Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  The questioning wasn’t the end at all. The nightmare had just begun.

  “Bean.” He wrenched himself from the images, back to the present and back into the club, as Toyota poked his shoulder. The portly stripper stood in front of him. Her round, overly tanned breasts were positioned right in his face. Jim blinked and wondered at the irony of a girl shaped something like a car actually naming herself after a car. “Where you at, sweetie?”

  Nowhere I want to be. “Reliving the end of my youthful innocence.”

  She tilted her head as if for an instant she considered delving deeper into the subject, but she nodded instead. “Dance?” Evidently his problems were not on her give-a-shit list. He almost chuckled.

  He glanced back at the bar. Erica had turned and was looking around the room. He pulled another bill out and tucked it into Toyota’s G-string. He could watch Erica from around the girl’s generous hips. He retrieved the flask and took the last draw off it, wishing it held just a little more.

  “Banks is gonna kick your ass if he sees you with outside hooch.” She turned sideways and did a move designed to show off her flexibility, her hips and shoulders moving in different directions, making her midsection slide close to his chest.

  Jim glanced at Banks, who was now frowning at Erica. The big man looked pretty intimidating when he was unhappy. He pulled out his cell and punched at it with a sausage-sized finger. Awkward. Slow. A text.

  Jim set the silver container on the table. “Wouldn’t want to get your boss man’s buzz cut in a twist.”

  On second thought, maybe he did. With Banks no longer paying attention to Jim and his contraband Scotch, he was busy watching Erica, and Jim was none too happy with that. No one wanted to be scrutinized like that by this guy.

  Banks then glanced down. Jim could see the cell phone light up in his paw of a hand. The big man nodded as he looked down at his screen. Jim sucked in a deep breath and turned his attention back to Erica.

  Banks pulled away from the wall and trudged toward Erica. Jim closed his eyes. Fought feeling things he’d long ago buried. Jim should hate her. He did hate her. She’d played a huge part in destroying his life. He didn’t want to be involved with this. He had another job to be doing.

  She’d said her sister was missing.

  Two jobs, really. What the fuck should he care what Erica or Chris had gotten themselves into? If the trail led from Edmond Carver to this joint, it was likely Chris had turned junkie and come to Vegas. What did he care?

  Banks loomed over Erica’s shoulder. She turned and gave him a very businesslike smile. She was in over her head.

  Too damn bad …

  “You could give a girl a complex, Bean.” Toyota thumped his chest with her thick fingers.

  He found himself looking at her naked breasts again. He felt no need to apologize. “I paid you. Do I have to watch?”

  “I guess not, but—”

  “Move.” He pushed Toyota out of his line of vision. Erica was no longer at the bar.

  “You’re an ass.”

  “I hear that a lot.” He stood and twisted to see the entire club. He’d gotten caught up in the past, and the present was getting away from him again. Hadn’t done that in a while. The thought made him twitch. Erica and Banks were nowhere to be seen. As a matter of fact, most of the staff had pulled the find-somewhere-else-to-be act.

  He should walk right out that front door and let Banks do his worst with the traitorous bitch. That was exactly what a smart man would do. Not his business.

  He turned to make his way back to his truck. Getting roughed up by a bouncer might serve her right. She’d abandoned Jim back when he was Korey Anders. She’d broken his heart and his general belief in people. Why should he stick his neck out with Banks—and, more importantly, Banks’s boss—for her now?

  “Goddammit.” He stopped, staring down at the division of the dark club and the light of day. It was a line in the sand waiting to be crossed.

  If someone was going to scare the crap out of Erica Floyd, it should be him. He deserved that revenge. No counting the times he’d thought about inflicting some kind of revenge on her and Gretchen Bates in the years right after the arrest. He stepped away from the light. He was not about to let Banks take the opportunity from him.

  “That hurts.” Erica was on her tippy toes as Banks dragged her down the narrow painted cinderblock hallway cluttered with closed black doors. The private rooms for private dances. “I don’t suppose you’re the manager of this fine establishment, are you?” she squeaked out as he yanked her around a corner.

