Bad Beat

by Carolina Mac

  “One.”

  “Only one?”

  “I don’t have a lot of stuff. I’m not into clothes.”

  “I sometimes imagine you without clothes,” I winked at him and he grinned.

  The sight of you lying sprawled naked on your bed is one I won’t soon forget.

  “I’m not going to take a lot, either. There’s fantastic shopping in Vegas, so I’ve heard, my first stop will be Victoria Secret to buy a couple of sexy items to turn on a certain someone when the time comes.”

  “You turn me on being in the same room,” he whispered and rubbed his hand down my arm. “I love you, Annie.”

  “You are God’s gift to me, Jackson Traynor.” I kissed him and messed up his perfect hair. “Do you want some breakfast before you go? I’m popping down a bagel.”

  “That’s fine for me. I think I’ll have peanut butter on it. My Dad used to spread peanut butter on everything he ate. Peanut butter reminds me of him.”

  “Is your Dad alive, honey? You never mention him.”

  “Yeah, he’s locked up in Millhaven Penn. He pulled ten years for armed robbery. I should visit him before we leave for Vegas.”

  “Definitely, you should. We could fit that in on Friday.”

  “You would have to go with me and it’s a boring drive out there—401 all the way.”

  “More fun to ride the bikes than to drive the Hummer?”

  “Fuck, yeah,” he jumped up from the table and gave me a hug. “I better load up and get over to Harley. Be back in an hour or so.” He headed for the garage.

  After Jackson left, I headed upstairs and on my way through the front foyer I remembered the porch sitter and offered Jimmie a mug of coffee. He wasn’t as big as Jackson and not as muscular. Maybe five foot nine with dark hair and a single line of facial hair along his jaw. He had a cute smile.

  “Hey, Jimmie, I’m Portia. Can I get you a coffee? Why don’t you come sit in the kitchen?”

  “The boss wants me out here, Portia, but I could use a coffee, regular. Thanks.”

  He seemed pleased that I had acknowledged his presence. I had no idea where he fit in the Regulator’s hierarchy—somewhere after Billy or Donnie. So hard to remember everything George had told me about his organization. George had certainly been more forthcoming than Jackson had been since he took over. I made Jimmie a coffee then headed upstairs.

  I hauled my suitcases out of the bedroom closet and opened them all up. Empty. They were ready to go. Matthew had always stored his luggage in the spare room closet, saying he was making more room for me. I had forgotten about it since his death but went searching thinking Jackson could use one of his cases. I hauled the larger one onto the bed and unzipped it. Inside was the smaller of the two. I placed it on the bed and unzipped it to make sure it was empty. It was not.

  I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. There were hundreds of pictures of me…different poses—different locations—at the market, at the office where I used to work, on the street, at the bank, in my car at the carwash, at the dentist. It went on and on. I was stunned. Obviously, I had been followed, and from the dates on the pictures, for most of our married life. My stomach felt queasy. Tears rolled down my face. Matthew had always treated me like a possession and his paranoia was coming back to haunt me.

  Who knows how long I sat there? I didn’t hear Jackson come into the room and he caught me staring at the piles of photographs in a kind of stupor.

  “Portia, I was calling you.” He blew out a breath. “I didn’t know where you were. What’s all this stuff?” Jackson picked up a handful of the pictures and studied them one by one. Colour rose in his face. “What kind of an asshole were you married to?” He tossed the photos in the direction of the suitcase.

  “Sorry.” I wiped at my cheeks and cleared my throat. “I was looking for a suitcase for you and this is what I found. My dearly departed was having me followed and photographed. I guess I let it get to me a little.”

  “A little? Baby, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’re shaking.” He took me by the arm and ushered me out into the hall, then he took me in his arms and held me close. “I want you to forget about that fucker, and I’ll get rid of the pictures. I’ll burn every last fucking one of them,” he hollered.

  “Get rid of the luggage as well. I don’t want your clothes touching anything that he touched,” I said. “I’m going to take a hot shower.”

