“She didn’t waste any time.”
“No, she didn’t. But her second message was more detailed. Don left today for a conference in Charlotte, so she had some time to delve. She went home and went wild, investigating all their financials and investments. The BMW he bought Mitz was eighty thousand dollars, which he paid for with cash he stupidly withdrew from an older account he claimed to have rolled into their 401k. Because it was in both their names, he forged her signature. She found the form in his email!”
Maren stops long enough to take a gulp and forges on. “This is where it gets a little sad. Jean claims that all other accounts looked fine, with no major expenditures or withdrawals. But while researching all this, she felt like an idiot. Her husband was cheating on her in the most grotesque way in her own home, the same home she’s raising her children. Her voice cracked a little in her message, reliving the details of the video and how she felt watching. But it didn’t last long. She quickly gathered herself and explained more.
“She went online and cleaned out their entire savings, wiring the money to a new account she opened in only her name. She then contacted the president of the bank, who is a friend of hers. Due to the large amount, it will take a couple of days to verify the account and transfer.”
“She did all this on a Sunday?”
“She’s got connections.”
“What did messages three and four say?” I’m a little too happy about this information, considering a woman’s life is imploding.
“Basically, by the time Don returns on Wednesday, she will have the preliminary divorce papers to serve, a very plush account to live on if he decides to play dirty, and she’s going to wire ten thousand dollars to us as soon as her account clears.” Maren falls back on the couch, kicking her legs in the air excitedly.
“Ten thousand dollars!?!” I squeak in disbelief.
“Yep! She stated we’ve earned every penny, and because of us, her friend is also taking measures to kick her lying scumbag of a husband to the curb. Essentially, we did two jobs.”
“But that’s outrageous!”
“Emi, she’s about to be a multi-millionaire. Ten K is nothing.”
“Wow,” is all I can say.
“Almost makes the nightmare of watching that foursome worth it.”
I cringe at the memory and shake my head. “Not sure, but it definitely helps toward our therapy.”
“Told you I had good news.”
“While it is good, I’m not sure it compares to Walker’s kisses.”
Her face scrunches as she thinks about this, and then she nods. “You’re right, but it’s a close second. Since I’m here, tell me about your date.” She settles back and gets comfortable.
Every moment of the evening is burned into my brain, and the melty-gooey feeling returns. I hate to admit that the girls were right. Any type of dating life I thought I had was non-existent compared to one evening with Walker.
The night was absolutely perfect, even him glaring at the waiter who tried to flirt with me. I considered it harmless, but Walker had a different opinion. He tugged my hand across the table, kissing along my knuckles until the guy’s carefree smile vanished. The only time he let my hand go was when our meal arrived, but even then, he was close, finding small ways to touch me.
My lips start to tingle remembering our kisses, and I place my fingers to my mouth.
“I’ll repeat, you’ve got it bad.”
“You have no idea.”
“Spill.”
“No, no, no.” I read the email from Maren telling me she’s picking me up in thirty minutes. Instead of replying, I grab my phone and dial her number.
“Not doing it tonight. I have a date,” I say before she can utter a hello.
“Did you read the email? It has to be tonight. He’s in town for one night only.”
I skim the rest of the message and feel like screaming when I know there’s no choice.
To: Trixsters Anonymous
From: {Website Contact- Anon 4}
Subject: Help!
Dear Trixsters,
I’d like to retain your services immediately. I suspect my husband may be meeting a woman tonight while in Charleston for a meeting. You come highly recommended, and this is a delicate situation. My sources tell me you have people in the area and may be able to help. Please let me know.
R. Dell
I read the corresponding messages from our secure accounts and see exactly why Maren’s so hell bent on making this happen. R. Dell freely admits she’s seven months pregnant, and she suspects he’s been cheating for a while. Her own efforts to catch her husband in any lies have been futile, so she’s grasping for help. But something she wrote in the first message sticks with me.
“We have people? Who are our people?” I ask, confused.
“Remember, no one knows where we live, Em. For all these clients know, we are an expansive group.”
“Makes sense, I guess, but I have plans tonight.”
She hmmms into the phone and then snaps loud enough for me to hear through the line. “I’ll do it alone.”
Alarm bells ring in my head, knowing her determination. “No, we do this together. But what the hell am I supposed to tell Walker? You can’t keep crashing our dates.”
“Tell him you’re feeling ill.”
“Lie to him again?”
“I’m sorry, Emi, but she’s pregnant.”
“Ugh! Why do we have to be such sympathizing people?”
“I have the hotel and the room number. Tonight, we are incognito.” She hangs up, and I clear my throat a few times harshly, trying to make myself sound hoarse.
Right as I think I have enough courage to lie convincingly, my phone rings, displaying Walker’s name. “Hello,” I croak, adding a cough for effect.
“Emi?”
“Hey, Walker.”
“You sound weird. Are you okay?”
I start to tell him I’m not feeling well when there’s a ton of noise around him and he cusses under his breath.
