ll catch you later.”
The door shut and Dean pitched his cup against the far wall, the dregs dripping pathetically, the cardboard making an insufficient sound to express his rage as it fell to the floor. Hollow, like his gut. “I fucking near told her I was—”
“Shut it.” Randy glared him into silence. “None of us were here last night. I
checked the security feed but who the fuck knows if the place is clean?
“What does it matter? It could have been Saul fucking Burnett himself delivered that envelope. Making himself invisible. He’s pushing and letting it all out. He’s been getting his info from my woman. Nothing he doesn’t know if he’s listening right now.”
Randy gestured again and punched a number on his cell. “If she doesn’t know about your…thing, then he doesn’t—’Rico? Olsen coming your way. Needed him gone for a bit.”
They set the pictures on the desk, side by each, all six of them. Amy was predominately featured, smiling in all but one, her head close to Burnett’s—good buddies. Different outfits each time. Dean closed his eyes. Her ability to read people, noticing everything. Hearing everything. His laptop open and vulnerable, especially to someone with her skills. He wondered when Burnett had gotten to her, or if she’d been a plant in the bar that night. If that loud-mouthed Lorraine was part of it, had set him up deliberately. Nothing seemed impossible to imagine.
And he’d nearly told her about being, if not exactly undercover, certainly not a real crime boss. Had told her he loved her. Did she hear? Pretended to sleep? Did she laugh? Fuck. If he hadn’t decided to wait until morning to drop the rest of it. If she hadn’t gone shopping. If. Wishes and horses. Beggars. Bullshit luck, because she could have been cozying up to Burnett right fucking now with the priceless information that Dean Chambray was some sort of undercover agent looking to pull in the shadow man Saul represented.
He hurt so hard he couldn’t get a breath against it. Fuck. All of her sweetness, even her attitude. Taking care of him, loving him. Right. Fucking him over. Well, he’d been well and truly fucked, blinded by sweet pussy. His cover still held by some quirk of fate, that bullshit luck.
“He’s giving her something in every shot, Dean. You can’t see it clearly but it’s rectangular, wrapped in paper. Money?”
What the fuck did it matter? She’d betrayed him, could have brought down years of careful work. Could have got him killed. Randy too. Played him.
“You can’t make out what she hands over in any of the shots. Weird.”
“Probably a thumb drive. I worked from home some, remember? We shared an office and I wasn’t with her all the time. Making her coffee and bringing her shit. And I either left the laptop on or she cracked the password. She knows her way around computers.” He was flat now, controlled, the rage banked.
“Might explain things. Too much for a coincidence anyhow. But who sent the pictures? Burnett wouldn’t out his source.”
“I don’t give a fuck who sent them. We’ll figure it out later. Call everyone and make sure they know to expect a push. I’m gonna go and have a chat with Amy.”
“Time for that later, Dean, when you’ve cooled down.”
“I want her gone, Randy. Gone. And that’s my job. Then I can turn my attention fully to Burnett. And whoever pulls his strings. Shadow man. He’s coming and I want Amy dealt with before I deal with him.”
“I’m coming along with you. You’re too close to doing something stupid. I can call everyone on the way. We need to shut this office down for now anyhow, seeing as somebody got that close to deliver the goods without anyone seeing him.”
Dean didn’t care. He’d given Randy organizational orders and the man would back off on the drive to the complex. The time would help him stay cool. No way was he letting Amy see how she’d gotten to him. Randy could serve as witness, and a constant reminder, of how stupid he’d been to trust a woman. Or love one.
****
Amy was in the kitchen when she heard the feet on the stairs. Loud, stomping feet. Smiling to herself she shut the oven door on the prime rib she was preparing for their evening meal, a celebratory dinner. She’d slipped out to the pharmacy while her man slept, unable to hide behind denial any longer. She had confirmed the news for Dean, and while her belly fluttered in anxious anticipation, deep down she believed he’d be okay with it.
He had truly settled over the past several months, no longer as tightly drawn, maybe not expecting their relationship to have an ending. Seemed to be cautiously accepting the possibility she wasn’t going to fuck him over or try to manipulate him. Not that Dean had any say in how that very first relationship in his life affected him; the piece of work who’d birthed him set the sure-fire-failure option in motion for each subsequent one.
Amy shook her head, setting the oven mitts to rest on the counter. Dean might have cut his mom out of his life, but Marsha, in death, would once again cast her evil pall. Still, Amy would be right there, by Dean’s side, and they’d see it through. She had lots of experience in seeing things through to the other side, and this time it meant everything to her. So this time there would be a positive outcome no matter what it took. Because it was Dean.
They would need to have a really serious discussion now that her suspicion was confirmed. He’d hinted at getting shut of the business, and maybe her news would have an impact. He’d do what was right and she’d trust him with it.
