by Heidi Lowe
“I think it's happening again,” was all she said, and all she needed to say for his face to lose its cheer, for his eyes to fill with concern. It was that look she had feared the most.
“Man,” he said, letting out a troubled breath. “You sure?”
She nodded solemnly. “It feels like it. I mean, it's different but... it's the same, you know.”
“Willa, you can't let that happen again. I'm not out there to look after you this time, if it happens again...” He shook his head. “You've got too much responsibility now, too many people relying on you.”
“I know that,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don't you think I know that? God, Marley, every day I'm reminded of my responsibility. I eat, sleep and breathe it.”
“Who's the girl?”
She closed her eyes slowly, didn't open them until the words had escaped her lips. “She's a cop.”
“Damn, Willa! A cop? Are you out of your mind?”
“Clearly.” She couldn't look him in the eye, not now. “Marley, I tried. I tried not to go back to that place, especially with someone like her, but she kept showing up. She was always there, following me. It started out as a game of her chasing me, me losing her, and then... And then it wasn't a game anymore. We slept together... twice.”
“That's fucked up. But I don't need to tell you that. A cop? That's the sort of shit that could get you killed if the others found out. You start messing around with the pigs, you expose the whole family.”
“I know.”
“Please don't tell me this one's straight too?” When she didn't meet his gaze, he got his answer. “Straight and a cop. Damn.”
“It isn't like that this time, though. It's different. She's just done a thing her whole life and thought it was the norm, didn't realize she could do something else, something that was a better fit for her.” She could hear herself rambling, not making much sense, but she couldn't help herself. This was how it was the last time; rationalizing when she should have been separating herself from the object of her desires.
“You can't let this happen again, Willa,” Marley said, more serious than he'd ever been. “There won't be anyone to call if you have a bad turn and find yourself sitting on your bed, locked away in your room, pointing a gun to your head while downing a bottle of vodka, after having swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills.”
It was probably more frightening for him than it ever had been for her. She had wanted to die; he didn't want her to. At the time he'd gone to Rhode Island with friends. Luckily for everyone he was in the city when she called him. He screamed at her, having kicked her dorm room door down, finding her with a tear-stained face. Then he'd carried her out of the building, to his car, and drove her to the nearest hospital. As she drifted in and out of consciousness, the pills taking effect, the only thing she really remembered about that car journey was seeing him cry. The only time she ever had.
“Over a bitch?” he'd screamed. “You wanna end it all over a bitch?”
For nine years it had seemed silly, like it had happened to someone else and she'd been a spectator. But now, as she felt the feelings resurfacing, she had come to the conclusion that, up until now, no other woman had been worth it.
“I never want to feel that low again. But there's something about this woman that makes me want to take that risk. What if it isn't like last time? What if there's really something there?”
“Would you bet your life on it? Because that's what will happen. There's only two ways this can end: with you in jail, or you in a body bag.”
“Isn't that how it's always been, though? Look at the life I live, the job I do. Those were only ever going to be my choices.”
Their father had said it best many years ago, when she was still young and ideological: “If you go down this path, your destiny is already written out for you. You either end up behind bars or six feet under. What you have to spend your time doing is ensuring both of those things stay as far in the future as you can keep them.”
“Sounds like you didn't come here for me to talk you out of it; sounds like you already made up your mind.” He crossed his arms, looking vexed. If she told him he looked like their father when he did that, he would probably never speak to her again.
“I haven't. I just needed someone to talk to. Someone who knows.”
“Willa, when I see the outside of this place, I want it to be when I win my appeal, not because I have to bury my baby sister.”
He always knew the right words to hit the right place. Of course she could take the risk – it was her life, after all. But she didn't want to put her family through that. The others didn't know about the last girl in college; she wanted to keep it that way.
“So you think I should stay away from her, even though being away from her makes me more and more anxious to see her, makes it hard to think clearly?”
“That's exactly why you need to stay away from her. You'll get over it. You'll get over her.”
Perhaps it was the disappointment in his eyes that made her cast her own away, or maybe it was the fact that even as he advised her to do one thing, she knew she was going to do the opposite. It was like seeing her own demise and not being willing or able to prevent it. And speaking about Layke only made her want to see her more.
“It's been two months of making stupid choices.” She decided that a change of subject was a good idea, though this topic gave her just as many sleepless nights. “I'm meeting with some not very nice people this evening, to sell some not very nice goods.”
“This got something to do with the Italians?”
“In a manner of speaking. Have they been making trouble for you?”
He shook his head, his expression saying 'as if'. “I been here three years, sis. This is my playground.”
They spent the rest of the visit talking business, planning what he would do if his appeal was granted.
Outside the prison, Willa tapped on the glass of the car door. Little Johnny looked up from his book, unlocked the central-locking for her.
When she was in the car, she lifted the book off his lap, looked at the cover. “The Secret? I wouldn't have pegged you as the self-help sort, Little J.” She laughed. “How is it?”
He shrugged. “Good.”
