Was their father close to turning himself in? Was he growing tired of life on the lam? Was that why he’d gotten sloppy and left fingerprints at a crime scene? She shook her head, trying to imagine her parents as a crime duo—her dad wielding a gun while her mom walked around holding open a designer bag for everyone to deposit their wallet in.
Frankly, the most ludicrous part of it all was the thought of Valerie entering a Holiday Inn. If her mother had any say, they would hold up only five-star establishments.
No, Carlotta couldn’t picture her parents as armed robbers. They wouldn’t have to resort to anything so overt. Randolph Wren could charm anyone out of his or her life savings, and Valerie was the kind of woman that men threw money at. Model-thin and beautiful, with an aura that mesmerized those around her, she was movie-star glamorous, and everyone had been happy to be in her entourage. Carlotta suspected that being on the run had been hard for her mother, who was accustomed to lavish attention. But it only demonstrated how emotionally dependent she was on Randolph…and on her vodka.
The phone rang, rousing Carlotta from her dark thoughts.
“Hello?”
“It’s Coop.”
She smiled into the phone. “Hi, there. You just missed Wesley.”
“That’s okay. It’s you I want.”
She gave a little laugh, enjoying the easy flirtation. “In that case, what can I do for you, sir?”
He groaned. “So many things. Seriously, though, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Are you kidding? I’m so bored, I’m cleaning.”
“I figured you might be going stir-crazy being off work, so I have a proposition.”
She pursed her mouth. “I’m listening.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly romantic, but I have a VIP body pickup in Boca Raton, and I wondered if you’d like to ride along. We could leave tomorrow and have a couple of days of fun in the sun beforehand.”
“Boca Raton? Oh, my God, is it Kiki Deerling?”
“You know her?”
“Just from television. She’s hard to miss.”
“Yes. This trip is to pick up her body, but no one can know about it. I signed a confidentiality agreement, so mum’s the word.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“So how about it? Want to hit the road for a few days? Separate rooms, of course…unless I can persuade you otherwise.”
She laughed at his teasing tone, but entertained a little shiver of excitement. A few days alone with Coop, getting to know each other, no pressure. He wasn’t holding a ring for her, and he wasn’t hell-bent on capturing her father. His only angle was tempting her with sandy beaches and icy drinks.
Suddenly Carlotta’s mind raced to assemble disparate bits of information. “I’ve never been to Boca Raton and my geography is a little rusty. Would we be driving close to Daytona Beach?”
“Right through it, as a matter of fact.”
A wicked smile curved Carlotta’s mouth. “What time do we leave?”
7
Wesley squeezed the hand brake on his bike and grunted when pain seized the muscles under the bandage on his forearm. He’d convinced Peter not to take him to the emergency room for stitches, but that meant the wounds would take longer to heal.
His opinion of Peter Ashford had never been high. Wesley had been young when the guy had dumped his sister shortly after their parents had left town. But he remembered how Carlotta had cried herself to sleep holding Peter’s picture, how the man’s absence seemed to affect her more than the absence of their parents. Probably because, like Wesley, she had expected their parents to return any day. Peter, on the other hand, had apparently made it clear he wasn’t coming back.
Carlotta had been devastated, and Wesley knew she blamed their folks for Peter breaking the engagement. She’d said he hadn’t wanted his family name intertwined with theirs, tainted from their father’s behavior. As Wesley had grown older, though, he’d blamed himself for Peter leaving. It seemed obvious that the man hadn’t wanted to be saddled with a kid.
But since Peter’s wife had died, he’d certainly been trying to make up for his past behavior, coming around and acting protective of Carlotta. When Wesley started to feel bad about taking advantage of Peter’s guilt, he told himself that he was doing the man a favor, giving him a chance to get back into the Wrens’ good graces. Peter had agreed not to tell Carlotta about the incident at The Carver’s warehouse—or the money that had changed hands—and for that, Wesley was grateful.
He must have been one hell of a mess judging from the expression on Peter’s face when he’d picked Wesley up at the prescribed badass corner after Mouse had counted the cash with his thick fingers. Ashford hadn’t said, but he was probably glad he’d driven his luxury SUV instead of his Porsche to shuttle Wesley and his bike home. Still, it was going to be hard to get bloodstains out of leather upholstery.
To his credit, the man had asked only if Wesley wanted to go to the hospital, holding his tongue about what had transpired until after Wesley had showered and eaten a pizza that Peter had ordered. Then, while he cleaned the wound on Wesley’s arm and wrapped it with a bandage, he’d extracted the story one well-placed question at a time.
The guy should’ve been a lawyer, Wesley thought wryly.
He wheeled into the parking lot of the building that housed the probation office to which he’d been assigned after his arrest for breaking into the courthouse computer. Once a week he checked in with E. Jones, his surprisingly hot probation officer, who cut him zero slack. His pulse picked up just at the thought of seeing E. In those dark moments when it looked as if he might not get out of that dingy, windowless room alive, he’d imagined E.’s smile and the way her red hair fell over her shoulders. She was way out of his league, but he could dream.
