Infidelity: Suspicion (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Donya Lynne

  The six of hearts falls onto the growing stack between us.

  “Then my dad was called to a warehouse fire. It was February. Ten below zero. Frigid. Some homeless people had started a fire inside to stay warm. They fell asleep, and the fire burned through the floor. Ignited some stored files. Next thing they knew, the blaze had consumed half the structure. The files were dry as desert bones and worked as the perfect kindling to spread the fire like it was burning through a drought-stricken field.

  “My dad and his crew went in, rescued all but one of the homeless people, but when he tried to get out, the whole structure collapsed on top of him.”

  “Oh, my God,” I murmur, covering my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  He’s silent for a moment, tossing out the seven and the eight.

  “When I was little, I wanted to grow up to be a hero like my dad. I remember going to the fire station and following him around, admiring his turnout gear like it was Superman’s cape. In my eyes, my dad was a real superhero. I didn’t have time for all that comic book nonsense, because I had the real thing at home.”

  He drops the nine of hearts. It lands with a quiet tap on top of the eight.

  “My mom was devastated after his death. She couldn’t work anymore. We were both pretty messed up those first six months.” He shuffles through the deck and drops the ten as if it magically appeared at just the right moment. “I withdrew from my friends, from my classes, from everything. A year later, mom got sick, and we moved to California. My uncle took us in for a while, but he was a bit of a partier, and my mom didn’t want me around that, so we got a small apartment, using some of the money my parents had saved.

  “Less than six months later, my mom was gone. She’d used the life insurance money my dad left her to set up a trust for me, and she made arrangements for her life insurance to be added upon her death, and then she died of a broken heart.”

  He drops the jack.

  “Other than my uncle, I didn’t have any family I could stay with, and he wasn’t in any position to take me in. Maybe for the weekend, but not full-time.”

  “What about your grandparents?”

  He stops shuffling and lifts his gaze with a shake of his head. “My dad’s parents never supported his marriage to my mom and disowned him. I didn’t even know how I could find them and still don’t. And my mom’s dad had Parkinson’s, which was a full-time job for my grandma, so there was no way I could live with them.

  “Knowing she didn’t have a lot of options, my mom made arrangements with her best friend to take me in. Elizabeth had been married once, but the marriage fell apart when she couldn’t have kids, and I liked her well enough, so it worked out. At least until she married her second husband a couple of years later.

  “It’s not that I didn’t like her husband. He just never acted like I belonged. I always felt like I was in the way with him, especially when he and Elizabeth had a baby. Surprise, surprise. Turned out she could have kids of her own, after all, and I ended up being the outsider. I became someone else’s little boy who was now interfering with her biological child, who she practically worshipped since she’d thought she would never have kids.”

  With a shrug, he starts shuffling again, keeping his eyes on mine. “By then, Shaun and I were already friends, and we were already pulling cons. My future was set. At least until pulling cons became too much and I realized how good I was at poker.” He smiles for the first time since he started spilling his past. “When I started winning big pots a couple of years ago, I knew I could go pro. I didn’t have to pull cons anymore.”

  He stops shuffling, and, without looking, pulls the queen of hearts off the top of the stack. He holds it out to me. “Then I met you.”

  I take the card and nibble my bottom lip as I smile.

  “You’re my queen.” He shuffles some more then flicks out a card. It lands in my lap.

  I turn it over. “King of hearts.” I bite my lip as I meet his gaze. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  He folds his hand around the remaining cards in the deck. “Yes.” He takes the cards from me and holds them side by side, facing me. “I want to be your king, Nash.” He scissors the cards so they switch places. “The way I feel with you is the way I felt when my parents were alive. It’s this . . .” He sighs, his gaze dancing toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for the right word. When he finds it, he looks at me again. “There’s a fullness in my heart again. A contentment.” He collects the cards and sets them between us. “That’s why I know this is right. That’s why I know nothing’s going to change my mind about how I feel by Saturday morning.” He lifts my hand from my lap and traces my fingers with his. “That’s why I think we should get married tomorrow. After the tournament.”

