She carefully stripped off her shirt and turned it inside out to trap the smears of paint. Her curls shifted direction when the cotton pulled at them and she pushed them out of her eyes. She stopped in front of me. I looked up at her and found that I didn’t mind the hint of pity.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“No, you’re not.”
She pulled my T-shirt up. It got stuck at the bottle I was still clutching. Kyra took the beer and drank from it as I freed myself from the shirt. She set the bottle on the dresser behind her. I toed off my shoes. Kyra kicked them aside. She pushed me back and unbuttoned my jeans. I lifted my hips so she could strip them down.
Kyra’s breath was warm on my skin. I studied the ceiling, tried to find patterns in the stucco where there weren’t any. I concentrated on the sensation of her tongue against me. My breathing went ragged when she sucked my clit into her mouth. She pushed me hard and fast and I came quickly. She didn’t stop. I came again. My chest rose and fell rapidly. I rubbed my hands across my face and they came away wet. I was crying?
Kyra didn’t lie to me, tell me it was okay. She just crawled up and gathered me into her arms. At first, I was just silently weeping. Then I thought about Laurel and Clive and Andy and Nate. And myself. I started sobbing. Gasping, ugly sobs. Kyra traced her fingertips over the lines of muscle and bone in my back. She ran her hands over my hair. Tears pooled and gathered in the hollows of her chest. It took me a long time to stop crying.
I stayed there against her, waiting for my body to calm. I took in deep—at times gasping—lungfuls of air. I marveled at the unfamiliar feeling of moisture in my eyes. I never cried like that. It felt like drowning. Kyra smelled like sweet soap and soft skin and caustic chemicals. The turpentine fumes were comforting. It reminded me of the miniature studio she had in college. Half of the windows were painted shut. Kyra was careless in cleaning and storing her supplies. It reeked, but it never bothered her. She was better at ventilation now, but the smell was still familiar.
Eventually, I fell back against the sheets. Kyra reached over and spread her hand across my chest. The gentle pressure of her palm was comforting. Her fingertips dug into my flesh. I felt the tension in my chest start to abate.
“Talk.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I said.
“Try. You did the not talking thing. It’s not working.”
“I’m not avoiding. I truly don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me what brought you here today then,” Kyra said.
I didn’t think it would help. But she was right. Whatever I was doing wasn’t working. I told her about the farm and Clive that morning. I told her about Nate’s plan. She asked questions. None of them were out of curiosity. She wanted me talking. I told her about Laurel. How everyone else was more invested in me hating her than I was.
“Okay, you want my opinion?” Kyra asked.
“Sure.” I was mildly concerned that she was going to tell me some bullshit about forgiveness or love or whatever, but this was Kyra. She didn’t do bullshit.
“You’re probably not going to figure this shit out. Don’t try. You need to stop punishing yourself. When’s the last time you ate a meal for pleasure? Drank a beer because you wanted it, not because you needed it?” she asked. I didn’t tell her that my pizza and beer with Laurel had almost fit that criteria. “When was the last time you got a haircut?”
I counted back. “About a month and a half ago.”
“And how often do you normally go?”
“Once a month.”
“You need a haircut.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. “Is it that bad?”
“No. But you like getting your hair cut. It calms you. Plus, it’s routine. You need normal right now.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? I love how easy you are.” Kyra grinned at me.
“Fuck off.” I grinned back. “You’re right. Whatever the hell I’m doing isn’t working.”
“I am an artist. It makes me naturally intuitive.”
I groaned. “You were doing so well.”
“I’m still doing well.” She poked me in the ribs.
“So I get a haircut and eat indulgently and everything will be fine?” That was a plan I could get behind.
Chapter Nine
It wasn’t late, just late enough that no one should have been pounding on my door. I lifted Nickels off my chest, much to her chagrin. Judging by the volume and seeming impatience of the knocking, the list of people it could be was short. Which was good because I was wearing cutoffs with so many holes you could see the dancing penguins on my underwear. I opened the door. Laurel marched in. She slapped a file against my chest as she passed me. I caught it when it started to fall.
Laurel went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer. As she walked, she pocketed her tie clip and pulled out the knot of her tie. She set the beer on the coffee table and started unbuttoning her shirt.
“You never heard of air-conditioning?”
I didn’t bother answering her. She shrugged out of her stiff shirt and tossed it—the tie still tucked under the collar—at the back of the couch. Her familiarity seemed more bred out of anger than comfort. She sat down hard on the couch. She spread her legs and planted her elbows on her knees.
I opened the file. He was one of my customers. Pedro Morrison. Twenty-year-old Sacramento State student. He lived with a bunch of other undergrads in a house just off campus. Most of his roommates were common idiots, but Pedro was a sweet kid. Sensitive. Had a strangely deep voice. He was one of those rare, genuine people. When you spoke he listened with his whole body.
Pedro was smaller than all the other guys in his house. Height, that is. He was a rower or soccer player or something. His thighs were massive. The last time I’d seen him was a house party they’d invited me to. I’d left early when I met Laurel. Nate finished the party for me. Laurel and I had shut down The Depot.
I grabbed my own beer from the fridge, leaned against the living room wall, and waited.
