Remembering the roast, she slipped for an instant into the banality of everyday life. Turning off the oven, she grabbed the oven mitts to lift out the partially cooked meat, carefully setting it on top of the stove. The rich scent made her nauseous now and she doubted she would ever be able to smell roasting beef again without an olfactory stab of painful remembrance.
Randy passed behind her and from the corner of her eye saw him dip his knees. He snagged the envelope and shook the contents onto the granite countertop. The glossy papers slithered like a snake and one came to rest directly within her sight line. Staring at it in confusion, Amy could feel her eyes narrow and her brow furrow. Why had someone taken pictures of her talking to Saul Burrows? She looked the question at Randy.
“Dean got them in the mail, Amy. Imagine his surprise, bitch.”
Involuntarily flinching back at the epithet, she still had to ask. “Why would anyone take a picture of me and Mr. Burrows?”
“Mr. Burrows?” Randy’s tone was almost comically high pitched.
“Yes, Saul Burrows. He works in the deli I found. He saves me stuff and arranges for me to get different ingredients I can’t get other places. Orders it special. I bought the prime rib from him this morning.”
“That’s Saul Burnett, Amy. And he doesn’t work in a deli. He’s moving to control street betting as well as our other interests and is pushing Dean hard. And he knows a lot about Dean’s business.”
Shaking her head, glancing at the clock, she was unable to process and had no time for mysteries. Dean’s ultimatum rang in her ears. Now twenty minutes and counting. She had to go. Turning on her heel, she hurried into the bedroom, the one she’d shared with Dean and would no longer. Nearly a year of carefully working out the bumps along the way, sweetly balanced by need. The moving in after such a short time made it formal, a day she’d remember forever as a turning point in her life—to hell.
Standing there for a few moments staring blindly around, brain not registering what it was she needed. It came to her. Nothing. Her clothes filled one of the closets, and part of another, not to mention her shoes. Amy’s weakness was shoes and Dean indulged her, but they meant nothing to her now. She needed him and he wasn’t hers to have, if he ever was. It was like she was a different person, all hint of the past year with Dean extinguished like time travel. Her purse sat on the dresser and she grabbed it up.
Dropping the strap over her head, settling it on her shoulder, ignoring Randy’s speculative look she crossed to the bed, carefully picking up the little black bear from its nest on the throw pillows. Her one and only tie with the best part of her life, even if she couldn’t really remember her parents. Moving to the den where her laptop lay, she hefted it. It fit into the wide mouth of her bag, and accommodated the cord too.
Her heart wasn’t so numb anymore. It was hurting like a mother, and Amy wondered if it might fail before she got out the door. How can you mend a broken heart? The line from a juke box oldie pounded behind her temples.
“Uh, Amy? Maybe I should talk with Dean for a minute before you leave.”
Randy was a smart guy. Amy knew that. He was also Dean’s best friend and trusted right hand, his lieutenant. Maybe he saw something Dean missed, because Randy wasn’t blinded by her sucking him off each and every day. That bitter thought came out of nowhere and gave her strength. Managing a final grand gesture, as hollow as it was, she unhooked the delicate gold bracelet from her wrist and let it curl onto the dresser, a slender shower of symbolism. That bracelet had meant as much to her as any wedding band. She answered Randy, avoiding his eyes.
“Wouldn’t matter, Randy. He was just looking for an excuse. Always has been. I knew it for the truth, but I hoped and fooled myself. I thought I was enough for him, that he actually trusted me… Anyhow, wrong again. So more fool me.”
A shard of defensive memory pierced her single-minded purpose to get clear. Amy detoured into the dining room, carefully keeping her body between Randy’s sharp eyes and a place setting at the head of the table, her hand drifting over it. Sleight of hand, learned at the tables in Vegas in another life. The little paper stick with its proud plus sign, tucked into the little plastic bag, like a party treat for the aborted dinner, fit right into the crease of her palm. A no brainer.