  I pulled myself together after my shower and Jackson drove me to the hair salon. My foul mood lifted somewhat after seeing how much better my mop of hair looked after some professional TLC.

  “That’s better,” Jackson said as I walked towards him smiling. “Love it.” He took my hand and walked me to the Hummer.

  After a bite of lunch, we drove Angel to the vet clinic for her check-up and her shots. She was wary of the examination room and did a little growling at a pair of Persian cats waiting in carry cages for their turn, but overall, she behaved quite well. The vet suggested cutting back on her treats because Rottweiler’s tend to get a little heavy as they get older—something Angel didn’t want to hear.

  Later, I made an appointment with the investment dude at my new bank for the following day to liquidate some of the certificates I had stashed in my safety deposit box. Money needed to be freed up for Jackson to play in tournaments with hefty buy-ins in Vegas.

  Matthew had never felt it necessary during our volatile marriage to discuss any business transactions with me. His opinion of women in business was well known in his social circle. He was a chauvinist but left me well provided for, even if it had been accidental. I intended to seek out an investment counselor when I got settled in Vegas and make a solid plan for the future.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DARK SKIES AND forecasts of impending thunderstorms threatened as Jackson dropped me in front of the bank. He was on his way to having the Hummer serviced at the dealership, after which he would double back and pick me up. He’d wanted Jimmie to shadow me, but I vetoed the idea saying the bank should be safe enough. Jackson was kicking up a lot of fuss for nothing—in my opinion. I could take care of myself.

  For my appointment with the investment manager, Clayton Stonebrook, I wore the black silk suit and stiletto heels I had bought for Matthew’s funeral. When I arrived, he welcomed me into his glassed-in cubicle and introduced himself. He was not a tall man, stocky and tanned. His navy suit looked expensive and his grooming immaculate but his expensive cologne was overpowering.

  “I’m Portia Talbot,” I said as I extended my hand.

  “What can I do for you today, Mrs. Talbot?” he gave me the once over, presumably estimating the cost of my outfit.

  “I have a few gold certificates that I need to convert to cash. Can you assist me with something like that?”

  “Certainly, that’s what I’m here for,” he said with a condescending smirk. “Do you want to get them now, and we’ll take a look at what you have?”

  Treat me like a bimbo and you’ll be sorry.

  As I made the trip to the vault with one of the tellers I caught a glimpse of someone familiar on the sidewalk in front of the bank. “Jimmie,” I mumbled to myself. I put him out of my mind and retrieved one of my bundles of certificates.

  This should be enough.

  On returning to Mr. Stonebrook’s office, I removed the elastic bands and smoothed out the curled certificates. Sliding the pile across the desk, I said, “I have no idea what gold is selling for today, perhaps you could tell me.”

  Mr. Stonebrook held down the curled edges of the top certificate to read the particulars.

  He raised his eyebrows and then snapped his gaping mouth closed. “These are quite valuable, Mrs. Talbot. Are you sure you want to surrender this many?”

  “Quite sure,” I said, “How long will it take for the transaction to be completed?”

  “By end of the week, the money should be in your account. Did you want me to start the paperwork?”

  “Yes, please,” I smiled
my best little girl smile.

  “Could I ask why you need this much money all at once, without seeming rude?”

  “I’m moving to Nevada and I need to access the money with a bank card until I open an account in Las Vegas.”

  “That makes sense. There will be forms to file for Revenue Canada.”

  “All good. I’ll make sure my accountant gets copies of the paperwork.”

  Mr. Stonebrook looked up from his computer and frowned. I turned to see Jackson coming towards the office in cut-offs, a Harley t-shirt and his big boots with the heavy chains clanking as he walked. A red bandana tied his long hair back. I smiled and waved him in.

  “This is Jackson Traynor, my bodyguard.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Traynor,” he said icily as he eyeballed the python curling down Jackson’s arm. “We’re finishing up some business if you would like to wait in the seating area out there.” He pointed to some chairs on the other side of the bank lobby.

