by Kristen Lamb
I had no idea how to respond. I slipped on a black t-shirt with a sparkly rhinestone Hello Kitty across the chest, making my humiliation complete.
He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, his face tense. “For what it’s worth, I think it was shitty of us to do.”
“You think?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. All those career fairs, applications, interviews, and it was all for nothing.
“Please understand,” he said. “Phil did one hell of clean up job. No trails. No clues. Until bodies started popping up, we didn’t have anything but you. We were sure you were connected.” He scooted close to me and grabbed my hands. I wanted to yank them free, but couldn’t.
“What makes you so sure I’m not?” I said, clenching my teeth so I didn’t scream.
“You aren’t. I know that. My gut told me that for a long time. But that day at the 7 Eleven, when I confronted you? I knew for certain we were dead wrong. I saw it in your face. And…”
“And?”
He brushed my hair out of my eyes, his touch so gentle, his eyes deep pools of liquid silver. “And nothing you did over that year we watched you showed me a person with the character to partner with a scumbag like Phil. I knew that when you saved that young girl from dying.”
“You—?”
He slowly nodded.
“Y-You were the ones watching me from that apartment.”
He forced me to look him in the face. “Clear case of a Good Samaritan, but we didn’t want to out you. No one was concerned about someone like Cesar Gonzales.”
I had no words, couldn’t wrap my mind around all I was feeling, that I’d actually taken a life. “He died? I killed him?”
“Yes. And no. He died, but not from the head injury.” He rubbed my hands to calm me. “Gonzales was doped up on a deadly cocktail of crack and heroine. His heart gave out.”
“Explains why he went crazy on his girlfriend,” I said, numb.
“You saved her life,” he said then torment flashed across his face. “But the killings had already started. The guys in charge felt you were a dead end and wanted to reassign me. But I had to watch you a while longer.”
“Why?” I asked, tears invading my voice.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No. Not really,” I said, feeling utterly defeated.
He narrowed his eyes. “You really don’t know?”
I shook my head, but then he slipped his hand around the back of my neck and drew me to him. “Because I couldn’t let you go,” he said and his mouth came down on mine. I fell back into the soft pillows and he followed, his weight shifting on top of me. His body was solid and I melted into the feel of him wrapped around me and unbuttoned his shirt to feel the heat of his skin. This was all I’d wanted since our kiss on the big flat rock, yet I stiffened, then moved out from underneath him, trying to gather my wits.
“Romi, what’s wrong?” His skin was flushed I could see the confusion in his eyes. I wanted to go to him, to be with him, but it couldn’t happen.
“We can’t,” I said, straightening my shirt.
“But I thought you—?”
“Heather might be willing to sleep her way out of the trailer park, but I’m better than that.” I hated saying those words. They weren’t fair, but they were necessary.
He looked as if I’d slapped him. “What?”
Ice in my voice, I said, “Tell your bosses to leave me alone. If I get out of The Cactus Flower, it’s on my own. I can take care of myself.”
He rushed to my side, “Romi. It isn’t like that. I care about you. Please believe me.”
His confession took me out of left field. I wanted to fight, to hurt him and shove him away, but I was running short on allies and needed to believe. Taking a risk, I cupped my hand on the side of his face and said, “I do.”
He kissed my fingers. “You can’t go. Please. I want to be with you.”
“I know you do, and that’s why I have to leave.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense.”
“If I stay, if we go there…” I shuddered “I’ll run away. I’m good at that. I’ll run right to that safe house.”
“What’s wrong with that?” He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me, but I gently pushed him away.
“You and I both know I’m the best chance we have at figuring out what’s going on, and I can’t do that halfway across the country.”
“I can’t watch this anymore. Those places you lived. Every day wanting to help you and I couldn’t. Now I can. Let me.”
“Safe houses aren’t a permanent solution. You know that. Your favors will only go so far. The only real solution is figuring out what’s going on in this town, finding Phil and who killed Cunningham and the others. Maybe even who killed my mom. If you still want me after that…”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He now wore only a thin undershirt, and I stroked his bare muscled arms while I chose my words. I stared at the old scars, the military tattoos and realized he might know everything about me, but I still didn’t know enough about him. Finally, I said, “Right now, I’ve been a means to an end for so long that even you don’t know how you feel.”
“I know—”
I pressed my finger to his lips to stop him. “Maybe. But do you want me for me? Or is it you’re a good guy and I’m a girl in danger? Will you feel the same when the danger’s passed?”
His face was tormented, and I felt a deep ache in my chest.
“Romi. I’ve never met anyone like you. Don’t do this.”
“I want to be with you but—”
“But what?”
“I want to be with you the right way. We do this. Together. Finish it. Nail these bastards and then it’s done and I’ll be out of danger. If you still want to be with me when it’s all over, then I know it’s for me. Not to catch bad guys or out of some misguided need to protect me.”
He nodded. “I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.”
I took hold of his arms and stood up on my toes to kiss him, but this time our kiss was tender, soft. My cell phone started ringing, interrupting the moment.