“He’s dead,” Laurel said.
I drank my beer to disguise my compulsive swallowing. Grief suddenly seemed like a physical object. Pedro couldn’t be dead. But I knew that wasn’t true. Of course he could be dead.
“When?”
“An hour ago. Overdose like the others.” She drank her beer. Stared straight ahead. “He was one of yours?”
“Are you asking?”
“Yes.”
“You know the answer,” I said.
That broke her staring contest with the wall. “Why would I know? Just because he bought drugs doesn’t mean he bought them from you.”
I tried to wrap my head around what she was saying. It seemed like a vote of confidence. Maybe. “He was at the party where we met. He lives with six other guys. They throw a lot of parties like that.”
“No.” She crossed the room to take the file from me. “That party was in the Fifties. That’s not where he lives.” Laurel pointed out his address in the file.
“Then, he moved.” I took back the file and flipped to the next page. “There.”
Laurel read the paper, her eyes flicking back and forth. After confirming, she resumed her spot on the couch. After two long, silent minutes she spoke. “So I’m culpable too.”
The statement didn’t make sense. “How?”
“Because I made a decision that night. I could have just arrested you and Nate. I had ample evidence from that one party. I could have shut it down right then.”
“But we didn’t sell him the drugs that killed him.”
“You’ll forgive me if that technicality isn’t easing my guilt.”
It took me a moment to process what she had said. And then I did. And I got angry. “I won’t forgive you. That’s bullshit.”
“No, it isn’t. Three months ago, I could have broken the cycle this kid was in. I didn’t. I chose to play the long game. It worked out fucking beautifully, didn’t it?” She spread her arms wide to indicate
my home, me, her, I didn’t know. “And the collateral damage was a dead undergrad. He was going to start an internship in the fall. Did you know that? The Kings’ marketing department picked Pedro Morrison out of seventy-five qualified candidates.”
“Hey,” I said harshly. Laurel finally met my eyes. “Pedro made his own choices. Were they different than his peers? No, probably not. I guess he just got lucky. One out of seventy-five, maybe. But that’s on him.”
“Do you realize what you sound like?” Her voice caught. “A fucking drug dealer.”
“I am a drug dealer.” In that moment, I couldn’t think about Andy’s recriminations. I could only see myself. The kid who had been told too many times that they couldn’t be what they wanted.
She dropped her head. “You were supposed to be better than that.”
“That’s a fucked up thing to say.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, and it’s no less insulting than last time you said it.”
“You’re really going to keep this going? You’re going to keep pretending there’s nothing about being a drug dealer that is beneath you?” She was incredulous. “I know you’re stubborn, but I never took you for a liar.”
“A liar?” I didn’t understand.
“I see you, Cash,” she said. That statement hung between us. I didn’t know what she meant or where she was going, but it felt heavy. “You can’t sell this idea to yourself anymore. But you can’t seem to admit that you were wrong either. Why is that?”
I took a long drink of my beer. Then I remembered what Kyra had said about enjoying beer. So I set the bottle down. Kyra had told me to take care of myself. I realized belatedly that she hadn’t just meant physically.
Andy hadn’t quite been judging me, but she wasn’t forgiving either. I couldn’t carry it anymore. I couldn’t posture and claim that other people made their own decisions. This game was systemic. I’d been a willing cog for too long. But I didn’t know how to say that. Just like with Andy. How could I just admit that I was wrong?
Or maybe it was that simple.
“It’s so much worse than you know,” I whispered.
Laurel took a deep breath. Like it was a relief. “Tell me.”
“We sold to Sophie’s sister’s boyfriend.” I said it fast.
“Who is Sophie?”
“One of Andy’s best friends,” I said. Laurel nodded, but she didn’t get it. “Sophie’s sister is a baby too. Seventeen. The only difference between Andy and those kids is two years. Same location, socio-economic status, school, neighborhood. The only difference is two years.” It didn’t matter that she didn’t understand. Not yet anyway. Once I started, I had to purge it all.
“Which part of this is throwing you?”
I laughed, but it was a painful gasp. “All of it? I sell drugs to children. How is a fifteen-year-old different from a seventeen-year-old? How is a twenty-year-old different from a forty-year-old? Why are pills any better than fucking heroin? Because more people use them recreationally? Addicts use pills too. Pills still kill people. Ask Pedro Morrison.”
Laurel nodded and launched in. “I’m not going to justify any of that because you’re not wrong and I don’t think you want me to.” I laughed roughly again. “But you survived in a gray area for years. It’s gray because there aren’t absolutes in morals. Which you are damn well aware of.” This was her version of kid gloves. It was somehow exactly what I needed.
I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do. “So what do I do now?”
“What do you want to do?”
Did I want out? Did I want to light the world on fire? Only one clear thought came to mind. Everything else was convoluted. “I want to nail the bastard killing these guys.”
Laurel smiled. “Good. Because I need you.”
I crossed the room and sat with her on the couch, relieved she was willing to drop the rest for a moment. “How do we get them?”
“Find out who it is. Get evidence. Arrest them. My job description is simple most of the time.” Her tone was an odd blend of self-deprecation and confidence.
