Worst Week Ever (A Long Road to Love)

by Liza O'Connor

  Dawn unbuttoned Sam’s shirt. While he appreciated her forgiving enthusiasm and was all for ‘makeup sex’, he preferred a smaller audience than forty police officers.

  He kissed her temple. “Later, sweetheart. Okay?”

  She hit his pre-tenderized chest. “I’m looking for the source of blood, you idiot.”

  Joey pushed Sam's chin up and studied the nickel- sized ring cut beneath his chin. “Bet that hurt.” He pulled out a camera and took several shots. “Any other place he marked you with his gun?”

  Sam brushed back his fallen locks and pointed to his forehead. Joey smiled as if Christmas had come early and dragged Sam to better lighting so he could take more shots.

  “Are you done?” Sam growled.

  “Not even close. I need to take your statement, starting from the moment you entered the apartment.”

  “Can this wait until Dawn and I…You know.”

  “Sorry, the after-near-death sex will have to wait. However, if you don’t argue further, I’ll let her cuddle with you while you tell me exactly what happened.”

  Sam thought it a sorry reward for getting his friend yet another gold star, but he sat in the section of the couch Master Trent preferred and pulled Dawn to his side. Grudgingly, he walked Joey through his night of almost-death by chocolate.

  When he got to suggesting Ivan needed professional help for his chocolate addiction, Joey stopped writing. “You actually said that?”

  “Yeah. Turns out I’m a funny guy in the face of death.”

  “You’re incredibly brave,” Dawn added and kissed him on his cheek.

  “Don’t touch his face. They still haven’t processed it,” Joey warned.

  Sam growled again and continued his story. One thing he knew. Hell would freeze over before he became a cop. Otherwise, until the day he died he’d hear, ‘Hey Sam, do you remember the day we processed your face?’

  —Saturday—

  Chapter 26

  Somewhere a phone purred. Trent woke and squinted at his unfamiliar surroundings. Where am I?

  He scanned the narrow room bearing only a square chair in the corner, a stand, and a narrow bed that he and Carrie shared. Finally, he remembered. Lenard had decided to keep Carrie in the hospital so she could get more rest.

  The cell phone, resting on the faux wood nightstand, purred again. He reached over Carrie and picked it up before it woke her.

  “What?” he softly barked into the phone.

  “It’s your driver,” Sam said.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Trent yelled in his fake whisper.

  “Four thirteen in the morning. I thought you might like to know you’ll need a new chef. The cops killed Ivan. Oh, and you can’t use your penthouse. It’s a crime scene.”

  Trent sat up, finally realizing what irritated him most about this call. “This is Carrie’s phone. Why are you calling her? Why do you even have her number?

  Sam sighed heavily. “I first called your number. A guy named Diggy answered and promised me the best cocaine I’ve ever had.”

  “Did you get his number? I want my phone back!”

  Sam laughed. “I’m your driver. This sounds like a challenge for your EA.”

  “Are you insane? I’m not sending Carrie to get my phone from a pusher named Diggle!”

  “Yeah, that’s a bad idea. But not to worry. I’m sure she’ll just call your provider and stop service to the phone. Otherwise, your customers are going to fly too high to require chairs.”

  “Of course.” Trent hated it when anyone other than Carrie pointed out the obvious answer that he’d missed. “Where are you?”

  “I am about to have passionate near-death-sex with a beautiful young woman so before you ask me to drive you to Long Island, I am firmly off duty, so don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Ask.”

  “For your information, it’s not possible to drive out to Long Island and back in two hours. I only wanted you to go to the penthouse and get us clothes.”

  “I just told you the penthouse is a crime scene.”

  “Which is why you have to go. I’m certain you can get in without notice. If you can’t, I’ll have my lawyer get you released.”

  “Thanks, but I’m off duty. Also, don’t let Carrie charge anything else on her credit cards. They’re maxed out and if you don’t reimburse her for her expenses from Taiwan, she’ll be swamped with collection calls.”

