by J. D. Allen
“I was shocked as hell. Confused. Pulled from my fucking bed in the middle of the night and charged with rape. Not just rape, no. They’d charged me with first-degree kidnapping with a weapon and sexual assault. And who was I supposed to have raped? Gretchen?”
He said it slowly and leaned in over her, not caring if three years of anger-management classes got blown out the window. “Those were serious charges. Charges that carried life sentences. I was scared. All I had at that moment was you and the misguided faith that you’d be on my side no matter what. The knowledge that you’d believe in me.”
She nodded and mumbled something that sounded like I know. As if she could understand.
“You don’t get to understand. I remember pulling at the shackles binding my wrists, straining them, making the steel dig into my skin to prevent the overwhelming urge to vomit from fear, from knowing my life was over.“
“I get it.”
“No. No, you don’t!” He’d yelled it. Yelled it at her. He paced away, braced his weight against the file cabinets with his outstretched arms and faced the wall. He didn’t want to look at her. He calmed his voice. “When I called you, it didn’t matter what I said or didn’t say. You were supposed to be there for me.” He shook his head. Remembering the deep-down feeling of his balls being yanked up through his stomach when he heard her speak. “You’d already made up your mind. You’d believed her story. I heard it in your voice.” The conversation had been short. He’d needed to know Erica was there, would help him through the mess. It had taken about thirty seconds to know where she stood. The world had gone black.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, baby.” He looked back at her. Tears were streaming down her face. Fucking crying women. He saw a lot of it these days. Clients. Subjects. This conversation would get them nowhere. He knew it. He’d imagined getting to tell her to fuck off for years. Having the opportunity to say it now felt as empty as it had in his daydreams. He cursed himself silently. “You’re bleeding again.”
She dabbed at it with the towel. Looked at the evidence of the violence she’d been subjected to. “Why do men have to beat on one another to make a point?”
“Banks beats the crap out of people for a living. He makes other people’s points.”
“Whose point do you think he was trying to make?” She looked up at him as she held the towel, her eyes tired and scared. The sooner she was gone, the better. He could have gone an entire lifetime without looking into those green eyes again. Easier to hate the woman from a distance.
“No telling. Could be any number of people. Banks is an equal-opportunity thug.” But Andrew Zant was the one who owned the big man. “Go back to the police. File a complaint. After this, they’ll help you find Chris.” He looked at the hand on the towel. “Hold that firm.”
“They quit looking for Chris as soon as they found out she was working at that strip place.” She huffed and let the cloth fall and blood trickled from the cut.
Jim reached down and put her hand back. “They’ll keep her on a missing persons list, but too many girls disappear after doing tricks and stripping for the police to keep up. Some get dead. Some move on to another city. I know. Hopeful parents hire me all the time. I’ll gladly give you the speech I give them as I take their money. It’s not meant to be encouraging.”
She stood. “I don’t want to hear your speech. I want to find my sister.” Her hand dropped from her forehead again.
Jim knew very well where this was headed. He didn’t want to say no to her, but he would. What if she started crying again? “Go back to the station. You can press charges against Banks and they’ll probably reopen her case since you were assaulted.” He turned. “I’ll get you a cab.”
But she caught his arm. “Kore—Jim.” The correction was fast but the emotion in her voice was not to be missed.
He stopped and looked down at her hand. There was blood on her knuckle. She pulled him closer, slipping her arms around his waist. She gripped the muscles of his lower back, pulling their bodies together. Close enough to feel her breasts against his chest. His body roared to life as if it remembered hers and cared little for what his head thought of the situation.
The ghost of their broken lives whispered in his ear. He still wanted her. Not since Erica had he managed a relationship deeper than the occasional late-night booty call. He could bury himself in her heat as he had done years ago. He’d trusted her.
A trust she’d shattered. He shook his head to clear the lusty haze in his mind. She’d abandoned him. The one person he’d thought would stand by him for the rest of his life. He thought of the ring that had been in his bedside table when he’d been arrested. The ring he’d hocked to help pay lawyer fees. He pulled away from her. “You need to go.”
“I need your help.”
No way. “There are a lot of PIs out there. Check the phone book.”
“I can pay. Three times your usual rate. None of the others will do as good a job as you. I know it.”
He barked out a laugh. “What makes you think that? I’m a washed-up PI at thirty-five, sweet cheeks. I drink too damned much. I’m an asshole. I don’t want to be around you and I don’t want your money. Don’t you get it?”
Mad. He needed to stay mad instead of hurt. Maybe that would make her give up and leave. He wanted to be mad anyway. All of a sudden the bottle of Scotch sitting on the filing cabinet looked real good. He poured two fingers into the dirty glass next to it. Then drank half of it.
“You still want me. I can tell.”
She was looking at his jeans. Yep. He was hard. Even if she didn’t mean that by her words, that’s what her eyes said. He laughed. No hiding that.
“I could fuck you, Erica. I could strip you out of that high-dollar suit, lay you out on that desk, and fuck you.” Her eyes got bigger. He swallowed down the second half of the glass. “But that doesn’t change anything. I won’t help you.”