  “He’ll wait with me,” I said. “Pointless to have a bodyguard, if he’s nowhere near my body.” I laughed and pointed to the vacant chair. Jackson sat down.

  Mr. Stonebrook left the cubicle in a huff and returned ten minutes later with the paperwork ready to sign. “I need your signature here and here,” he said, indicating the lines with exes. “That will do it, Mrs. Talbot. You can check your account, end of day tomorrow. Any problems, please call my direct number. He handed me one of his cheap white cards.

  “Thank you,” I said taking Jackson’s hand and walking out of the office. “One more thing before we leave the bank, sweetie. I want to get a US credit card.”

  Jackson nodded. “I’ll stand out front and have a smoke. Did I mention how beautiful you look today, Annie?” He kissed me on the cheek and left me at the reception desk.

  I rejoined him outside a few minutes later. “That’s all done. I hate bankers. They patronize you and pretend they have your best interests at heart, but they are money grubbing vultures for the most part.”

  Jackson took a step back chuckling. “Glad you’re not mad at me.”

  “Never be mad at you, honey boy.” I kissed him on the sidewalk in front of the bank. “Let’s go home, I want to change out of these clothes,” I grumbled.

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Thought I saw Jimmie in front of the bank,” I said trying not to sound bitchy.

  Jackson raised his eyebrows and grinned at me.

  So what if he wants to protect me?

  On the drive home I was feeling strong urges for Jackson, looking at his bare legs and the tats glowing on his arms.

  If I’m feeling this strongly about Jackson, maybe it’s time for me to move on.

  I reached across the console in the Hummer and rubbed his bare leg. Just touching his skin and watching him drive with his big clunky Harley boots on raised my pulse rate. While he parked the Hummer, I could barely control my hormones until we got off the driveway and out of view of the neighbors. I was panting as I kicked the front door closed with one of my stilettos, pressed my body against his and pinned him up against the door.

  “Jackson, I need you,” I gasped as I unzipped his cutoffs and slid my hand down the inside of his thigh.

  It’s been so long for me.

  “Jesus,” he said, as he kissed me, pulling me tight up against him.

  I pushed his shorts down to his knees, dropped the skirt of my seven-hundred-dollar suit onto the marble tile and pulled Jackson down on top of me. He pressed his lips on mine and I welcomed his tongue into my mouth with a loud growl.

  I yelled, “Giver, bad boy.” The moment he entered me, I had an orgasm so intense he couldn’t hold back. We lay on the cold foyer floor gasping for breath.

  “What the fuck was that?” Jackson panted.

  “I think my sex drive is slipping into high gear,” I giggled.

  “Fuck, baby. Hope you don’t have overdrive.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SOUND OF the shower woke me. It was barely seven but we had talked about being on the road by nine for the trip to Millhaven prison. Summoning what little energy my body had to offer, I padded downstairs, brewed a pot of coffee and set out the fixings. Angel was already in the back yard and she charged up to the patio door when she saw me through the glass.

  “Hey, girl, you’re up early.” I rubbed the fur around her neck and was about to give her a treat when I remembered what the vet had said. “Too many treats make you fat.” I cuddled her.

  “I want a treat,” Jackson said with a grin, as he came through the kitchen door. His damp hair curled around his neck and the sight of his bare torso filled my head with shameful thoughts.

  I winked at him. “You had a treat last night.”

  “I forgot.” He poured cream into his coffee and sat down at the table with the sugar bowl.

  I’ll try to be more memorable in the future.” I made a pouty face.

  “You couldn’t be,” he said. “I can’t shake the front hall thing out of my mind.”

  I laughed at him. “Do you want scrambled eggs before we hit the road?” I opened the fridge and set a carton of eggs on the counter.

  “Yeah, it’s a long boring trip down there. We better eat something.”

  “Tell me about the prison while I’m making breakfast. I want to know what to expect.”

  “Well, it’s big, but not a big as Kingston Penn—more than four hundred inmates. Legend says that Millhaven was built on a native burial ground and is cursed forever. There’s always a lot of bad stuff happening there between the inmates—fighting and killing.”