  Before Trent could respond, Sam hung up. Once his driver’s warning settled into his brain, Trent shook Carrie awake. She rolled onto her back and stared up at him. “Do you need reimbursed for your Taiwan expenses?”

  Worry filled her eyes. “Yes.”

  “And are your credit cards maxed out?” He vaguely remembered her telling him this before.

  Now her brow furrowed and her mouth puckered.

  “Are you in financial trouble?”

  She turned away from him and curled up into a fetal position.

  He stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.”

  After dressing in yesterday’s clothes, Trent stepped into the hospital hallway. First, he called Mars…the other one, who managed his Long Island Estate.

  “Lancaster Estate, Mars speaking.”

  “Mars, grab my gray pinstripe suit and deliver it to the Presbyterian Hospital by five this morning.” He had to be clear or the suit wouldn’t arrive until this evening.

  The butler didn’t complain about the time constraint. A one-way trip from Long Island to the city took less time at four in the morning. “And give me the name of the investigator I used five years ago to prove I had a crooked accountant.”

  He stayed on the phone while Mars sent a servant off with his gray suit along with a shirt, tie, fresh underwear, socks, and shoes. While Trent had found the additional ‘do you also want’ questions annoying, he appreciated Mars asking, or he would have felt well-dressed on the outside, but more like an unclean homeless person on the inside.

  With his clothes headed into the city, he huffed and hummed until Mars found the receipt for the investigator’s bill.

  Now armed with name and number he called the man.

  “Darren Troy,” replied a low gruff voice.

  “This is Trent Lancaster. You did a job for me five years ago.”

  “Four year limit on refunds,” the man growled and the line went dead.

  Trent hit redial and spoke the moment the line activated. “I don’t want a refund. I want to hire you to acquire a person’s bank account number.”

  “Who’s this again?”

  “Trent Lancaster.”

  “Lancaster…oh…I remember you. Master Trent.”

  “You don’t have to call me Master. You aren’t one of my servants.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  Trent glared at the phone. He didn’t remember the guy being so annoying the last time he hired him. “Are you interested in doing your job or not?”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Discovering someone’s bank account number.”

  “And what do you plan to do with it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It is if you want me to do the job.”

  “Then I’ll find someone else.”

  Trent hung up. What was wrong with people these days?

  His phone rang…well, Carrie’s phone rang. “What?” he snapped.

  “I’ll do it. Cost you five grand.”

  He didn’t mind paying for his thoughtful gesture, but no way would he pay this guy five grand just so he could wire Carrie’s expense reimbursement into her account. His fee probably exceeded her reimbursement.

  “One thousand and not a dime more.”

  After a long pause, the man sighed. “All right, one thousand for acquiring an account number which does not belong to you.”

  Trent rolled his eyes. “If it belonged to me, I wouldn’t have to pay you anything to get it, now would I?”

  “
True enough. Name of the person, name of bank and the address of both.”

  “Her name is Carrie Hanson and she lives in New Jersey. You figure out the rest.”

  “There are probably twenty Carrie Hansons in New Jersey. We’re going to need to narrow it down a bit, unless you wish all twenty numbers.”

  That would cost him a fortune—paying all the accounts to ensure he got the right one. “Hold on, let me think. She lives in a town beginning with the letter D.”

  “Give me a break here.”

  Trent almost yelled at the man, to just do his job, but stopped. The gardener he’d sent to fix Carrie’s lawn would know her address. How else could the man have found it? “I’ll call you back,” he said and hung up.

  Calling Mars…the other one…he asked for Carrie’s address.

  He expected the butler to claim he didn’t know. Instead, he requested a moment then provided the information.

  “Any chance you know her bank account number?”

  “None, whatsoever, sir.”

  Trent shrugged and hung up on the man.

  Armed with the address, he hit redial, got Mars, hung up without speaking, and found the prior call he’d made.