  Jim pulled back before Banks spotted him.

  “Do you know Chris Floyd?” he heard her ask Banks.

  What kind of mess were the sisters mixed up in that had Banks knocking Erica around? Holy hell, Jim needed to leave. Banks wasn’t only a bouncer in this tacky strip club; he also worked for Zant. Casino owner, mobster, racketeer, and all-around bat-shit crazy Andrew Zant. And that meant Banks did all kinds of things. The big boy was like a human utility knife Zant wielded as needed. Like roughing up people who owed Zant, as Jim well knew, since he currently owed the casino owner a huge debt himself. A debt that he’d chipped away at but was almost sure would never be forgiven.

  “This is very eighties-movie cliché. You know? Being taken out back by the bouncer.” She was nagging at him as he pushed her forward. This time her shoulder hit a stack of boxes. “Hey. Lug Nut. You can’t do this!”

  Aw. Fuck. Erica was going to destroy his life again. Not that this shit of a job and a city was much, but it was his now. He cringed as he heard her squeak and the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the wall.

  Jim took a peek around the bend in time to see her kick back at the huge man as hard as she could, jamming her heel down his shin. Banks’s grunt of surprise and pain was not accompanied by a loosening of his grip. On the contrary. Next, she flailed her free arm in attempt to scratch and claw any part of him she could reach. Her efforts to break free would be admirable if they weren’t so pathetic. As it was, she was just pissing him off.

  “Fuck me.” Big Banks snatched up her other arm and shook her like a ragdoll. “Hold still, dammit.”

  Jim saw the moment Erica realized how bad this situation was. Her face paled and her eyes widened with an adrenaline rush of fear. He knew the feeling. Her toes would be tingling with it, her heart racing so that she could hear the pulse of blood in her ears. Though Jim doubted she had the time or inclination to study how her terror was affecting her body functions.

  This is the dirty side of Vegas, girl. And you walked right into it. She let out an ear-splitting scream. That would be useful in the back of a club pounding techno music turned up to hellish levels on the other side of the cinderblock.

  He had no real choice. He may be an ass, but he wasn’t leaving Erica to Banks or Zant.

  “Fine.” Banks’s voice was low and even. Jim saw it coming; Erica did not. Banks smacked her face-first into the peeling cinderblock.

  Her body gave up, drooped, but Erica managed to reach for and awkwardly snag the frame of the opening to a room with her fingertips as he pulled her deeper into the bowels of the club. Between his grip and her rubbery limbs, she couldn’t hold on but she’d managed to slow their progress a little.

  “Stop being such a pain.” Banks shook her hard. The door slipped from her weak grip. Her head looked like a wooden puppet moving in slow motion as she looked back at Banks’s large leathery face.

  “Dammit,” Jim muttered. He moved swift and silent, glad for the element of surprise. Banks would never expect to be bum-rushed in his own place. Jim took advantage of the big guy having both hands full.

  He had to jump to get onto Banks’s back. The man must be six-foot-six. Not having a better solution, Jim wrapped his arm around the man’s thick neck, cranked it tight with his other hand, and hoped for the best.

 
; Erica fell out of Banks’s grasp and against the wall. Good start. Now all Jim had to do was hold on and keep pressure on Banks’s larynx until the man’s oxygen-deprived brain started to falter along with his strength. With any luck, the oaf would pass right on out and Jim could slip away without having his identity disclosed.

  “Korey?”

  Jim glanced down at the heap of woman trying to right herself against the wall.

  “Shut up,” he said to Erica as Banks tried to turn to see him. Jim had him tight. Fighting a monstrous boa constrictor would be easier than bringing Banks down. At least a snake wouldn’t hold a grudge or be likely to beat the crap out of Jim later. It was taking all his strength to maintain the correct position to cut off Banks’s air and keep his big head facing forward.