“Shit, I hate to do this, Emi, but I need to reschedule. We have a situation.”
My chest seizes at the word situation, while at the same time, I’m relieved for not having to lie again. “Oh,” I say sadly.
“Tomorrow night, same time, work for you?”
“Yes, Walker, it works great. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just some police business.”
“Okay, good luck. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
“Night, Emi.” The line goes dead.
Quickly, I run to my room and go to the back of my closet, where I’ve stashed the items Maren and I picked up in Savannah. Exactly thirty minutes later, Maren’s text comes through that she’s waiting. I take one last look in the mirror and adjust my wig and fake glasses then grab my purse. Luckily, it’s dark and quiet outside, which means no neighbors are out tonight to see me in disguise.
“You look fantastic with dark hair!” Maren exclaims when I slide into the passenger seat.
I look over at her and gasp. She’s chosen a pixie cut platinum blonde wig and blue contacts for this occasion. My light haired, brown-eyed friend is almost unrecognizable.
“While I’m not sure of the color, you could totally pull off short hair,” I tell her honestly.
She smiles approvingly and takes off, filling me in on her plan. We get to the hotel and circle the parking lot until we find a place in the back that’s hidden by a food and catering truck. Together, we make our way around to the entrance and waltz in casually, going straight to the bar. The place is packed, which makes it difficult to look for the man in the picture R. Dell forwarded to Maren.
It takes half an hour to get a seat at the bar, and by the time we have drinks, there’s still no sign of him.
“I wonder if we need to go to his room.” Maren speaks low enough for only me to hear.
Right as she says it, a group of scantily clad women pour into the bar and immediately begin mingling with the
men standing around.
“Fuck,” the bartender in front of us mutters.
“What’s happening?” Maren leans in suggestively, allowing her top to drop low enough to see she’s not wearing a bra.
It works like a charm, his eyes leveling on her chest.
“Some kind of party. Happens once a month. By the end of the night, we’re wiped out of alcohol, the place is a mess, and we’re stuck playing cock-blockers as we usher these guys back to their rooms.”
“What kind of party?” I mirror Maren’s actions, leaning in to show cleavage.
“I have no idea.” He shakes out of his boob stupor and looks at us apprehensively before walking away.
My mind races with possibilities. Are these escorts? Did we walk into a prostitution ring?
“That was weird. He’s hiding something.” Maren sits back, scanning the room.
“I agree.”
A new group of men walk in, and I spot R. Dell’s husband immediately. He bypasses all the women and goes to the other end of the bar.
“He’s here,” I mumble, then laugh, trying to appear casual.
Maren tips her glass to me in a toast. To anyone paying attention to us, we seem to be two women out having a good time, but I keep my eyes glued behind her, watching as the husband slams back a shot then taps the bar signaling for another.
“He’s throwing back drinks,” I tell her through a smile.
“Any sign of a woman?” Right as she asks, a woman sidles up next to him, and he barely gives her a glance. She tries to engage in conversation, even running a hand up his arm, leaning in close.
He jumps back, swatting her hand away in disgust.
Interesting…
I don’t have a chance to mention it to Maren before there’s a small hush over the area. The air in the room changes as a man wearing a three-piece suit walks in, not talking to anyone. He makes his way to the bar behind me, and the bartender from earlier is immediately there pouring a highball of Macallan Scotch. I catch this out of the corner of my eye in the mirror behind the bar.
No words are exchanged before the man leaves. Over the next five minutes, Maren and I pretend to talk about nothing, keeping up our act, but I witness six men quietly excuse themselves and leave as well.
“Can I get you two ladies a refill?” We nod at the bartender, who is now all business.
The space around us starts to clear up, giving us enough privacy to whisper.
“I saw six men leave, including the husband,” I inform her.
“I saw six, also.”
“What the hell are twelve men doing?”
Our drinks are slid in front of us without a word.
“He certainly changed his attitude.”
“He did. You couldn’t see, but when he poured the scotch, he gave the man some sort of sign with his eyes.”
“Weird, what the fuck is happening?”
“I think we need to stay put for a little while. I’m not too hot on following these men.”
I nod and settle back in my stool. Twenty minutes later, the men begin trickling back in, noticeably more somber than when they left. After an hour, nine of the men have returned. None of them are the husband.
“This is so weird—” Maren starts to talk, but I don’t hear the rest because the hair on my arms and back of my neck start to prickle.
The familiar scent of Walker fills my nose right before I feel him nearby. “Shh.” I pinch her knee under the bar top.
“What the hell?” She smacks my hand away.
“Walker’s here,” I sputter.
“What? Where?”
“I don’t know. I can feel him.”
Her brows furrow in confusion. “You feel him? Did you two drink some kind of vampire blood to sense each other? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
I start to explain my reasoning but can’t speak, because she grips my elbow and spins us with our back to the crowd. I peer in the mirror behind the bar as Walker and Oliver breeze behind us, both dressed in suits.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” I ramble, hanging my head. “What’s he doing here?”
