He paused. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I am telling you. I wouldn’t be here. I’d either be halfway across Texas in his schmancy car, or I’d be on a bus with a bundle of cash in my pocket.”
“His car was found.”
“So they caught the person who took it?”
“No. They found his car. He still thinks you—”
“Just because I waited on him? That’s jumping to conclusions, isn’t it? He probably dropped his keys on the floor and some customer grabbed them.”
“How would they have known what car was his?” Okay, her boss’s IQ was showing, not that there was a lot to show.
“They probably pushed the button on the key fob and the car lights came on. But hey, if he thinks I did this, I’ll call the police and tell them where I was. They can get witnesses. I’ll do that right now.” She reached for his desk phone.
He slammed his hand on top of the phone and dragged it toward him. “No. He doesn’t want…”
“Want what?” she asked. “I’ll work with the police to clear my name. Let me call them.”
He seemed to consider what she had said. She held her breath. Losing this job might mean losing Armand, and that wasn’t an option.
“Charles doesn’t want his…the cops to know that the car was taken from here.”
“Well, how else am I going to convince him I didn’t take it?”
Mr. Grimes studied her—hard. She could almost see his mind turning—slowly. “I’ll talk to him. It does seem unlikely that you’d have come back to work if you were guilty.”
“Good.” If she hadn’t thought the pencil sitting on his desk was sharper than the man sitting behind it, she might have given herself credit for talking her way out of this jam.
“So get to work,” he mouthed off. “I don’t pay you to do nothing.”
She headed for the door.
“One more thing,” he said.
She turned. “Yeah.”
“A Mr. Armand will be in later. He sat in Candy’s section last night. Tall, dark hair, wears expensive suits, has an accent, tips well. He’s an investor in the club. He was asking about you.”
“Me?” In the beginning she’d worried she might look a little too much like her sister, but then only a few people had said she reminded them of someone. Perhaps Armand paid closer attention to detail. “Why would he ask about me?”
“He likes blondes. So if he sits in your section, make sure he’s…well taken care of. Make him happy.” Grimes’s tone gave her super creepy vibes. Then she remembered delivering some of Candy’s drinks last night when the waitress had mysteriously disappeared for about fifteen minutes. Had Candy been told to make Armand happy? Had she been pressured into having sex with him?
She forced herself to smile when what she really wanted to do was go for her boss’s double-chinned throat.
A lump of disgust rose in her chest. “You bet.” She walked out.
Fury pumped through her veins as she made her way to her locker to store her purse. Little did Mr. Grimes know, Brie would make sure Armand got screwed—just not in the way her boss seemed to be insinuating.
* * *
Ten minutes after clocking in, Brie suddenly felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle as she stood at the bar to collect her first order of drinks. Turning around, she scanned the club. Was it one of her fellow FBI agents? Armand? Or maybe Eliot?
She didn’t see any of them.
“Hey.” Candy came up and set her tray beside Brie’s. She was one of the few waitresses who wasn’t trying to move up to dancer, and while Brie had seen her buy some weed, she didn’t think Candy did any hard drugs. Her light green eyes met Brie’s. “I thought you were getting fired. Mr. Dunn was saying you’d taken his car last night.”
“Yeah, he’s not very smart.”
Candy reached for a few drink napkins and Brie noticed bruises on both of the waitress’s forearms, as if someone had held her down. Bruises weren’t uncommon around here, but she’d never noticed them on Candy. An ugly thought hit. Had Armand caused them last night? The earlier fury with her boss and with Armand, came back threefold.
“What happened?” Brie motioned to her coworker’s arm.
“Nothing.” Candy looked away, but not before Brie noticed a flash of shame in her eyes.
“If someone did that to you, you should report it.”
Candy glanced up. “And get fired. As my mom says, ‘I get what I deserve for working here.’”
Brie considered her next words carefully. “I’m trying to figure out what kind of a mother would say that to her daughter. The only thing I can come up with is a piss-poor one. It’s not true. Seriously, you shouldn’t—”
“Shh,” Candy said as Mr. Grimes walked up.
Their boss moved behind the bar, then stared at her and Candy. “Go wipe a table down or flirt with the customers instead of standing around yakking.”
Candy disappeared. Brie stayed and clenched her fists down at her sides. Grimes moved in close and put his face in front of hers to intimidate her. She didn’t budge. “I’m waiting on a drink order.”
“Here you go.” Brad, the bartender, moved around Grimes and dropped two Jack and Cokes on her tray with a wink. She took off. After delivering the drinks, she started cleaning off a table and felt the hair on the back of her neck start dancing—again.
This time she was sure of it. Someone had her in their crosshairs.
Brie glanced around again, this time catching sight of a guy sitting toward the back of Candy’s section, wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his face. He was big and blond.
Connor?
Chapter Twelve
She took two steps forward, before realizing he didn’t have Connor’s broad shoulders. But she’d seen him before. Moving to the bar, she picked up a cleaning rag, then headed to the dirty table beside Mr. Ballcap.
Leaning down to give the table a swipe, she glimpsed his face.