“You need to wait, Amy. Something stinks here.” She could very nearly see his clever brain ticking over. But Dean had crossed the line. Betrayal, only not on her part. She couldn’t expose her secret—Amy shoved the thought away, afraid Randy might read her.
Brushing past the man, pausing at the coat closet to snag her jacket, she shoved the baggie into the pocket, and was out the door after toeing into her flats. He said something, but Amy couldn’t hear the words past the increasing sound of those lyrics and their accompanying melody filling her head. How do you mend those broken dreams? How does a loser ever win? She fumbled the keys out of her purse and stabbed them into the lock on the driver’s door of her car. The close call in Vegas allowed her to buy that vehicle. It was only five years old, had low mileage and was in good shape. It would get her where she needed to go.
She had two stops to make before she really got gone. One at the bank and the second at Sandra’s. Sandra wouldn’t say she told her so, although Amy would feel it all the same, getting involved with such a dangerous man. Sandra would tell Amy she loved her and cared about her and for Amy to call when she got where she was going. She owed it to her friend to say goodbye face to face.
****
“What?” Dean’s voice shook the rafters. Randy actually stepped back half a pace, so he could only imagine what his face looked like. His guts roiled.
“It was a set up. Something to tie you in knots and have you looking the wrong direction while his minions swept in. And it would have worked except for your refusal to let Amy cloud your thinking. I don’t know how you did it.”
A hint of the other man’s regret got through and rubbed salt in Dean’s mortal emotional wound. He sourly reflected on how past dire necessity taught him how to wrap up his angst over Amy and shove it away.
“I saw your woman’s shock ’cause it wasn’t as personal for me. She looked so fucking bewildered. She actually asked me why someone would want to take a picture of her and the deli guy. It took me the rest of yesterday and half the night but I found the asshole who took the pics. He said he had to work real hard to get the right angle to make it look like Amy was more than just a customer. Burnett was selling her fucking meat and other grocery crap, Dean. Pretending to work the deli. I’ve already had a word with the owner.”
The words pushed past the stricture in Dean’s chest. He felt blindly for his chair and nearly fell into it, peering up at Randy. “Fuck me, no. And I fell for it. So we’ve got somebody else sharing my shit with Burnett and I dealt harsh with Amy. Didn’t even question it. Didn’t even give her the benefit of the doubt or ask her. Fuck. Where is she?”
Randy shrugged. “Dunno. She took you at your word and got gone. Grabbed her purse and jacket, her computer, drove her car away. I called Mike but he couldn’t make it across town in time to track her and I had to look into this as a priority. She moved right along, Dean.”
Dean sucked in air and struggled to control himself. “She didn’t pack her shit?”
“You didn’t give her time to do much of anything, buddy.”
Randy’s practicality rubbed Dean the wrong way, a sure sign he’d fucked up royally. He relied on Randy’s realism. But if she didn’t take her stuff, then she’d have to come back for it. Wouldn’t she?
“I didn’t go home,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to smell her, feel her there. Stayed at Crystal’s. Thought I’d give it a couple of days.” And thought to erase the pain by turning to Crystal, a woman who knew the score, one who’d fuck him and hardly notice when he’d gone. Except he couldn’t make himself go through with it, and slept in her spare room. Seemed one part of him knew Amy better than his stupid fucking pride did, contaminated as it was by his fucking past.
Randy nodded sagely as though he totally understood, and maybe he did. Randy goddamn near pushed Andrea away with his own brand of shit. Dean focused. Amy would go to Sandra. She had slowly been building a posse amongst the crew’s women, but not one of them meant what Sandra did.
“I’ll go see Sandra.”
“Mike missed her there, too, and Sandra sent him packing with some choice words. Amy wasn’t in real good shape, Dean, just so you know. I asked her to give me some time with you, but she said it didn’t matter.”
Dean fought the unfamiliar panic blooming in his chest, dissolving that earlier tightness, but it felt worse, it that was possible. “What else did she say?”
“Something about you looking for any excuse.”