“Marley said to say hi, by the way. I told him you wanted to come inside with me next time. He's looking forward to the long and in depth talk,” she teased. “All right, we're not meeting with the Armenians until later. I've got a couple of things to do back at the apartment first.”
He started up the car, and she switched on a mix tape Noah had made for her. None of the songs were to her liking, but anything was better than sitting in silence for half an hour. She loved Little Johnny like a brother, but he made for terrible company. It was like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone getting him to talk. In spite of this, he remained her first choice of driver on all her errands, as he had been when her father was alive. She didn't need a loquacious henchman, she needed a tough and loyal one.
Willa steadied her hand so the phone pressed against her ear wouldn't shake so much. She scolded herself internally, insisted that she grow a pair of balls and stop being such a girl. The last time she'd felt this nervous about calling a girl was that time, the time she wanted to forget. Back then her aloof persona was a couple of years away in the making, so she'd had no mask to wear in order to conceal her crippling anxiety over simply hearing her paramour's voice again. But it really was different this time. Not only did she have no right to the number, she highly suspected the call would not be well-received. The timing, she knew, would be a problem. But she needed to do it this way. Her plan of attack was always to strike at the most inopportune time, at the least expected moment. And if she were being completely honest with herself, she just wanted to hear Layke's voice before the impending sit down; for some reason it calmed her.
She hit the call button.
“Is that me or you?” Corman asked, crouched down on the mud, staring at the cadaver of
a young Chinese woman who, judging by the red marks around her neck, had been strangled to death. A cell phone rang.
Layke straightened up, feeling the vibration in the inside pocket of her jacket. “It's me.” She fished out her cell phone, looked at the screen and didn't recognize the caller I.D. “Detective Owen speaking.”
“Ooo, I like that. Sounds all professional and important.”
Layke swallowed, her face losing its color. She certainly recognized the voice, and that cruel, dangerously sexy laugh. “What can I do for you?” She looked at Corman anxiously, then nervously at the other officers and forensics team around her.
“You know who this is?”
“I do.”
“You can't talk?” Willa sniffed a laugh.
“That's correct.”
“I bet you're wondering how I got this number, aren't you?”
“Not really,” Layke said carefully. “Now isn't a good time. Could you call back another time, maybe?”
“If you're thinking of hanging up on me, don't. I'll call back, I'll call the office, and when I ask for you I might even leave my real name.”
“Everything all right?” Corman gazed up at her, noticed that she was on edge.
She forced a smile. “It's just someone calling about fixing my plumbing. I have to take this.” She hurried off somewhere quieter, where no one could hear.
Willa chuckled. “Interesting choice of words, detective. Someone to fix your plumbing. I'm glad you have a sense of humor about it. I would love to work on your plumbing again some time.”
“What the hell do you want?” Layke growled. “You can't call me now. I'm out in the field.”
“Is that really a way to talk to the woman who gave you your first g-spot orgasm? Wait, your first and second.”
“I'm not having this conversation with you. You're way out of line calling me like this. What do you want?” Layke demanded.
“I want to see you again.”
“That's not going to happen.”
“Tell me, have you been thinking about me as much as I've been thinking about you? Because I've been thinking about you a lot lately...”
Layke swallowed again. She would never admit that there hadn't been a day since their shower-tryst over a week ago that she hadn't thought about Willa; not a night when she hadn't strummed her own bean, her eyes closed and imagining that it was Willa's hand between her legs instead of her own. She could never admit that. “No.”
“Liar!” Willa said with a laugh. “Tell the truth.”
“The only time I've thought about you is imagining you behind bars, spending the rest of your life in an orange jumpsuit, where some fat girl with a mustache and an overbite has made you her bitch!”
“Really, that's what gets you off?”
“That's right.”
Willa only laughed. “You know what gets me off, detective? Remembering the feel of you on my fingers as I entered you for the first time. Feeling how tight and wet you were, ready and waiting for me. Hearing you moan and groan and curse like a commoner as I plowed into you, over and over and over...”
“Stop it,” Layke said, or rather pleaded, her voice low and weak. Goddamn it, it was happening again. She felt the moistness, the warmth, the throb. Just words! All she'd used was her words, and that was enough to unravel Layke.
“Hitting that target, like a bull's-eye, sending you into a frenzy. That was truly magical. I'm glad I was the first one to give that to you.”
“You're a piece of crap, you know that?”
“I've been called worse. So when can I see you again?”
“How about never? How's that for you?” Layke fired back. She also wasn't going to admit this, but the back and forth, the constant arguing, she loved it. In any other relationship she would have walked away, let the other person win, but not with Willa. Snappy comebacks, playing the tough guy, it was all fun for her, even though it shouldn't have been. Anyone else would have hung up on Willa as soon as they heard her voice. But they were way past that now.
“No, that doesn't work for me,” Willa said simply. “There are still so many naughty, filthy things I have yet to do to you. I see it as my civic duty to give you even more toe-curling orgasms.”
“The only person who'll be giving me any toe-curling orgasms is my fiance.”