  I stare at our joined hands. At my barren ring finger.

  If he knew why I’m here, would he still want to marry me? Is this perfect chemistry between us enough to overcome my duplicity?

  Looking down, I shield my eyes behind my hair as it falls over my face. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve searched all my adult life for someone I could share my future with, and now that I’ve found him, I don’t want to lie to him. Much the same way he told me he doesn’t want to lie, anymore, I don’t either.

  Yes, he’s imperfect, but so am I. But can’t two imperfect parts create a perfect whole?

  Drawing in a deep breath, I have to have faith he’ll still accept me after I’ve confessed my sins to him, too.

  “Max . . .” My voice sounds so small. “I . . . I need to tell you something.”

  Chapter 6

  Max

  There are a lot of beautiful women in the world, and I’ve been with quite a few of them. I’ve taken what they’ve offered, whether it was their money, their jewelry, their bodies, or something else, and I’ve never looked back. Now, I’m ready to leave that life behind me, and Nash is part of my exit plan. There’s not another woman in the world I could imagine wanting more than I want her. I’m not sure about much else, but I’m sure about that.

  So as I hold her hands, waiting for her to tell me what it is that seems to be weighing on her more heavily than a two-ton boulder, I pray she’s not going to tell me she just wants this to be a weekend fling. I don’t think I could take that right now. My future as a poker professional doesn’t feel complete without her as part of the picture.

  “Nash?” I lean forward, letting go of one of her hands so I can brush back her hair and see her face.

  She shies away, frowning almost as if she’s in pain.

  “Nash, what is it?” I’m starting to think I’ve missed something. Some clue that she never intended for things to go this far, and now she doesn’t know how to unwind herself from me.

  She sighs and lifts her head, swishing her hair off her shoulders.

  “Max, I—” When her pained eyes meet mine, my heart sinks. After the shit with Shaun, I can’t take another blow.

  Her brow furrows, and she lets go of my hands. “Max, I . . . I . . .” Her gaze searches mine almost hopefully.

  “Nash, you’re starting to scare me. What is it?”

  She remains silent for a beat then drops her face into her hands, shaking her head as she does. “Oh, God, Max, I’m sorry, but I, I . . . I used to be a stripper.” The words spill out of her on a great rush of air, causing her shoulders to wilt even as she lifts her head and looks at me again. “I’m sorry, I should have told you, but . . . but . . .”

  Is that what had her so worked up? That she used to be a stripper? I’d been ready to hear anything but that. Undercover CIA? FBI? Special antifraud task force? Shaun’s secret lover? Those options seemed more plausible for the dread and apprehension she’d been exhibiting than the simple explanation that she once took her clothes off for money.

  For the first time, I suspect there’s more to Nash than I originally thought. Maybe I do need to get to know her better.

  Shaun’s warning briefly flashes inside my head—she’s using you—before I crush
it and throw it out. I’m not going to let Shaun interfere in my relationship with Nash. She isn’t committing espionage. She’s ashamed of her past, just like I am. And she looks guilty enough to prove it.

  “I told you I’d come here to be a showgirl and not a stripper, and that’s true. But I should have told you I used to be one. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t want you to think I was that kind of girl, and . . . and . . . and I just want to leave that part of my life behind, and—”

  “It’s okay,” I say, taking her flailing hands and bringing them back to center.

  Her mouth snaps shut as her gaze meets mine. “But—”

  “Sshh. I don’t care.” I shift closer, squeezing her hands.

  Her face falls guiltily. “But I should have told you.”

  “Nash, there are about a million other things you could have told me that would have upset me more than finding out you used to be a stripper.”

  She shies away, turning her head to hide her face. “God, just hearing you say that sounds so horrible.”