Dean wouldn’t be surprised to look down and see the handle of a blade protruding from his gut, the slice of agony so real it made him sag back into his chair. The truth fucking hurt. He had been looking, no matter how certain he was that he hadn’t been. And his woman blinded herself with her love for him, accepted him, trusted him, took the chance, believing he returned it. He did return it. He just hadn’t trusted it. Fuck. He had let his shit bite him on the ass once again and driven Amy away. And at a time when Burnett would be closing in for the anticipated, easy kill, having so cleverly set Dean up, finding Amy and fixing it with her would have to wait. Waiting could be the death knoll. He knew it, but it was bigger than both of them. He had to deal with Burnett and make it safe for Amy to return if he possibly could. Dean clenched his eyes shut for a couple of seconds and decided.
“Get Enrico to Sandra’s and tell him to drain her. I want to know everything she knows. Enrico can charm a snake, and he’s familiar with Sandra. They had something going on. Meantime we’ll surprise Saul with a preemptive strike, not just shore up the resistance. Call in our markers with local law enforcement and shout out to Minor—he’s the only cop we’ve got in our pocket who’ll be able to act quickly on this. I’m finishing it and not doing it again with that asshole Burnett. And find the informant. Clear?”
Randy clearly ran the percentages, his dark blue eyes getting that far away look, then nodded. “That’ll work. Minor just got that promotion within the department and will be looking for anything to make it look like he deserved it.” Randy’s thin contempt for the crooked cops shone through. “As for the informant … that’ll take time. And Amy’ll be a project.”
“Amy will be coming back, Randy. No worries.”
Chapter Ten
“You’re such a find, sweetie, I so mean it!” Francine’s expressive, pixie-like face beamed up at Amy. “I was a bit leery when Harold told me about you, but as usual he was right.” The little woman waved her hands about and hustled to the door, then turned and rushed back, silvery gray hair flying about her head.
“We’ll be back in a week. You’re sure it’s not too long?”
“I’ll be fine, Francine,” Amy replied patiently. Francine was like a butterfly, in perpetual motion, and she wondered what Francine had been like as a child. For sure, she’d get an attention deficit disorder label today. Amy involuntarily looked down at her belly. Getting her stress under control was important. Babies didn’t need stress.
“Well, you can always call, now Harold has that phone getting service anywhere. If he remembers to turn it on. And Joyce is a good ’un. Her husband’ll pitch in, too.”
“Joyce and I will manage just fine. And Bob said he was just a call away.”
Francine’s face brightened again. “Then I’ll go before Harold comes to get me. You know how he fusses.”
Amy put her arm around Francine’s narrow shoulders, feeling their fragility beneath the pink polyester of her cardigan, and guided the older woman to the door. Harold’s big, old, blue Mercury sat at the curb, idling, and Amy could see his head tipped forward, resting on the steering wheel. Probably counting to a hundred. Francine could indeed be trying.
Her boss, well, one of them, went up on tiptoes and Amy obligingly leaned in for a kiss and a hug. Another one. Francine exited in a swirl of fabric and floral perfume. Harold was out of the car like he had eyes in the back of his head, opening the passenger door for his beloved wife. She remonstrated loudly with him for letting the cold air out. Amy smiled, watching from the motel entrance. She’d known better than to walk Francine to the car, unwilling to risk another lengthy discussion and reminders. A solid clunk signalled the start of a new chapter in all of their lives, the car door closing behind Francine, and a moment later, the car pulled out into traffic, stately as an ocean liner. Amy sighed with relief and returned to the desk.
No reservations that day, but there was usually a certain amount of drive-up traffic because of the motel’s location and well tended exterior. As soon as her employment had been secured, the next thing Amy did was design a web page with the ability to make online reservations. Harold caught on quickly, and even Francine figured it out. There weren’t a lot of people reserving rooms, but every bit would help. The larger chains made for really stiff competition, and The Restaway Inn hardly featured a lot of amenities.