This made Willa chortle hysterically; and her doing so only pissed Layke off. She felt ridiculous for saying it; they both knew he wasn't capable of giving her that type of pleasure. Willa had managed to do in minutes what he still hadn't achieved in seven years. Layke felt embarrassed for him, and for herself. She hated being mocked this way.
“I'm hanging up now,” she said sharply.
“See you soon, detective.”
“I hope not,” she said, and felt her nose grow exponentially.
Yeznik Bedrosian sat across the table of his Armenian restaurant, in a six-thousand dollar suit, smelling of expensive cologne. His black hair and neat beard had patches of gray, but no one really knew his real age. There was a scar running diagonally across his right cheek that looked set and old. He sat with one man – a huge mountain of a man who was missing an eye – on his side of the table. The rest of his crew occupied every corner of the room, looking vicious and bloodthirsty, their machine guns hidden close by in case anything untoward happened.
Across the table sat Willa, Trent and Guy. Little Johnny, Asher and Ghost – a pale-skinned man with an Afro – were also close, guns tucked neatly away below their shirts. A frail Armenian woman scurried out of the kitchen, placed a bowl of mixed olives on the table then scurried off again.
“Please,” Bedrosian said, gesturing to the bowl.
“No, thanks,” Willa said. “If it's okay with you we'd just like to get to the point of the meeting.” She watched his black eyes sparkle while he munched on an olive, slowly, as though every bite was a rare treat. His eyes reminded her of a crow's; she found nothing at all to trust in them.
“If this is how you talk to all of your business associates, it is no wonder no one wants to do business with you,” Bedrosian said in an accented voice.
“That might be why people don't want to do business with us right now, sure. But what's your excuse? Is it because most of your business associates end up dead when they make deals with you?” Willa shot back.
“Hey, Willa, enough,” Trent reprimanded, shooting her a callous look. “A bit of civility wouldn't go amiss.”
Bedrosian's coarse laugh sent a chill down her spine. He put up a hand. “It's fine. Don't worry, she doesn't offend me. If she offended me you would know about it.” His ebony eyes were heinous and cold when he turned them to her. Another shiver ran down her spine. “The girl wants to talk business? So let us talk business.” Even his smile was maleficent; he looked like a cartoon bad guy, the type you could see coming a mile off and knew he'd left a bunch of dead bodies in his wake, and many more lay ahead of him. She wanted to get up and leave right then, tell him to forget it and go straight back to the netherworld whence he'd come, and keep his damn money.
“It's simple: you have something I want, and I can pay you well for it.”
“How well?” Willa asked. Trent had talked her through the deal several times, but she wanted to hear it from Bedrosian's own mouth.
“Four hundred. And we even do our own collection.”
“No collection. We deliver to a secure location that both of our people have thoroughly inspected, then we do the trade.”
“Willa, it's safer for us if he collects,” Trent whispered, though not very quietly. “You think the cops won't be all over us if we try to move it again?”
“So we'll split it up, don't move it all at once. But no one goes near the depot. Especially not his people.”
“You're being unreasonable, and stupid,” Trent said.
“Just what do you think will happen if we come to your depot?” Bedrosian leaned forward, intrigue making his wicked little eyes sparkle. “I feel you have us all wrong.”
“No, I've got you right. I know how dirty you play; this is just a safeguard.” She turned to Trent. “You'll thank me for it later.”
Bedrosian shrugged easily, waved a dismissive hand. “You want to deliver, it's no problem for me. But you, miss, should learn to trust people more.” He popped an olive into his mouth, watching her while he chewed. “How are we going to do business without mutual trust?”
She was never going to trust him, she knew that, but there weren't many people that she did trust and it hadn't stopped her working with them in the past.
“We'll need half upfront,” Guy broke in.
“Fine, fine,” Bedrosian said, though his eyes never left Willa. They were creeping her out; what she most wanted to do was look away, but that signified weakness. This was not a man she could appear weak in front of. He would see right through it, and then they would all be screwed. “And how do we proceed with the other thing?”
“I agreed to this haul; anything else, we need more time to think about it,” Willa said.
Bedrosian looked at Trent, and Trent shifted nervously. “Take as long as you need, but the longer you take, the longer you have to hold onto the goods.”
“That wasn't the deal,” Willa said.
“That was my deal.” Bedrosian looked at Trent. “You didn't tell her? Ah.” He didn't seem too put out by any of this, looked genuinely amused. Willa hated him even more with every passing minute she spent in his company. It was as if their name didn't mean anything here. To add insult to injury, Trent's failure to inform her of the stipulation made their whole outfit look mismanaged and incompetent.
“I didn't think it would be an issue,” Trent said, stumbling a little, avoiding Willa's glare.
“So let me get this straight: you won't take this container if we don't agree to be your suppliers?”
“Exactly,” Bedrosian said.
“What happened to your old supplier?” Willa shot him a suspicious, accusatory look.
Bedrosian chuckled. “Let's just say we had a difference of opinion.”