He locked up his bike and slung his backpack over his shoulder with his good arm. His cell phone rang. Both the movement of retrieving it and the name on the display made him wince—Liz Fischer. He connected the call. “This is Wes.”
“Wes,” she crooned. “It’s Liz.”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I was just calling to see if you were okay. After your phone call yesterday, I was worried.”
Right. “I’m fine.”
“I hope you understand why I couldn’t get involved, Wes.”
“I do.”
“Good. But I’d like to make it up to you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What did you have in mind?”
“Come over tonight.”
His cock twitched. There was no denying the woman was a looker, and great in the sack. But he wasn’t sure he could trust her.
Of course, she had no reason to trust him, either. He had ransacked her files on his father’s case in her guesthouse, the place where she stored her archives, as well as “entertained.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t take too long,” she said, then hung up.
He put away the phone and walked into the building, thinking he could do worse for evening entertainment. But he’d been planning to cook a nice dinner for Carlotta, considering she’d been so worried about him, and that her already pathetic kitchen skills were now further hampered by the cast on her arm.
Even though his own dexterity would be curbed somewhat by his bandage, he could outcook Carlotta using only his thumbs and elbows. It was a good thing she was so damn pretty—no man was going to marry her for her culinary skills.
He walked into the now-familiar office and nodded to the now-familiar surly woman behind the checkin desk. “Wesley Wren to see E. Jones.” He scanned the waiting room as nonchalantly as possible. The Carver had once sent a man here to remind Wesley that he was behind on his payments, and the thug had punctuated the message by snubbing out his cigar on Wesley’s hand. That wound was still pink and puckering. If he didn’t find a way to get out of debt soon, his entire body would look like a strip of badly cut meat. Thankfully, though, no one i
n the room seemed to care he was there.
The old bat at the window sniffed. “You can go on back.”
He walked to E.’s office door, adjusted the sleeve of his shirt so that it didn’t emphasize the bandage underneath, and rapped.
“Come in.”
He swung open the door and miserably pondered the tightening of his chest when Eldora Jones lifted her green-eyed gaze to his.
“Hello, Wesley.”
“Hi.”
“Have a seat.”
He did, across from her desk. She wore a white buttoned-up blouse that might have been prim if not for the curves it clung to.
“How are you?” she asked. Her voice sounded friendly, but he’d been meeting with her long enough to know that even an innocuous question was usually leading somewhere.
“Good.”
“Why did you miss our appointment yesterday?”
He shifted in his chair. “I…was with some guys, lost track of time. Sorry.”
“You couldn’t call?”
“Battery on my phone died.”
“Your sister was really worried. She was afraid you were hurt.”
“I’m fine.” He smiled and lifted his hands, but the motion pulled the tightened skin under the bandage. The sudden pain took his breath away and made his arm jerk involuntarily.
“Did something happen to your arm?” she asked.
“Bicycle accident,” he said, continuing with his lie. “I scraped it.”
She studied his face with a half smile, her green eyes saying she didn’t believe him. “Sounds as if you were lucky. You could’ve been hurt much worse.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“You do realize that missing your scheduled meetings is a violation of your probation?”
Wesley wet his lips. “Thanks for letting me reschedule.”
“Next time you won’t get off so easily.”
He nodded.
“But I’m glad you’re okay,” she added softly.
He glanced up sharply at her tone. She sounded as if she…cared. But E. averted her gaze, cleared her throat and opened his file folder, back to business.
“I heard from Richard McCormick. He said he was very impressed with your computer knowledge when the two of you spoke. He said if your community service work goes well, he might even consider hiring you.”
Wesley knew it was meant to be a compliment, but he had no intention of toiling away in a cubicle for city wages until he keeled over. “He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“When do you start?”
“Monday.”
“Is that going to be a problem with your body-moving job?”
“Nah, Coop’s cool with my community service. He said he’d work around it.”
She made a couple of notes, then closed his folder. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”
“Thanks for the concert tickets. I heard Elton was great.”
“Yeah, the show went on after they took your sister to the hospital. I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Thanks.” He fidgeted. “Did your boyfriend enjoy it?”
A little wrinkle appeared in her forehead. “Leonard? Yes, he enjoyed the concert.”
Wes’s mouth watered. He wanted so badly to tell her that the concert wasn’t the first place he’d met Leonard.
E. sat back in her chair. “Are you gambling?”
“No.” Not at this very moment, anyway.
“Still hanging out with that drug-dealer friend of yours?”
E. had intercepted him on an errand Chance had asked him to run in exchange for money Wesley owed him. Wesley hadn’t known for certain what was in the gym bag, but he’d had a pretty good idea. E. had allowed him to take the bag back to “where it came from,” without any repercussions.
“He’s not a bad guy,” he said of his friend Chance.
“He’s going to land you behind bars…or worse.”
Wesley wiped his hand over his mouth to keep from telling her that her boyfriend, Leonard, was also keeping company with his drug-dealing friend. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he responded, standing. “Are we through?”
E. pressed her lips together, then gave a curt nod. “I’ll see you next week. Take care of that arm.”
Wesley left the building in a foul mood. By the time he rode to Chance’s condo, his arm was throbbing.