But it was scrupulously clean, and the beds were excellent; Harold and Francine knew the hotel business even if they didn’t have the money for swimming pools and water slides. Nor the space. They were slowly updating the television packages, with only three rooms to go—Amy stayed in one of those and cared less—the bathrooms featured big tubs and rain showerheads. Francine had seen them in a magazine and apparently scoured the salvage yards, locating twenty claw foot tubs in good shape and easily refurbished with recoating and expensive fixtures. Amy loved her tub and suspected many of the other guests did, too.
The old subway tiles lent a certain charm and had been grouted again to sparkle like new. Maintenance was key and her bosses had it down pat. Amy was supervising the installation of wireless internet, and she figured the next step would be carpet to replace the clean, but faded floor coverings. The diner right next door was a huge bonus, featuring excellent home-cooked fare for a reasonable price. Price. The reasonable rates brought people in, the easy access from the highway notwithstanding.
With only twenty units, one maid was sufficient, also taking care of the laundry, the facility built onto the owners’ suite out back. Harold took care of the maintenance, hiring only when the job was too big for one man, Francine did the books and managed the front desk. Neither wanted to retire and so it was a sweet deal. Amy loved them both and kept counting her blessings to have stumbled upon such people.
Her mind went back to how she’d walked into the motel that horrible day, exhausted, to beg a phone, her cell dead, the charger left behind.
That day had unfolded the way she’d planned after Dean threw her out. First the bank to close out her account, then to say goodbye to her best friend. Sandra had hugged her, made her a cup of tea to go, along with a sandwich, let her cry. Great, gulping sobs of agony, rivers of tears accompanied by belly cramping angst. Her friend offered her the spare room, urged her to stay, but Amy had needed to put distance between her and Dean. She’d start to show in a few weeks and someone would tell him, take great delight in putting the needle in. And Amy knew how Dean would respond. His pride would demand he provide for his bastard, and subsequently her. No way was she going to allow that and be doused with his vitriol again. No way would she expose a child to the animosity between them. Her baby deserved better. Better than what either of his or her parents got.
So she had hugged Sandra fiercely and promised to call within the month, adamantly refusing to be in touch earlier. Certainly not via email. “Randy knows something’s not right, Sandra. He’s like a dog with a bone, especially when it concerns his best friend. And you can’t tell a lie to save your soul so I won’t put you in the position. Dean would have to respond if the truth came out, in order to be the man, and I’m not allowing it.”
“But, honey. You love him and you’re knocked up.” Sandra’s earthy practicality wasn’t particularly welcome, and then she really m
essed up. “And it’s his baby, too.”
“Fuck that, Sandra.” She would have taken it back if she could, but her friend was changing horses in midstream. Amy knew her friend, and Dean had mended some fences over the past while, so Sandra had come to like the man. But Amy needed loyalty now. Sandra flinched against the bitterness spewing from Amy’s mouth. She apologized, patting Amy’s hand as she did so.
“He messed up, Amy. Badly. I’m just worried about you and the child.”
“Sorry to snap at you. But Sandra, he didn’t trust me. Nearly a year. Nearly a whole year of lots of good times, lots of intense history with me to balance out the shit. And he didn’t even give me a chance.”
“A year against thirty odd years,” Sandra murmured sagely.
Amy paused. What the fuck? She’d thought Sandra was waiting for things to go south, worried and anxious despite coming to like Dean a little. Maybe… No, she couldn’t take the risk. How many times would he find an excuse and gut her? How many times before she was destroyed totally? Who’d raise the baby right then, if she was fried emotionally?
Shaking her head she said, “I know it, Sandra. But I’ve got my own history, and I’ve run out of resilience. And trust. A rare commodity and I find I can’t live without it. And Dean can’t seem to afford it.”
The memory of his face, twisted with rage—and pain. Amy pushed it away, hard. She hurt, too, and he hadn’t let her explain, wouldn’t let her close, hadn’t even given her a tiny benefit of the doubt. And then there was the fact, just beginning to penetrate, that a rival, a criminal rival, had used her to get to Dean. All her old fears and memories of Vegas surged back, and ice filled her veins. Amy rubbed her hands together against the cold. She no longer had just her to worry about.
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 16