Not to mention that Zant would probably kill him right off if he tried to investigate. But the Scotch wasn’t fast enough to kill the pain, so he dug deeper for the anger.
“I said I’m sorry. Admitted I was wrong. What more do you want me to do?” she appealed, her eyes filling with tears.
Damn her tears. His life lay in ruins. Not hers. No matter that they dropped all charges six weeks later. In any basic criminal search of Korey Anders, it still came up. Arrested. Seven-hundred-thousand-dollar bail. First-degree sexual assault with a weapon. To this day he could picture the headlines in the paper. His mug shot plastered under it. Still see his mother’s face when she had come to visit him. Even she had been unsure based on the lies the news had reported.
But that wasn’t what killed Korey Anders that night. He spoke the words he’d waited eight years to say to her: “You believed I did it.”
“You wouldn’t deny it.” She sat back in the chair. “I was surrounded by people telling me to believe it.”
“Yeah, well. Now, I’m surrounded by people telling me to take other cases.” He gestured toward the cat. She blinked beady yellow eyes at Erica from the desk. “Annie says we’re booked solid. So sorry.”
He grabbed his cell off the desk, thumbed through the contacts, and found the number for one of the cabbies he used when he was in a tight spot. She poured herself a shot and knocked it back with a cough. He didn’t look at her as he arranged for Adair to pick her up. From the diner at the end of the block.
“You really are an asshole.” She slammed the glass back on the desk.
“That’s what they say. But you were the one who believed a drunk sorority girl—who pissed you off more often than not—over the man you supposedly loved. I think that makes you an asshole.” Wow. That really sounded immature and nonsensical. But he meant it. He reclaimed his glass.
“Fine. Hate me. You’re right. I get it. I was stupid, misguided, and mistaken.” She step
ped back into his personal space. He took another drink. “My sister did not come out here to be a prostitute and you very well know it. She was a social worker.” Erica poked his shoulder, making some of the Scotch slosh out. Her eyes were piercing his. “Chris has an advanced degree and a trust fund. Why would she take a second job as a stripper?”
He knew none of it made sense. Chris was okay. She had always been nice to him. Maybe he could check it out a little and not let Erica know.
No. What was he thinking? He needed to stay out of this shit. Away from her. “The police will figure it out.”
Erica stepped closer. Moving away didn’t help, since his back hit the file cabinet. Trapped. She slid her hand under his shirttail and up his stomach. He held the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. It left him unable stop the trail of heat it made over his skin. Or so he justified. He closed his eyes let his head fall back. Let his body experience her touch. She leaned in, her thighs pressed against his.
“You still want me even if you don’t like me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Yes. He was. Traitorous arms spread, letting her even closer. She was seducing him. Movement on the desk caught his attention. Annie had sat up. Her tail was curled around her feet. Her yellow eyes were glaring at Jim suspiciously. Condescending.
“I’ll tell you what, Jim Bean.” Erica whispered it on the edge of his ear, her lips brushing the rim, making his toes tingle. He squeezed the glass in his hand. “You may not like me anymore. That’s fine. But you do still want me.” She kissed that spot where his neck and his shoulder meet. “Help me find Chris.”
4
He shouldn’t resist. Why should he? He’d felt used and abandoned when she’d betrayed him. Now he would return the favor. Do a little digging about Chris and then move on. She’d go back to Boston.
With a large gulp he finished off the last little bit of Scotch. Direct from the bottle. The glass he held was not needed. The room-temperature liquid burned his throat as he swallowed. Erica’s lips touched that absurdly sensitive spot on his neck again. His body reacted as if not one moment had passed. He channeled his thoughts in on that so his head played no part in his existence for a moment. How far would she really go with this?
He opened his eyes and found her watching him, that jewel-green gaze as piercing as always, her expression questioning. Her nails barely scraped just under the edge of his waistband. He didn’t have to look down. He could visualize all of it. Her ivory fingers against his darker skin.
What he wanted was … her. Her to be in Boston where she belonged. Out of his life.
“Please.” She was pressed against him from chest to ankle. The word was a breath on his neck, her body a temptation. Femme fatale.
His body was overusing blood flow at the moment. His brain moved slow. She knew how to take him right to the edge even with only her touch. She always had. But he was an easy read, like a billboard.
“Erica …” He knew it sounded desperate. He dug his back into the cold metal edge of the cabinets to hold himself upright and looked down at her. As much as he deserved a down-and-dirty grudge fuck …
“No deal.”
With more of a groan than he intended, he pulled away from her. Took a breath. She fell back into the chair. Her eyes were about to fill with tears again. Maybe he was an ass. But their past … his pain was not fixable with a little tickle and squeeze.
Annie got up, stretched, and resituated on his desk. She was looking down her kitty nose at him. Rarely did she approve of his morals. Tonight was no different. He’d left Erica hanging. Served her right.
She’d walked away when he needed her most. Left him to hang. When he pawned the ring he’d bought for her, he’d been glad he’d never proposed. She strung him along for two years.
Her shirt was unbuttoned, her head cut. She looked at the ground. “Let me embarrass myself before stopping that, huh? A little payback? You enjoy it?”
He hadn’t really. Hadn’t intended it.