  “Hey.” I cup her cheek and make her look at me. “I’m not upset. Okay? You believe me, right?”

  She cautiously eyes me, as if she’s searching for any reticence. I can understand her hesitation to believe me. A lot of people don’t hold stripping in high regard. But I’m not a lot of people. I see things differently.

  “Come here.” I lie back, pulling her down with me and tucking her against my side.

  She’s tense, balled up against me like a cat that doesn’t want to be held but is too afraid to move.

  I kiss the top of her head. “Have you ever seen Star Wars?”

  Even though I can’t see her face, I can imagine her perfect blond eyebrows just scrunched like she has no idea where I’m going with this.

  “Yes?” Her answer lilts expectantly, coming out more like a question than a reply.

  “You’ve seen all the new ones?”

  She nods. “Uh-huh.”

  “So you know all about Anakin and how he became Darth Vader, right?”

  “Well . . . sure.” She begins to relax and lifts her head to look at me, resting her chin on her hand, which she’s placed on my chest. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is”—I shift so I can pull her closer and brush my fingers down the side of her face—“even Darth Vader has a heart.”

  Nash tilts her head and frowns even as her mouth slides into a shallow smile. Then she laughs. “What?”

  I laugh with her, realizing my comparison didn’t come out the way I saw it in my head. “Okay, so that came out all wrong.” I rub my face, gazing up at the ceiling for a second before looking back at her. “What I mean is that no matter how bad we start out, or how bad we turn out to be, there’s still a good person inside. Darth Vader started out with good intentions, had a brief spell where he lost his way and spread evil throughout the galaxy, and then he found himself again and turned back to good. I mean, hell, if Darth Vader can redeem himself and become a good guy after blowing up planets, can’t you and I find a little redemption from our not-so-bad-in-comparison pasts?”

  She stares at me like I’m crazy then bursts into laughter. “Darth Vader is a fictional character, Max.”

  You know how when you hear a baby laugh you can’t help but laugh, too? That’s what it’s like when Nash laughs, and I can’t stop myself from laughing with her.

  When the moment of levity passes, she snuggles closer. “What are you trying to tell me? That I’m Darth Vader reborn as the redeemed Anakin Skywalker?”

  My fingers play through her tousled, silky hair, grazing her naked shoulder. “Something like that.”

  “You do know that Darth Vader had to die to become good Anakin again, right?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And he was all disfigured and lost his legs and had scars all over his face.” She scrunches her nose in disgust.

  “Okay, so he wasn’t as attractive as you are, but the point is, we’re not as evil as he was. We don’t have to die or lose our limbs or any of that other shit to turn back to good. We just have decide.”

  “We? So you’re Vader reborn, too?”

  I’m happy to see her smiling again after how upset she was a few minutes ago. She’s back to being the Nash I’ve come to know over the past twenty-four hours.

  “I’m definitely Vader,” I say, dropping my hand to her upper arm. “I won’t lie, I’ve thought about this a lot in the past year, especially as I became more restless doing what I was doing.”

  “You mean, conning people?”

  Heat rushes to my face, and I press my lips together. “You are direct, aren’t you?”

  “Just being honest.” She folds her hands one over the other on my chest and sets her chin on them, watching me with the attentiveness of someone viewing a riveting scene in a movie.

  I gaze into her brown, doe-like eyes. “It’s easy to marginalize criminals as horrible people,” I say softly. “It’s easy for people to look at someone like me—or even someone like you, who’s done nothing illegal—and think we’re nothing but stains on society. That we serve no purpose and are somehow less. They pigeonhole people like us into a label, thinking we must have come from terrible families, or that we have no morals, or that we don’t have a conscience. That we don’t have any self-worth. That we use drugs, which is why we do what we do. Or worse, that we sell drugs.” I shake my head. “I’m a con man, not a drug dealer. You were a stripper, not a junkie. Just because we did things society thinks are subversive doesn’t mean we’re completely morally bankrupt.”