Mother cracker! It was Officer Johnston. The cop who’d pulled her over in the Mustang.
As if sensing she was onto him, his gaze lifted and he smiled—all smug-like.
Looking to see where Mr. Grimes was, she gave the table another towel swipe and said low enough so only he could hear, “Have you spoken with Connor?”
“Yes.” He turned his glass in his hands.
“Why are you here?”
“Enjoying the show,” he said.
“Then why are you staring at me?”
“You look like a redhead I met recently.”
Her gut knotted. “Look, I’m—”
He held up a hand. “I’m not here to cause a problem.”
“Then why are you here?” When he didn’t answer, she took a guess. “Connor sent you?”
His silence confirmed it.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she muttered. “Someone might recognize you.”
“A cop can’t come in here?”
She supposed she couldn’t argue with that—several cops did—but she didn’t like the fact that Connor thought she couldn’t handle herself.
Without another word, she headed back to her section.
He continued to watch her as she worked. She continued to try and ignore him and hoped no one else noticed.
While she was cleaning another table, Candy rushed over. “Can you take over my section and tell Grimes I had to go? I’m sick to my stomach. If I don’t leave, I’ll puke on the customers. Here’s everyone’s tickets.” She handed Brie a stack of checks. “Table five has two beers coming.” She turned away quickly.
“Wait,” Brie said. “Should you drive yourself?”
“I’ll be fine.” Candy looked back at the bar, and Brie noticed a man standing there: Armand. And he was watching them. Brie grabbed a napkin and a pen, and wrote down her number. “Here. Call me if you need to talk. You shouldn’t let people treat you like that.”
Candy took the napkin, stuffed it in her apron, and with tears in her eyes,
headed for the door.
Brie’s stomach knotted with a sense of injustice. She wanted to confront Armand. Wanted to hurt him. But more than that, she wanted to put him behind bars, to stop him from ever violently touching another woman again. To do that she needed to be patient.
Ten minutes later, Grimes stopped beside her, holding a tray and a cleaning rag. “Where’s Candy?”
“She got sick. Nauseous. I told her to leave and I’d cover for her.”
“Since when do you have the authority to do that?” he barked.
“Since I saw her almost puke on a customer. I think that’s considered bad business and a health code violation.”
“Next time, have her come to me.”
“Right.”
She’d just dropped off another round of drinks to a rowdy group of car salesmen when she saw Armand sit down at her table. Stilling her heart—and her hatred—she set her plan in motion. Get him a drink. Get his fingerprints. Get his ass arrested.
“Beer or whiskey?”
His gaze lingered on the dance floor as Darlene wrapped her leg around the pole. Then he looked over at her. His eyes widened. “You remind me of someone.”
Her heart did a tumble. “I get that a lot. What are you drinking?”
“Scotch and water.” His accent was thick, but his words clear.
“Got it.”
He grabbed her arm, and she caught her breath. His touch sent a wave of nausea to her stomach.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Alabama.”
“And your name?”
“Star Colton.” She fought to keep the wrath from her tone. Squaring her shoulders, she turned her wrist and he released her.
“You know, sometimes all you Americans look alike.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. I’ll get you that drink.”
Her heart thundered in her chest as she moved away from the table, away from the man who she’d bet had murdered her sister. Her hands shook as she punched in the drink order. The photograph of her sister’s bruised and bloody body cuffed to the bed filled her head.
As soon as Brad handed her the glass, she grabbed several drink napkins to wipe away any other prints.
“Dirty?” he asked.
“Just a smudge. I got it.”
Her gut clenched as she moved toward Armand, who now slouched in a chair, watching the show. She dropped a drink napkin on the table and then used another one to set the glass down.
“Why aren’t you on the stage?” He put his hand on her hip. His touch sent a shot of pain right to the center of her chest.
“I can’t dance,” she said.
“But if you look half as good as I am imagining you do, then the guys won’t care how well you dance. I have some pull with the boss. I could speak to him. Think of how much more money you could make.”
“I’m good.” Brie ached to grab his hand and break a few of his fingers. Instead, she backed away. “Sorry, too busy to chat.”
She watched Armand, and the second he finished his drink, she moved back in. “Another one?”
“Yes. How about you take a little break? We’ll go in the back and talk.”
“Too busy.” She took off, but instead of heading to the kitchen to drop off the dirty glass, she headed to the locker room in the back. Right before she pushed through the door, she looked over her shoulder and saw her boss still helping out at the bar. Her gaze shifted to Armand, who was back to watching the dancer.
Feeling all was clear, she nudged open the door and walked straight to her locker. She pulled out the plastic bag she’d brought with her, put the glass in, closed the top, and put it safely in her purse.
“I got you,” she muttered, then pulled her phone out to send Connor a quick message to let him know she had Armand’s prints. When she did, she saw her phone was dead. She’d forgotten to plug it back in after sending the file images to Acosta.
Shutting her locker, the clank of metal echoed against the sound of the music playing in the club. Then she heard a voice down the hall.