Sawyer grimaced.
I smiled against his lips. “Probably for the best. Keep us honest.” I retreated from his embrace and answered the phone. It took a moment for me to recognize the voice babbling on the other end then I finally realized it was Kim.
“Kim, calm down. What’s the matter?”
Sawyer gave me a questioning look, but I shrugged.
“Everything,” she said, her voice thin with panic. “They don’t match. It’s wrong. I’ve been studying the printouts all day and it’s wrong. I can’t figure it out. First this morning, now this…”
“What’s wrong?”
“The numbers. I don’t know. I just know they’re wrong. I called you because you’re smart. We need help.”
“Let’s meet. Can I talk to JC?”
“Sure, sure.” She handed over the phone but I could hear she was hysterical in the background.
The second JC answered, I asked, “Did you switch out the window unit at my trailer?”
“Uh, yeah. You mad? I felt bad letting myself—”
“No, you’re fine. Perfect, actually. But I need that old unit.”
“Why?”
“Best you don’t know. You still have it?”
“In the back of my truck.”
“Great. I need you to bring it with you. What’s Kim talking about?”
“No clue. We were all shaken up after this morning. Decided to organize a bunch of old invoices from when we built her store and our house. We also had a bunch of paperwork from when we took out the loans to build a new facility for my business. With the sudden boom, we couldn’t handle the demand. Not enough floor space for the inventory. Anyway, Kim always does the accounting and she’s freaking out. I told her you were a brain, to call you.”
Seemed everyone in the world thought I was smart but me. Finally,
I said, “Bring Kim and whatever she’s got. I’ll help her figure out what’s wrong best I can. Meet us at the Bearcat Den. I need that unit and for you guys to lay low. Remember the dress code. Make sure you aren’t followed.”
JC was silent for a few long moments. “All right,” he said understanding my code.
“Meet us at six?” I stared at Sawyer and he nodded it was okay.
“Make it seven. I’ll drop the boys off at their coach’s house. They’re still shook up from this morning,” JC said, his voice tense and low. I could tell he was unnerved.
“See you soon and take the back way. Be safe.”
I hung up and turned to Sawyer. “Can you give me a lift?”
He looped his arms around my waist. I didn’t protest. “Where are we going?”
“First, I need to find a thrift shop. We can’t meet JC and Kim dressed like this.”
“JC and Kim?”
“Friends of mine. My gut says they might have a clue to what’s going on in this town. I’d drive but Nana’s Olds doesn’t have GPS and I’d likely end up in Mexico.”
“Clothes shopping?”
“You wanted to know my super power? Thrift stores. We have plenty of time. Then we’re headed to an old honkey-tonk. The Hog’s Nest. You’ve seen it before.”
“I have?” He stoked my hair, giving me goose bumps.
“Remember the picture I showed you? Of my mom at a party in a bar?”
“I remember.”
“It’s a biker bar and a total dive. You go in looking like this and they’ll split your skull with a beer bottle, which is why we need to go shopping. Trust me.”
“Why’d you call it the Bearcat Den?”
“Back when we were in high school, the juniors and seniors would go there because we could shoot pool and drink beer. The bikers thought it was funny to get us drunk and they liked hitting on young girls. We called it the Bearcat Den. Teenager code. I figure if the FBI was monitoring my phone, someone else might be listening, too.”
“Good thinking.” He massaged the aching muscles in my back, making it hard to focus.
“This town has too many eyes, so that’s the best place I can think of to meet.”
“My resource should join us,” he said, his face in my hair. “If JC has the unit then he can turn your evidence over to a lab. I’m ready to be done with it,” he said, nibbling my ear and neck.
“I agree. One less thing to worry about. Are you trying to distract me?”
“Is it working?” He ran his lips along my shoulders.
“Yes.” I kissed him softly.
“What do you think’s got Kim so freaked out?” he murmured against my lips.
“No idea. Guess we’ll see soon enough.”
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay here with Ben, not take on the world with Agent Sawyer.
Chapter Fifteen
The old biker boots were more comfortable than I’d expected. Granted, three pairs of work socks helped. I wore a neon pink Coyote Ugly shirt tied at the back, tight hip-hugger jeans and a heavy leather belt studded with spikes. I’d teased my hair into a trampy up-do, and wore at least a pound of makeup, complete with glittery false eyelashes, hot pink press-on nails, hoop earrings, and far too much lip-gloss. I also wore a ridiculously padded bra, which made me rethink my desire for bigger boobs. I’d already managed to nearly slam them in the door twice and the night was still young.
“You look different,” Sawyer said as he steered into the distant end of the parking lot, the large tires crunching over gravel and rock.
“Like your mother’s worst nightmare.” I slathered on another layer of body glitter.
“Look a lot like your sister.”
“Same thing.” I laughed.
“Actually, you look hot. Like Bad Sandra Dee. Always had a thing for her.” He sighed wistfully.