  Her eyes glisten with awareness, and I know she feels the truth in my words.

  She takes a deep breath and rolls to her back. “I was a ballet dancer,” she says out of the blue, staring up at the ceiling.

  I turn my head and look at her as she takes another heavy breath and blows it out. I’m not surprised to find out she used to dance ballet. She has the body for it. Long, lean, graceful. And the elegant way she moves should have been a dead giveaway. Only trained dancers move with such poise.

  I don’t know what motivated her to tell me this, but I remain silent, giving her space to tell her story. Finally, I’m learning something about Nash’s past.

  “I wasn’t good enough to be a prima ballerina or a company dancer, but I had danced ballet since I was a little girl. It was all I ever wanted to be.” A sad smile overtakes her face. “But other girls were always better than I was. One of the other girls always got the lead role in my dance recitals. And other dancers continued to win the lead parts as I got older.” She lets out a caustic huff. “I was relegated to the corps. But that didn’t stop me from moving to New York when I was eighteen. I studied dance every day, worked as a waitress to pay the bills, and auditioned for every part I could. But, just like how it was when I was a kid, any roles I won were in the corp. I was never a soloist. Never the lead.”

  The sorrow in her voice cuts through me. This is my Nash, and I’m fascinated to learn this little bit of her past, but I wish it were a happier memory.

  “One day, one of the other corps dancers I recognized from several auditions and performances we’d been in together invited me to have a cup of coffee with her. I considered her a friend, even if I didn’t know her all that well, so I said yes. We hit it off immediately. Both of us were in the same boat. Loved to dance, had always wanted to be a prima ballerina or a principal with a big company, but didn’t have the natural talent to make it out of the corps.

  “We talked about how hard it was to be a dancer in New York. How little money dancers make, even though she looked to be doing well for herself in spite of being a corps dancer. She wore Prada sunglasses and carried designer handbags like Gucci or Marc Jacobs. Even her jeans were couture. I assumed her family was wealthy.

  “Then she told me that she knew dancers who had taken jobs with high-end escort services to supplement their income. I assumed that must have been how she afforded such expensive things. I told her that I could
never do something like that.”

  She pauses only for a moment, but it’s long enough for me to know what’s coming next is the source of all her worries.

  “She said I wouldn’t have to.” There’s a bitterness in her tone. Resentment.

  It bristles the hair on the back of my neck.

  She suddenly grows still. She bites her bottom lip, and her eyes flick back and forth, restlessly searching the ceiling. I wait as she wrestles with whatever memory has sparked her anxiety.

  “I still remember what she said next.” Her voice is hauntingly quiet. “She said, ‘What if I told you you could make twenty thousand dollars a month? Would that interest you?’ Of course, I was interested. I was two months behind on my rent and couldn’t afford to turn my thermostat above sixty-five degrees in the winter. I could barely afford food. If not for my waitressing job, where I was able to get at least one decent meal a day, I would have starved. Twenty thousand a month sounded too good to be true.”

  “Was it?” I ask, because I already know she took the bait her friend offered.

  Nash pays me a quick glance then returns her gaze to the ceiling. “Not at first.”

  This sounds a whole lot worse than stripping. “Nash, did you . . . were you a . . .?” I can’t even say the word.

  She looks at me. “A prostitute?”

  My silence is all the answer she needs.

  “No, but after what’s happened, I wonder if that would have been better.” She’s staring at the ceiling again. “My friend—her name was Simone—explained how things would work and set up an interview for me, saying I was a perfect candidate.”

  I can’t help noticing she’s being intentionally vague, as if she’s hiding more than she’s revealing. Or maybe she’s telling me more than she should and is trying to protect me—and herself—by not revealing too much. In my line of work, I’ve seen some pretty shady shit, and there’s always a confidentiality agreement for anything that borders on illegal or unethical. Maybe she hadn’t been a prostitute, but it sounds like she might have been involved with something that flirted with the boundary.