  “You got it?” the disgruntled investigator asked.

  Trent gave him the address.

  “You do know this illegal, right?”

  “Just do your job!”

  “All right, Mr. Lancaster. I will, under your direction, illegally obtain the bank account number of Miss Carrie Hanson of Denville, New Jersey and provide it to you.”

  God, what a drama queen!

  “Fine, just make sure you get the route numbers and shit. I’ll be doing this electronically.”

  “Got it.”

  Trent hung up, wondering why he’d ever hired the guy the first time around. What an ass!

  Still, the man seemed convinced he could get the number. Given the current state of Trent’s business, hell might freeze before he could process an expense report through normal channels, what with the head of accounting jailed and the only functioning systems person coming down from a Europa Delight Vacation.

  He could’ve asked Carrie for the wiring instructions, but he knew his EA too well. She’d refuse to take money directly from him. Just like when he tried to pay for her dress. No, if he didn’t go around her, she’d go bankrupt while waiting for his dysfunctional company to generate a check.

  Flushed with success, he called the other Mars back. “Call Sam and tell him to bring clean clothes for Carrie to the hospital.”

  Hanging up, he chuckled at his cleverness. Not even Sam would ignore an order from Mars.

  Remembering one other outstanding issue, he called Dan Marshal. He expected to wake the man up, but by the clarity of the guy’s voice when he answered, he hadn’t. “I want the HR person you promised me at my office by six this morning. Otherwise, I’m taking my business somewhere else.”

  Hopefully, this would get rid of the guy he still couldn’t remember, but didn’t like.

  “I’ll call her and let her know,” the man replied and hung up.

  Trent stared at his phone, softening his opinion of the fellow. Dan Marshal had been awake and ready to work before 5 a.m. on a Saturday and he didn’t make a single objection when given a time critical task. Maybe the reason Trent couldn’t remember him from college was because Dan ran with the idiots who spent all their time studying instead of enjoying their last years of youth.

  No matter, he was useful now.

  Trent smiled. Finally, things are going my way.

  Chapter 27

  Carrie woke to the delicious scent of Trent. She opened her eyes and smiled. His face hovered inches from hers, so close she couldn’t focus on him. “Do you need something?”

  “Are you rested and ready to get to work? We have a very busy day today.”

  She gently placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back so she could sit up. When she touched a silk tie and crisp white shirt, she focused on his beautifully cut, double-breasted suit of fine Italian wool.

  “Trent, you could’ve died going back to the penthouse to get your suit.” God, she had to watch him every second.

  He stroked her hair and frowned when his fingers caught in a tangle. “You can borrow my hairbrush. Unfortunately, you don’t have time for a shower and Sam has yet to bring your clothes, so you’ll have to wear your horrid sweat thing. Let this be a lesson. Never wear something you wouldn’t want to be photographed in. My grandmother taught me that early on and it’s served me well my whole life.”

  With a glare, she rose and stumbled to the closet to retrieve her sweats. “Well, thank God, Sam ignored you. Ivan could be at the penthouse, waiting to kill anyone who shows up.”

  “Technically, Sam ignored Mars, not me, which surprises me. He normally obeys Mars and should have this time given the cops have already caught Ivan the Terrible. Or killed him. I can’t remember. The only reason we can’t return to the penthouse is because they’ve declared it a crime scene, which you’ve proven to have no problem ignoring.”

  She wished to challenge a great deal of his tirade. “First of all, Mars should not be calling anyone. He needs rest and recovery time.”

  “The other Mars. Marston or Martin…I can’t remember which.”

  “Oh.” Honestly, she couldn’t remember either, so she let it drop and continued her objections. “How can you not remember if a person’s dead or not?”

  He shrugged. “I never bonded with the fellow. I did threaten to fire him if he ever served those shit dumplings for breakfast again, but even then I sent my threat through Mars.”