“Focus.” I said. Sawyer was barely recognizable. He hadn’t shaved, and wore a frayed bandana tied around his forehead and low over his eyes, biker style, ripped jeans, and a faded work shirt over a plain white undershirt. He’d traded his shoulder holster for rear-draw holster and wore an earring.
I grinned. “Never pictured you as a guy who’d get his ear pierced.”
“Navy. Lost a bet. Comes in handy sometimes. They here yet?”
“Don’t see them. They’ll be here,” I said, praying I was right.
By the time we’d crossed the lot of rock and broken glass, we were already covered in dust from the knees down. Intimidating choppers with grimy world-weathered riders rumbled past throwing up plumes of sand and gravel dust. The sounds of a lover’s spat echoed from the far side of the building. We eased past a row of motorcycles up the stained wooden stairs then stepped into a world of soupy cigarette fog and neon lights mixed with Rob Zombie songs. Though early, an eclectic crowd of bikers, rednecks, and caballeros had already formed. Most of them threw darts or played electronic poker at the bar. The half-drunk band set up amplifiers and electric guitar on a rickety homemade stage covered in cheap indoor-outdoor carpet. A burly biker hunched over the bar slipping dollar bills into an electronic slot machine. The back of his shirt read If You Can Read This, the Bitch Fell Off. As we tried to pass, a lithe man in starched jeans, roach-stomper boots, and a black Scully shirt embroidered with red roses swiveled around and stopped us. “You’re late,” he said and sipped a beer. He wore heavy gold rings and bracelets that matched the necklace with a crucifix that settled in the tanned notch at the bottom of his throat. His movements were graceful, and though he was Latino, his high cheekbones, short raven hair, and almond-shaped eyes gave him almost an Asian appearance. He blended in perfectly with the other Latino males all duded out for a night on the town. Crisp and flashy.
Sawyer leaned close to my ear and softly said, “My local resource. Angel Trevino Ortiz. Call him Angel, but don’t let the name fool you.” Sawyer said with the Spanish pronunciation, An-hel.
I hugged Angel as if we were long-lost pals. “They just let anyone in this place?”
He waved over the bartender, a tall Mexican with deep wrinkles and long braids. “Bring the señorita a beer.” He had a sultry voice with an accent as rich as dark coffee.
I stopped him. “While you’re at it, buy me one, too,” I said, jabbing Sawyer in the side.
Angel winked. “I like you,” he said, handing me a Dos Equis.
“Call me, Sandy,” I said, smiling at Sawyer who now chewed the hell out of a toothpick. A knowing look passed between the three of us. We knew we had a part to play. I dug a pack of cigarettes out of my purse and asked the bartender for a light. I hadn’t smoked since Heather dared me in eighth grade, but I knew a non-smoker would stand out here like a road flare.
Camouflage.
I leaned against the bar, letting a thin line of smoke escape the side of my lips. Sawyer flushed.
“Let’s go shoot some pool,” I said and wove through the clusters of leather-clad men and women toward the back of the bar, the two agents in tow. Sawyer had been right. JC and Kim weren’t here yet. I needed a distraction to keep me from going crazy waiting for them.
Angel racked the balls while I scanned for JC and Kim. According to my phone, it was 7:15. Even though they weren’t yet all that late, I was a wad of frayed nerves. I took a deep swallow of beer to relax me, make it easier to fall into my role. Some salespeople lied and dazzled clients with BS. I’d learned it was far more effective to simply blend in and become part of their world. Though it had been years since I played pool, it came back in an instant when I selected a pool cue and chalked the end. I gestured to Angel. “Why don’t you break?”
“Ladies first,” he said with a flourishing bow then handed Sawyer a pool stick.
Sawyer gave us both a dirty look. “That joke’s getting old.”
Angel chuckled and lit a thin cigar. “Who’s joking? Call it.”
“Stripes,” Sawyer said as he bent forward, aimed and split the balls with a loud crack. The balls scattered wildly, b
ut he didn’t sink anything.
“My turn,” I said. It was times like these I really hated being so damn short. I tried to take aim a couple times, but none of the solids were in a good position to reach easily.
“Come on. We don’t have all night,” Sawyer said and sipped a beer. He seemed to be amused by the fact I was too short to play.
I hoisted myself up on the table and threaded the cue behind my back, guiding the end of the cue through my other hand pressed on the stained felt. I could feel every man in the bar had stopped to watch me. I aimed then said, “Six ball corner pocket.” The cue met the six with a solid snap and went right in. A few bystanders cheered. I made my way to the other side of the table. My best shot was the two, but a striped eleven blocked the corner pocket. I pointed. “Two ball side pocket.”
“No way,” Sawyer said.
“Nothing else to do growing up. Play pool or tip cows.” Hitching myself on the table again, I leaned forward and readjusted the angle until I was sure I could get enough english. I struck the edge of the ball, making it spin hard and fast. It ricocheted off the wall only a fraction of an inch past the eleven then sank in the opposite side pocket, but unfortunately it brought a solid five ball with it.