  “Leave off,” was all Banks managed to say before launching himself backward and slamming Jim’s already aching back into the cinderblock. Jim almost let his grip lessen with the force of being sandwiched between a behemoth and the brick, but he held fast.

  “Korey Anders. Is that really you?” She was sitting and rubbing her bleeding forehead. Her eyes looked crossed. No wedding ring.

  Evidently, Banks was losing his patience. He turned in a circle with Jim still on his back. With a ham-fisted move, Banks tried to fish his revolver out of its holster. Jim grabbed his thumb and twisted with a pressure move. Judo 101. Banks lost his grip on the weapon. Jim took the gun as easily as shaking hands.

  And with a good arching swing, he popped poor Banks in the sweet spot. The big man tried to hold his ground. He stumbled a few steps forward before his knees gave and he crumpled into an unconscious pile between Jim’s feet.

  “Oh, crap. Korey.” She looked up from Banks and her mouth fell open. Her eyes were still dilated, but she looked better.

  If she called him by his birth name again, he might whack her with the gun butt. Korey Anders had ceased to exist in Columbus eight years ago. He’d worked long and hard to become Jim Elwood Bean and establish his identity, his reputation, and his business. Well, his reputation wasn’t stellar, but he got the job done. Lawyers loved him for getting the dirt they wanted for clients. Housewives with cheating husbands loved him.

  “Don’t call me that again.” He grabbed her hand.

  3

  He silently watched Erica from the hall, still not believing she was in his house. “Nice place,” she said to herself as she surveyed the room. He knew what it looked like. A fucking mess. So what? He needed another drink. She was looking over his office. Her fingers trailed the edge of his desk as she scanned the stack of bills and mail. She’d know he’d changed his name and would figure out he was now in the private investigation field. He wasn’t hiding shit from her.

  Ms. Annie sat eyeing Erica from atop the center of the pile of junk on the desk. All four feet were tucked up neatly under her body and her ears turned on Erica. Her tail flipped back and forth with a snotty snap. Apparently, his cat did not seem particularly happy with Erica’s presence either. Maybe the aloof bitch-cat had some sense after all.

  “For someone who constantly went behind me and rewashed dishes or refolded my clothes if I left them in the basket too long …” she mumbled, still unaware of his presence. But that was a different place. A different life. A different man. He was well aware that his office looked like a terrorist bombed a junkyard.

  “From the FBI academy to this.” She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Two classes away from a criminology master’s when …” When Gretchen had shown up at the sorority house with her face bruised, her clothes torn, her bucket full of lies. And Erica believed them all.

  Erica spun. Came to him. “Thanks for pulling me out of there.” She cupped his cheek. She’d done it a thousand times when they were a couple.

  Time and treachery surged up like bile in this throat. He recoiled as if he’d been slapped. He stepped back, physically moving to put his desk and Ms. Annie between the two of them. He tossed her the bag of ice and a towel he’d gotten from the kitchen. The fake leather office chair creaked as his weight filled it.

  “Any hallucinations, dizziness?” His voice was tight, professional.

  She smiled in spite of the situation. “I see an angry black cat in the middle of a messed-up desk.”

  “Annie’s my security.” He looked around the array of paper spread out before them and shrugged.

  She hissed from pain when she pressed the ice to her brow. Her eyes were sad. Tired. He didn’t care.

  “Gretchen fooled us all. It was crazy,” she blurted out.

  He held his breath. He did not want to have this conversation.

  “You don’t want excuses?”

  He wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say a word, sat still, not blinking, with his hands on the arms of his office chair. He could see the small lines time and stress had etched on her face. She looked older, a little vulnerable.

  “I looked for you.” She started on it again. The excuses. “After the charges were dropped. You just disappeared.”

  He gripped the arms of the chair. She waited for a response. He finally blinked.

  “I’m really sorry, Korey. I could blame youth or fear or …” Jim saw the tears coming. She glanced around the office to avoid his scrutiny. “I know you wanted to be a politician as well as an FBI agent.” Meaning this mess was a thousand miles from all his dreams. “I know it’s too late. I know your life was changed with the charges and the publicity. I should have acted differently.”