“He and Oliver just sat at a booth in the middle,” she informs me. “We can slide out easily. Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not going to make a scene,” I protest a little too loud.
She calmly reaches in her purse and slides money across the bar to pay our tab. “What exactly did he say to you when he called?”
“He said he had a situation.”
We don’t get to discuss it more because the same man in a three-piece suit enters the bar again, performing the same routine as earlier.
“Don’t move a muscle. Just try to act normal,” Maren tells me so low it’s barely audible. I do as she says, feeling the man close to my left side.
When he leaves, it’s exactly like earlier. Men file out discreetly, this time taking a few women with them.
“Obviously, something is happening, but we’re getting out of here. Follow my lead and get to the car. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Yep.” The drinks in my stomach turn sour as my nerves soar.
What the hell is Walker doing here? What if he recognizes me? How can I explain this?
I’m no longer remotely concerned about R. Dell and her husband. I’m worried about tripping over my own feet as I try not to run out of this place.
“Go on to the ladies’ room, Rachel. I’ll meet you there after I pay,” Marin says loud enough to get the bartender’s attention.
“Okay, Monica, see you there.”
I slide off the stool slowly and give a small wave to the bartender, who’s coming our way. On unsteady legs, I keep my face forward and make it past Walker’s table without a hitch. Then I turn left at the hallway, knowing there’s an exit to the rear parking lot.
By the time I slide in the dark car, I’m shaking. Panic sets in when Maren hasn’t come out fifteen minutes later. I think about going back inside when I finally see her exiting the back door.
“You are not going to believe this shit!” She jumps in, excitement rolling off her. “It was a raid!”
“What?”
“An illegal gambling ring. They travel around the south, booking out hotel rooms and conducting the games upstairs. Right after you left, I paid and actually had to go to the restroom. I heard it all go down. Walker and Oliver were not alone. The place swarmed with police.”
“Oh my God!”
“I know! But we do have some good news.”
“We know R. Dell’s husband isn’t a cheat. He may be a gambler, but he wasn’t cheating.” I finish her thought.
She nods and backs out of the space, taking us through the delivery exit to the main road. Blue and red lights flash brightly in front of the hotel when we pass. Even though I know I’m not visible, I slink down in my seat.
Realization washes over me; my job as a Trixster just became a lot more complicated.
Chapter 7
Walker
“What the hell are you doing?” I stop in front of Marcus, who’s leaning against the door of my truck.
“Waiting on you.”
“Why didn’t you come into the station?”
“Just got here. Thought I’d take you out for a drink to celebrate. Heard about the raid last night.”
“Doing my job.”
“Okay, well, if we’re not celebrating you, let’s celebrate me.”
“What’s going on with you?” My curiosity gets the best of me because I don’t consider his line of work very celebratory.
“Angels are watching over me. I’ve landed two of the easiest divorce cases of my career, both women set to gain millions.”
“Huh?”
“Get this, I got a call Sunday afternoon from a lucrative socialite rattling shit about drawing up divorce papers and having evidence that would sink her cheating husband. Soon after, another call came in, much the same. This morning, these women walked in together, smiling like hyenas, and presen
ted me with the most damning evidence I’ve ever seen. Prenups totally voided. I’m riding a high and want to have a drink.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it? You sure the evidence is legit?” Even I know that sounds too good to be true.
“Yep, had a specialist review it this afternoon. It’s completely unfabricated. Some nasty shit, too. These couples were not only friends; the husbands were sharing fuckbuddies… together.”
I flinch at the thought. Sharing has never been my thing. “Local PI do the work?”
“Nope, the women were tight-lipped about their sources.”
“Interesting.” My detective brain starts turning. “This going to get ugly?”
“Not if the men are smart. I’m telling you, they fight this, they lose everything.”
“Sounds like you’ve hit an ace, but I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Emi?”
“Yeah, I had to cancel on her last night because we got word of the gambling ring. So, now, I’m going to go home, shower and pick her up at seven.”
“You cooking?”
“Steaks,” I confirm and regret it when the look of hunger passes across his face. “Don’t even think about crashing.”
“What? Can’t you spare a little for your best friend? I’d like to get to know this woman better.”
“I’ll tell you what I told her. If we get interrupted, I’ll shoot first and answer questions later.”
He laughs, raising his hands in the air. “You should thank me. I’m the one who pushed your ass.”
“You didn’t push shit. I had it under control.”
“Whatever you say.” He crosses his arms and remains blocking my door.
“You gonna move?”
“Not yet, I’m enjoying this.”
“Enjoying what? Me leaving work? You need to get a life.”
“This going to become a habit?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask.
“You dating the fiery, cute, town spitfire that has you wanting to rip heads off?”
There’s amusement in his tone, and I know there’s another reason he’s here. “Again, what the fuck are you talking about?”
Trixsters Anonymous Page 7