“What do you do when it’s not?”
“I used to talk it out with Reyes or my brother until I understood my boundaries. You should probably do the same. Figure out your new boundaries.”
“You said used to. What do you do now?”
“Apparently, I just sleep with the person I’m investigating.” She smiled and heat flooded my chest. “I can’t say I recommend it though.”
“Ouch.”
Laurel laughed. “No, I mean, you’re already wrestling with your morals. I just lit mine on fire and tossed them out a window. Fun, but a bitch in the morning. It would probably fuck you up extra good.”
“Sounds tragic,” I said. But it was forced. I was suddenly very aware of her proximity. Heat poured from her body. The few inches between her thigh and mine seemed to shimmer. My bare toes were just close enough to brush the hard leather of her oxfords. And then she did the unthinkable. She put her hand above my bare knee and squeezed. Whatever air was in my lungs evaporated.
“I know this won’t be easy. But if we have to do anything the hard way, I’m glad I’m doing it with you.”
I managed to breathe and smile at her. Which I thought was impressive. “Yeah, same.”
She stopped squeezing. Her palm was just resting warmly on my thigh. The white scar on her hand was stark against her deepening summer tan. Her gaze flicked over my mouth so fast I thought I imagined it. She stared at her hand, my leg. Her eyes raked over my mouth again. It was unmistakable. Her chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths. I listened to the sound of my breathing and realized it matched hers. Somehow the knowledge that she was thinking the same thing I was made it impossible to think of anything else. Like we were locked in some loop where the only escape was to stop thinking about the loop itself. Laurel leaned forward. Just a little. I froze. Then she pushed herself back, back. She stood with effort.
“We should come up with a plan or something. You know, for this case.”
I nodded. Nodding seemed like a solid move. “Can we do it over food?”
“Sure.” Laurel looked around the room. The walls were closing in. She could feel it too. “Maybe we should go out.”
“Yeah. Is Burgers and Brew still open?”
“Probably.”
“You look up what time they close. I need to change into pants.”
Laurel pulled out her phone, careful to look at it, not me. I escaped down the hallway. My life felt entirely too complicated to be dealing with this too. So I decided to not acknowledge it. That had worked for the better part of my life.
I pulled on a pair of jeans that were more acceptable for going out in public. When I was tugging on my shoes, Laurel called down the hallway.
“They are open for another two hours.”
I rejoined her in the living room. “Should we drive?”
“Sure. I will.”
“Is that like a cop thing? Driving all the time?” I asked.
Laurel went stiff and then she grinned halfway. “Umm, yes? But not the way you’re thinking.”
“That was a normal response.”
“My truck is rigged with GPS, video cameras, and an audio transmitter.” She looked both nervous and amused.
“Your truck is bugged?”
“Yeah, I can trip it to record and transmit from under the dash. It also automatically engages if the lock opens without my key.”
It took me another second and then I figured it out. “You watched me break in.”
“Yeah, that was why we left the field office. We didn’t realize Henry had broken in until we were driving back. One of the cameras caught him coming down the staircase.” Laurel’s hands were balled and shoved in her pockets. I couldn’t read what her feelings were.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not like he was sorting through my panty drawer.” She shrugged. “As far as I could tell, he looked through my desk and files.
But that was it.”
I knew I had to tell her. It sucked. But we were doing a trust thing. “Yeah, but I went through your panty drawer. No, wait. I searched your bedroom. I mean, I was just looking around to help Henry, but then I totally lost it and left him there.” I wasn’t explaining the reasoning behind me breaking in very well. Then again, that wasn’t something you could really explain.
Laurel stared at me. “Why did you lose it?”
“Because it smelled like you and looked like you.” Cedar and boot oil. Mid century vintage. Worn books arranged on dark wood shelves. “The entire apartment screamed Laurel. And then I found your uniforms. Everything I knew about you was real, but the truth was hollowed out.” We stared at each other.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yeah, me too.” We both nodded. I was tired of apologies. I was sure she was too. “Let’s stop apologizing.”
“I can get behind that.”
I bumped her shoulder with mine and led the way outside. A shoulder bump was safe. I liked the contact. And it had almost no chance of ending with us making out.
Chapter Ten
Once we were in the truck, Laurel pointed out the button installed under the dash to activate the tracking equipment. She pointed out the bolts that weren’t bolts. The microphones were in the headliner.
“These are fancy ass cameras. I didn’t know city cops were given this stuff.”
“Sometimes for specific jobs, we get the good stuff. But mine came from the FBI. I paid to have their equipment installed.” She cranked the engine and turned toward 19th Street.
“Why?”
“My mom had a case years ago. I was like eleven. There was this undercover cop whose cover was blown when he was caught wearing a wire. He was executed. It was a pretty unremarkable case except for the fact that my mom presided over it. But there was one detail that came out during the trial. The officer could have been wearing a different type of wire, something harder to detect, but funding was delayed. Usual bureaucracy. The family ended up suing the department.” She waved her hand like it was irrelevant. “Mom has been fixated ever since. When I started undercover work, she totally lost it.”
The Price of Cash Page 8