His chuffy friend grinned widely when he opened the door. “Dude—you’re alive!”
Wesley howled in pain when Chance pulled him into a choke hold hug. “Watch my arm, man.”
“What happened to it?”
Wesley set his jaw against the pain, leaning over and holding his arm. When he could talk again he said, “My loan officer decided to take a pound of flesh.”
“Is it broken?”
“No. I don’t think that would hurt as bad.” Although Carlotta might argue the point.
Chance dug into his pocket. “Here, dude, take a couple of these.”
Wesley stared at the white pills suspiciously. “What are they?”
“OxyContin. It’s great stuff, man. Will make you feel good fast.”
“Thanks.” He took one and swallowed it dry.
Chance dumped the rest into Wesley’s hand. “For later, dude. If you want to feel like you’ve just been laid by the woman of your dreams, chew it. Want something to drink?”
“Soda, if you have it.”
“Coming up. What the hell happened to you?”
“I went to try to patch things up with The Carver.”
Chance’s eyes bulged. “Dude! Are you suicidal?”
“I thought it was the best thing to do, under the circumstances. He was going to come after me eventually.”
Chance cracked open a can of Mountain Dew and handed it to Wesley. “So what did he do to you?”
“Cut me up a little.”
“Really? I always wondered if the rumors were true. Did he use a bowie knife?”
“Switchblade.”
“Cool.” Then his friend blanched. “I mean—fuck. That had to hurt like a son of a bitch.”
“Yeah.”
“And he wanted twenty-five grand?”
“Yeah. A fee for pain and suffering, he called it.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help you out, man.”
“That’s okay. I got it.”
“Where?”
“Friend of the family.”
“Sweet. So does that clear your debt with The Carver?”
“Hell, no. Like I said, that was just a fee to let me keep breathing. I still owe the guy, like, twelve grand. But I’m making payments.”
“I’m glad you’re back. I have an economics exam next week. Think you could take it for me?”
Chance’s sense of self-preservation was more keen than anyone’s he’d ever met. “Sure. Meanwhile, I need a game. Can you keep your ears open?”
Chance grinned. “Sure.”
“I’ll need a bankroll. Same deal as before—you pay the sit fee, we split the winnings?”
“Deal. I’ll make some phone calls right now. Have a seat, man, and let the drug kick in.”
Wesley walked into the living room—a bachelor’s dream of black leather furniture and oversize electronics. Predictably, the large flat screen was showing porn, this one of a homemade variety. What the film lacked in quality it made up for in candid angles. Wesley switched the input to the latest Xbox gaming system and pulled up Poker Smash. He settled into a chair and played a few hands. The adrenaline and the caffeine helped to speed the painkiller through his system. He glanced around at Chance’s toys, conceding that his friend lived a charmed life.
His life would’ve been like this if his father hadn’t been forced to abandon his family. Wesley remembered the piles of toys he’d had when he was little, the expansive bedroom painted with blue sailboats, the platform that had held a running train with a real switching station, the navy-and-gray uniform of the private school he’d attended. When his father had been i
ndicted, the train had been sold along with the house. And although Wesley had been allowed to finish the year at his school, by the next fall, his parents had been gone for several months. Carlotta had sat him down and explained that they didn’t have the money for private school, and soothed him with the promise that he’d have much more fun in public school, anyway.
He hadn’t. He’d been a shy, smart little kid with big glasses, a prime target for bullies. And he’d missed his parents terribly. He’d saved his acting out for home. In hindsight, he’d been a real pain in the ass to his sister…and it seemed that things hadn’t changed much. Ten years later, he was still getting shoved around, and was still being a pain in the ass to his sister.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Get that, will you, man?” Chance shouted.
Wesley looked up to see his friend talking on his cell phone in the kitchen and scribbling on a piece of paper. He pushed himself to his feet and got a head rush from the painkiller. Chance was right—the OxyContin was damn good stuff. Wes walked carefully to the door and opened it, then balked.
E.’s boyfriend, Leonard, stood there, tall, dark and beefy. “Is Hollander around?”
“Uh, yeah, he’s on the phone. Come on in.”
When Wesley stepped aside to allow him to pass, he noticed the man was carrying a black gym bag similar to the one that Chance had asked him to deliver to some shady character in a shadier part of town—the errand that E. had thwarted. It was ironic that her boyfriend appeared to have picked up where Wesley’d left off.
He closed the door. “I’m Wes.”
Leonard flicked his gaze over him as he paced. “Yeah, we’ve met before.”
“Right. I didn’t know if you—”
“Hollander!” Leonard yelled, obviously impatient.
From the kitchen, Chance held up a finger—his middle one—but wrapped up his conversation and snapped his phone closed. “Wes,” he said, striding toward them, “there’s a big game next Wednesday and you’re in it. Five grand a seat, twenty seats, and the pot is forty large, twenty to the winner.”
Wesley nodded, but glanced sideways at Leonard. He didn’t trust the man with his business, and it didn’t help that he pretty much hated him for being with E. in the first place, and deceiving her to boot. He looked at Chance. “I’m outta here. Call you later.”
Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body Page 5