  She smiled, certain he’d complained because she hadn’t like them. While she didn’t condone threatening people, she trusted Mars softened the message to something more palatable. Which left her with only one objection.

  “I did not enter our office illegally. I called the officer in charge and asked him if I could go in. He sent a policeman over, who removed the tape.”

  Trent glanced at his watch. “It’s 5:45. Are you going to dress or not? I really want to be at work by six.”

  Carrie hurried into the small bathroom and stared longingly at the shower. A shower wouldn’t take long. Noticing both towels lay wet on the floor, she sighed heavily. By the amount of water on the floor, she guessed Trent didn’t know how to close a shower curtain.

  Upon pulling off the hospital gown, she sniffed herself. God, she smelled like a horse that escaped a raging fire, ran the Kentucky Derby then got put away wet.

  Knowing Trent wouldn’t give her much time, she turned on the shower, lathered, and rinsed as quickly as possible. Once done, she dried herself with the hand towel still hanging on the rack.

  The door thundered and rattled beneath Trent’s pounding. “We don’t have time for you to take a shower.” The door handle twisted repeatedly.

  Did he intend to storm the bathroom and carry her off wet and buck-naked? Thank God, she’d locked it. Otherwise, he’d be complaining for the rest of the day that her wet body had ruined his suit.

  She rifled through his bag, using not only his hairbrush but also his antiperspirant, toothpaste, and toothbrush. She even toyed with dotting herself with his fabulous cologne, but changed her mind, fearing female dogs would follow her down the street barking at her.

  She slipped on her sweatshirt sans dried sweat bra and dirty underwear.

  Given the inch of water on the floor, she needed dry land to put on her sweat pants. She lowered the toilet seat and climbed out of the Sea of Trent.

  Brilliant idea—as long as she didn’t fall and break her neck.

  That would be the perfect ending to the worst week in my life.

  Managing to get in her sweat pants without killing herself, she jumped off the toilet. The moment her feet hit the watery tiles she headed south. Grabbing the door knob for dear life, she righted herself, and stumbled out.

  Trent pulled her to him. “God, you’re pale as a sheet. Are you having flashbacks?�
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  Her brain didn’t have to flashback to prior near-death moments. It only needed to wait a few hours and she’d incur a new life threatening event.

  “I can’t believe you washed your hair. Now you’ve made us late.”

  “I did not wash my hair.”

  “Then why’s it so stringy?” He pulled at strand after strand.

  “It’s oily.”

  Trent stood back as if oily hair were contagious.

  His reaction hurt her feelings. No doubt his stupid grandmother had given him a warning about oily hair, as well. She huffed with annoyance. Rich people made terrible parents.

  And grandmothers.

  “Can we go now?” he demanded.

  She looked around the room, ensuring she had everything.

  What everything? It’s not as if she packed a bag of vital items before fainting.

  She had nothing but shoes to put on.

  “Are you wearing those things without socks?” His voice had pure horror in it.

  Carrie wondered which disgusted him more, the tennis shoes or the lack of socks. “Do rich people never wear tennis shoes?”

  He hesitated. “Some do, on certain occasions, such as playing tennis at the club. However, they change into and out of them in the locker room of the club. And their shoes are always clean and new.”

  “So they buy new tennis shoes each time they play?” she challenged.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She didn’t believe him for a minute. “And what do they do with the once-used shoes? Give them to poor people?”

  “Possibly. Through a third party of course.”

  After tying her shoes, Carrie stood up, trying not to laugh at the image of rich people driving through Harlem at full speed, tossing out a pair of shoes to the gang walking toward their car. Maybe the guy took a shot at Trent’s limo because he hadn’t thrown out the expected sacrificial pair of Nikes.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Just trying to make sense of life.”

  “Don’t bother. The whole world’s insane.”

  “Not all of it,” she muttered, missing her laptop and purse. “Where’s my phone?”

  Trent patted his suit. “I have it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along as he hurried from the hospital.