The prime rib was her only other purchase of the morning as she tried to get home before he left, but she missed him, his coffee cup on the bathroom sink, towel carelessly tossed on the floor. He’d obviously left in a hurry, but had taken the time to answer her note. Left a voice mail too, which inspired her to buy the beef.
The door flew open with such enthusiasm it rocked back on its hinges to meet the flat of Dean’s hand. The look on his face sucked the air out of her chest. Not enthusiasm. Nearly uncontrolled violence. Forcing her flight response down, hoping to help soothe, Amy made to go to him, only to be forestalled by the imperious upswing of his other hand. The Terminator couldn’t have done it with more terror-inspiring authority, the manila envelope he clutched—a weapon.
His grey eyes locked with hers and the glitter of rage then colored over with the sheen of scorn and hatred until they were shards of crystal. Being adept at reading looks and gazes, she knew this did not bode well for her, and she was always the master of understatement, the empress of hope since meeting Dean. Her hand drifted to rest on her belly, an automatic, protective gesture.
His tall, muscular form froze in the doorway, filling the space. She could hear his deep, heaving breaths. The faint ticking of the clock, the drip of the sink and all the other usual noises in their condo faded away before the sounds he was making, and her vision narrowed to focus on him. She was vaguely aware another large body flanked him, and saw an equally large hand clamp down on his shoulder in an attempt to fix him in place when he leaned forward threateningly. The nails of that hand were clean, with the exception of badly bruised fingers, the nail beds purple and blue. Randy, his hand injured in the fight—was it only the day before? Her anxious mind seized on the details while quailing from the symbolism. It knew pain was in the offing, just not the form it would take.
“Get your shit and get out.” Her man’s handsome face was set in granite, offset only by the unsuppressed fury churning in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Was that her voice? That tiny, tentative whispering thread of sound?
Dean never turned his temper on her. Amy saw him angry, pissed, furious even. He didn’t hide his emotions. He acted many of them out, but she liked that about him because she didn’t have to watch so carefully and ensure the accuracy of what she was reading in order to protect herself. It had been a huge burden Amy had been glad, no, supremely grateful, to relinquish.
“Shut up, Amy. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think I’d be blinded forever by you spreading your legs for me and sucking me off each and every fucking day? Did you think you’d distract me?”
Shrinking back at the vitriol in his voice, a nugget of humiliation taking root and unfurling way down inside, Amy worked hard at masking her pain. She gave Dean everything sexually. Willingly. He’d never spoken to her with such disgust, aired their personal lives. He knew how ashamed she was of her past. She couldn’t think of anything to say, couldn’t respond in light
of the fury he exuded. Snatching up a jar of spices from the cabinet he hurled it at the opposite wall where it smashed and shattered into slivers to emulate her crumbling life.
“Find out what?” She finally managed to croak the query past the tightening in her throat.
The envelope sailed across the short distance, windmilling, catching her thigh with an edge, a surprisingly solid blow. It settled at her feet. She stared down at it, lifting her other hand to link fingers with the one at her belly, to refrain from reaching for it. The innocuous yellow brown of the packet didn’t shed any light of explanation yet pulsed with dark warning. Squinting, she could make out Dean’s name, written in bold, black strokes, but no return address, at least not on the side she could see. Amy raised her eyes once again to his.
“Out. You’ve got a half hour. And you don’t show your face anywhere I do. You see me in the distance, you turn and walk the other way. I come into a place you’re at—you haul your ass out. Or I won’t be responsible. Clear?”
It hit her then. She’d been wrong. She’d been wrong a whole lot of times when younger, but she was so certain she and Dean had it right. Wrong. And it gutted her, left her without an ounce of energy. She had no clue what it was she’d done, but it didn’t matter. Dean wasn’t going to give her a chance to explain, even if she could. His shit was deep and while knowing it well, she truly hadn’t believed it would drown what they had. Had. Past tense. She’d allowed herself to hope, been lulled by the apparent growth of their relationship, and was suddenly transported back in time to her expected reality.
Get over it, Amy, wrap it up. No time for tender reminiscences. Making herself nod she looked away from his beloved face. The familiar numbness from all past mistakes flooded over her, the comforting shield of shock easing the wrenching pain. His boots hammered out the door and down the steps.
Amy became aware of the clearing rasp of a masculine throat and raised her gaze to meet Randy’s. Randy liked her and she liked him, and she and Andrea were cautiously developing a friendship. Past tense. He was staring at her with scorn, his upper lip ever so slightly curled, big body radiating disgust. He’d picked a side and that too was no surprise. Why would anyone pick hers? Amy thought she was making other friends within Dean’s circle, but loyalties being what they were, well, she was naturally on the losing end. She ignored Randy with not-so-surprising ease. It didn’t matter. Only her news mattered. She had to get gone and somehow regroup. If not for that news she would probably have opened her throat with the big knife set perpendicular to the carving board. Anything to end this. Drama. Not the time.
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 15