She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I don’t care. I’ll beg. No time for pride. I need you. Chris needs you.”
He felt a wave of shame. He had momentarily enjoyed her humiliation. In the end, Jim was not that guy. “There’s a restroom.” He tilted his head toward the hall that led to the rest of the townhouse house. “Go clean up.”
She nodded, her face still beet red as she put herself together.
But then there was Chris. Could he tolerate Erica for a day or so until he found out why Chris had disappeared? He needed the cash. Bad. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a napkin from an old Burger King bag. He tossed the whole mess in his trashcan and plopped to his chair. His space. His life. His crappy office.
The office was really a converted one-bay garage attached to a shitty little townhouse in a shitty little neighborhood. It was the unit on the end of a row. The end where the traffic came and went. Not the end by the pool or the playground. He didn’t care about the pool or the playground. He was usually the traffic, coming and going at odd hours. His was the corner lot. Faced two streets and an alley behind. Room for all four of his cars parked on the road and the bike in the alley behind. No one complained.
The fuzzy black cat was up on the cabinet now, sniffing around his empty Scotch bottle. “I believe you are absolutely correct, Ms. Annie.” He opened his top right drawer and pulled out a new bottle. He cracked the seal and poured another half glass. “I’ll have another.”
Annie tilted her head and one eye closed as she scrutinized him. Her irritated expression gave Jim the impression she disapproved of his sound reasoning. “I can spend a few days giving her hell and then send her packing. We need the money. Don’t give me that look. Meow Chow ain’t free.”
The cat shook her head and turned tail to wander off toward the front of the house. In the same direction Erica had headed. He took a big ol’ swallow. Yep. If he kept this all business and made sure she didn’t trample his heart again, this might be a profitable few days after all.
5
His phone chirped. Text message. Jim looked up to see Erica standing in the hall as he fished it out of his pocket. Her clothing restored. Her expression hard to read. He wanted to say something but didn’t have a clue as to what. He read the screen. “Cab driver. He’s waiting at the coffee shop.”
She nodded. Grabbed her bag. “Are you going to help or not?”
He could just drive her to the hotel himself, but that would be too personal … considering. Now that she was standing in his space again, he needed her gone. He took another drink. That’s what he knew how to do these days. “I’ll start in the morning. Where you staying?”
“The Americana.”
A Zant hotel. Andrew Zant’s office was on the twenty-third floor. He knew that because he’d been there, on that ugly carpet, looking at that hulking snake in its pompous tank with the Asian jungle plants and the rainforest tree. He’d made a different kind of bargain that day. Zant would keep using it. Keep putting the knife to his throat. The thought of yet another banner day made the Scotch turn in his stomach.
“Banks works for the man who owns that hotel.”
“So?”
“You may want to consider changing addresses.”
“I don’t intend to be here long. You should be able to track her fairly easy, right? She wasn’t that complicated a girl.” Her head was no longer bleeding, but the bruise on her brow was starting to show.
“You’ll have a shiner by morning.”
“Perfect.”
Unfortunately, tracking Chris might very well be easy. The news would most likely be bad. Very bad. He opened the side door and walked out. Turned right and headed for the Coffee Girl.
She followed. He heard her closing the door behind them, the tap-tap of her dress shoes as she rushed. He glanced at her as she caug
ht up. She looked flushed and beautiful. He had the urge to hold her hand. Habit, he told himself. That’s all.
“What about my rental car? It’s still at the strip club.”
“I’ll get it. Don’t go back there. Ever.”
They crossed Alexander Avenue and turned left. The Coffee Girl was on the corner. It used to be a dirty old greasy spoon Jim had loved. But some out-of-work telecom executive moved out here and bought the place last year after the dot-com bust. He’d cleaned up the grease, painted the inside a cheerful yellow, and changed the menu. Now it was not Jim’s favorite place. But it was close. So he was now a reluctant regular. Did most his business at the back corner table. And the coffee girl who worked mornings was one of the few people he liked. Her face and smart mouth made the bland organic spinach omelets go down better. That and ketchup.
“You need my number,” she said. The cab was sitting in the lot, closer to Jim’s house than the front door of the diner. Adair knew what was what. He did not seem surprised when Jim opened the door and motioned Erica in.
Jim got a card from his wallet. It was plain white, his name printed in dark block letters in the middle and his cell number printed on the bottom right corner. “Text me when you’re up.”
She handed him the keys to the rental car, inspected the card. Started to smile but caught herself. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” He told Adair where to go and glanced back at her.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
The cab pulled away. He felt a sense of loss. It aggravated him. He was hungry. He considered the Coffee Girl. Nothing but Tofurkey and salads after breakfast. He’d settle for Scotch. Jim Bean headed home.
He needed a shower. Needed food. Needed to get the memory of her breath on his neck out of his head. He entered the house through the same door they’d left so he could retrieve the Scotch. Annie met him and followed him, weaving through his legs as he made his way to the kitchen. She sat next to her bowl and made a public, boisterous complaint about the empty state of it. He opened the pantry and grabbed the bag of cat chow. It had no weight and when he shook it, only crumbs and dust rattled in the bottom.