  Yeah, she should have defended him from the start.

  “My name is Jim Bean.” He wanted to move. To put a stop to this right now. There was that small part of him that wanted to hear what she had to say. The rest of him quit giving a flying fuck about her years ago.

  “Fine. Jim. I’m sorry.” She put her hand on her chest, over her heart, like she was pledging to the flag. “I loved you. I wanted to believe you. But Gretchen was in the hospital, the police were everywhere, the news crews were already crucifying you, insisting there was evidence. DNA evidence.” She shifted. Looked at the bag of ice in her hand. “The entire thing was like a tornado. When you called, you didn’t deny it. You didn’t deny anything.”

  There it is. So it was his fault? Enough. Too long gone to fix. Too much anger to care what she thought, then or now. Water done dried up from under that bridge. “Why are you here, Erica?”

  She blinked, her face tightened. She was getting angry, maybe appalled that her apology meant nothing to him. What’d she expect? He simply waited for an answer.

  She fidgeted with the towel. Thinking. “You’re right. I’m not in Vegas to give you a long-deserved apology. But you know that.” Her face paled. She took in a deep breath as if to steady herself for what was coming next. “I’m here about Chris. “

  He knew that but wanted to hear what she had to say. “What’s Chris doing in Vegas?”

  “After you left, she became a social worker. A while back, she decided there were places outside Ohio where people needed more help. Said there were too many families out here without resources, young girls in trouble.” She stood and attempted to pace his office. But with the electronics and props lying around, she could only put together a couple of paces. Now that she was talking about Chris, he could see panic in her eyes. “She’s been here about a year and a half.” She adjusted the ice. Pushing it into her skin.

  “And? How does that get you knocked around in a strip club?” His body eased slightly as the subject moved away from their past. Missing person, that was his gig.

  “Supposedly, she went to work there. That’s what the police and some thug said, anyway. I find it nearly impossible to believe.”

  She’d stopped next to Jim’s desk. His gaze traveled up her body as she hesitated. He might hate her, but obviously, he still found her attractive. When his gaze finally found hers, she smiled at him. She saw where his mind had
gone. Fuck.

  He frowned, shuffled some papers on the desk. “Go to the cops.”

  She readjusted the ice bag and pulled on her skin a little too hard. Blood trickled down the side of her eye.

  “Cops pissed me off.” She flopped herself back on the rickety chair in front of his desk so she could exchange the ice bag for the towel. “They are ‘no longer pursuing leads.’ Not interested.” She winced. “Unless you want to help me, I’m out of ideas and she’s still missing.”

  “Help you?” With a grunt, Jim got up and came around to sit on the edge of the desk in front her. “Not likely.” He pulled the towel from her and pinched together her split brow. “You should go get this stitched. Unless you want me to do it?”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Leave me a nice jagged scar.” She yanked the towel from him. “Just give me a Band-Aid.”

  That worked for him. He got up to retrieve one from his emergency kit. She was gonna be trouble with a giant, throbbing T. And she had the nerve to be mad at him. He would stick a Band-Aid on her ass and send her on her merry way. The past and the fact she was mixed up with one of Zant’s minions both pointed in one direction: out his back door.

  He’d heard enough. Erica Floyd needed to be gone. He tossed her the bandage and nodded to the door. “Call a cab from the diner on the corner.”

  Her face reddened as she stared up at him. He remembered that look. Knew the instant she was going to blow. “I know you’re mad. I understand how you must feel. But I apologized.” She stood and propped her hands on her hips. She was inches from his face. He could smell her lingering perfume.

  “And that should fix everything?” He couldn’t have stopped the chuckle that escaped even if he had wanted to save her feelings. And he did not. “Do you have any idea what I went through in that hot, airless interrogation room that night? When I was alone and staring at a small window on a closed and locked door.” He tilted his head. “Do you?”

  She shook her head and eased back into her seat.