Crap! Instinct had her pressing her hand on the locker, as if her touch could soften the sound. Then, thinking fast, she reopened the locker and grabbed a tampon out of her purse. Tucking it in her pocket, she closed the door again and headed back down the hall, prepared to run into Grimes.
As she cut the corner, there was no Grimes, but his office door was ajar. Then she heard a voice.
A voice with an accent.
Had Armand followed her? Did he suspect she’d gotten his prints?
Her breath caught, but she assured herself that if he was onto her, he would’ve confronted her. Easing to the office door, she leaned in to hear the conversation.
“How many do you have?” His words were low, but clear. “That’s not enough. I’ll get two or three more. Just find a place and wait.”
Two or three more of what? She eased closer.
“No?” he said. “Escúchame tu pendeho!” He slipped into Spanish, which Brie spoke fluently. “Remember who I am!” Pause. “Good.” Another pause. “How many are blond?”
She got a sinking feeling in her stomach.
Right then the door leading into the main club swung open. She’d managed to step away from the office door, but she was still close. Too close.
“What are you doing?” Grimes asked.
A very suspicious Armand walked out.
Brie pulled the tampon from her pocket. “Female emergency.”
Armand’s expression didn’t betray if he believed her or not. She started moving, hoping no one grabbed her.
When she pushed through the door, she practically ran right into Officer Johnston.
“Bathrooms back here?” he asked, clearly covering.
“No.” She pointed to the other side of the room.
* * *
Exhausted after her shift, Brie got out of her car and headed to her apartment. Her footsteps echoed in the darkness.
Officer Johnston had given her a heads-up that Connor was waiting for her at home, saying the perp who’d broken in earlier had returned.
During her short break at work, she’d borrowed a charger from one of the other waitresses and checked her messages. She’d had several from Connor, about the break-in, about her scattered panties, about him being at her apartment, and one saying they had a tail on Armand. She also had one from Eliot saying Carlos was the same. Sam was coming to relieve Eliot at midnight.
When she was a few feet from her door, she saw it was actually closed. Had it been fixed? Had Connor left?
She hoped not. She wanted to talk to him about Armand and the conversation she’d overheard, tell him she had the man’s prints. And maybe deep down, she even wanted to be reminded that she wasn’t doing this all alone.
She turned the knob—it wasn’t locked—and pushed the door open. Only the lamp was on, but she could see Connor sitting on her sofa, a piece of pizza held up to his lips.
“Did you get my messages that I was here?” His voice was deep, and while he appeared wide awake, his voice had a sleepy quality to it that reminded her of pillow talk.
“Yeah.” Her next intake of air smelled like him, warm and manly, like his shirt. A thrill ran through her body and settled low in her abdomen.
Then the smell of pizza hit. Yeasty, saucy, with a hint of pepperoni. Her stomach growled. When she closed the door, she noticed the old-fashioned slide lock that was attached.
He must have seen where her gaze went. “I got your door to shut, but the lock isn’t working. So I put that one on until they can replace it.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
She set her purse on the coffee table and pulled out the plastic bag. “I got his prints.”
“Great. No signs of any of your FBI buddies?”
“No.”
He nodded and took another bite of pizza. “Want a slice?”
“Thanks. I’m starving.” Setting the plastic bag on the side tab
le, she helped herself to a slice.
“I overheard Armand talking on the phone.” She told him what she’d heard. Detail by detail.
“At least we have someone following him.”
“Where did he go after the club?”
“I was told he went for a drink somewhere else and then drove back to his hotel. Alone.”
“Blast it.” Glancing down, she sank her teeth into the slice. When she looked back up, her eyes widened. “Crap. What happened?” she spoke around the lump of zesty dough in her mouth as she stared at his bloody T-shirt.
He looked down and put his finger through one of the holes in his shirt. “What can I say? Your cat hasn’t warmed up to me yet.”
“What?” Then she noticed the scratches on his arms and the side of his neck. As if that wasn’t enough, she also noted the knees of his khakis were almost black.
“How…Why would he…?”
“I got here right after the man broke in. Your cat was poking his head out of the door. I came in to put him back in the bathroom, but before I could do that, your landlord came in and Psycho ran out.”
“He’s gone?” Her chest tightened at the thought of her feline afraid, cold, and hungry.
“No, I found him. Eventually. At least I hope it’s him. If not, you have a cat in your bathroom who looks like your other cat, and who has just as bad of a disposition.” He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. “It took me three and a half hours, walking around the apartment complex, calling for him. Someone heard me and said they’d spotted a cat in the parking lot. I had to climb under a few cars. One was leaking oil.” He reached up and touched the top of his head.
“When I finally grabbed him, he panicked and”—he glanced down at his bloody T-shirt—“this happened.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“It’s not his either. Because of his past, he’s really antisocial.”
He almost smiled. “Wow, I’d’ve never guessed.”
“Have you cleaned the scratches?”
“No. I was starving, so I ran out for a pizza and picked up the lock.”
She dropped her slice back into the box. “Let me get something to clean them.”
Moving down the hall, she opened the bathroom door and knelt down. “Kitty.”
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