  I shivered.

  “The guards will search us and our saddlebags at the gate when we enter the property. Inside, I’ll only be able to talk to my dad on a phone through a glass wall. He’s in a restricted wing where they don’t let the inmates into an open room with visitors.”

  “Why? Is he… more dangerous?”

  Jackson stared out the patio doors and didn’t answer.

  “Sounds ominous. Did you call and tell them you were coming?”

  “Uh huh.” Jackson made short work of his eggs and started on his fourth slice of toast.

  “I’ll grab a quick shower and be ready in ten.” I kissed him on the neck and went upstairs. I dressed in my leathers, pulled on my boots and went downstairs to gather up the rest of my gear.

  Jackson hadn’t moved. He sat like a statue at the kitchen table staring into space.

  I stood behind him and stroked his long hair. “What’s up? Are you nervous?”

  “I get a little crazy when I have to go near that place.”

  “When was the last time you saw your father?” I asked. “Did you guys get along when you were growing up?”

  Jackson had lapsed into a state of melancholy and he paced while he talked about his father. The tone of his voice gave me shivers. “I think it was back in April, the last time I went to visit him. He was mad as hell because he got caught fighting out in the exercise yard and the warden added more time to his sentence. He wouldn’t talk to me after I rode all the way down there and I swore to him I wouldn’t be coming back.” He pounded his fist into his other hand and kept talking. “When I was growing up and lived with him, he’d get drunk and beat me up. He blamed me for every bad thing that ever happened to him—even said it was my fault my Mom died.” Jackson dropped his chin onto his chest. “I ran away when I was sixteen.”

  “Why do you go visit him if you have a lot of bad memories?”

  “Every fuckin time I ask myself that. I make myself go because he’s the only family I’ve got and it’s safe to see him in prison with a glass wall between us. He’s got ten years to go and who knows, maybe this time he’ll be glad I came.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I said, hoping it was true. “You can change your mind. Don’t go at all if it upsets you.”

  “If I’m going away, even for a few weeks, I should go in case I never see him again. Cons get offed in prison every day. That’s the only
reason I was thinking of changing my mind and making the trip.”

  “You can always write to him from Vegas.”

  “I’m no good at writing fuckin’ letters.” Jackson shook his head.

  “I am. Let’s go.”

  Our route took us east of Toronto, along the 401 to Napanee. We stopped once for gas at the cut-off before turning south towards Lake Ontario. Jackson led the way to the compound and I pulled up behind him at the gate. At first glance the prison presented a cold and foreboding sight—the thirty-foot high fence around the perimeter crowned with razor wire and at each of the corners sat a watch tower manned by armed guards. I sucked in a quick breath.

  The guard holding the clipboard at the gate wore a utility belt holding an arsenal of items he could draw on—pepper spray, a steel baton, a sidearm and I caught a glimpse of a shotgun in the small guard house. He scanned his list for our names, checked us off and motioned us through the gate. After the search, Jackson went into the office and I sat outside on a bench near the visitors’ parking. While I waited, I watched the armed patrol vehicles go by at timed intervals. These boys weren’t taking any chances.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JACKSON SAT IN the visitor’s room after being searched and his heart pounded as he waited for a guard to bring Stan Traynor into the area on the other side of the glass. He sucked in a couple of gulps of oxygen to calm himself. He fidgeted with his sweaty hands, desperately needing a smoke. As long as he could remember, he had never relaxed in his father’s presence. Jackson could barely breathe remembering the last time he had been here—Stan’s cold eyes staring through the glass without a flicker of recognition. His father sat and stared that icy stare and didn’t speak one single word. He hoped this trip wasn’t a waste of time and gas.

  “Hey son, glad to see you,” hollered Stan into the phone as he grabbed it off the hook. He sat down and gave Jackson a broad grin that showed off his swarthy good looks.

  “Hi, Dad. Didn’t know if you would be glad to see me.”