What the hell do I do now? I thought, twirling the pen between my fingers. Marc would have already known Jeff’s full name, rank, and serial number, whatever that was. At least, he would have if Jeff wore a skirt. Or a G-string.
A change in the music caught my attention, and I glanced at the stage to see a tiny Asian woman dancing in a brightly colored dragon costume that could, at best, be described as abstract.
Across the room, I found Marc and Kevin seated on either side of Little Red Riding Hood, now wearing a mostly see-through red nightie. She sat sideways on the semi-circular booth, angling her back to Kevin to give her full attention to Marc. Kevin didn’t seem to care. He sipped his beer while he watched the dragon lady shed layer after layer of shiny scales.
By all appearances, Marc seemed glad to have Corinne’s attention all to himself, and if I wasn’t already certain of his disinterest in human women in general, I’d probably have fallen for his performance myself. After all, enforcers typically dealt with violent, angry strays, not beautiful, willing women.
I’d never seen Marc flirt with anyone else before, but he did it well. Very well. Fortunately, I was secure enough in myself and in our relationship to know that he was just doing his job. Marc thought of his appearance—his beautiful face and sculpted physique—the same way he thought of his teeth and claws: as just two more weapons in his personal arsenal. And he would never hesitate to use any weapon at his disposal if he deemed it necessary. Which made me wonder how far he’d be willing to go….
As far as it takes, a soft, treacherous voice spoke up from deep within my heart. He’d do anything for the Pride, and you know it.
Corinne had one hand on his bicep and one foot hooked around his calf beneath the table, and Marc seemed to be eating it up. He looked directly into her eyes, a courtesy I was pretty sure strippers rarely got at work, and leaned close to her, as if to better hear what she was saying over the loud music. That was just for show, of course. He could hear her perfectly well. Hell, I could have heard her if I’d concentrated. But I didn’t, because while I knew he was only acting, doing his job for the good of the Pride, I had no desire to hear another woman tell my boyfriend how hot he was.
If I wanted him to know, I’d damn well tell him myself.
Then, as I tapped my pen on the bar, Marc began questioning Corinne. I knew when that moment came, even without listening for it, because her hand fell from his arm and her eyes dropped to the bright red drink on the table. As she spoke, presumably answering his questions, Corinne picked at the fingernails of one hand, her forearms resting on the table. Her expression had gone from cheerful and flirtatious to sad and worried. Which meant Marc was doing his job.
Inspired by his success, I glanced at the clipboard in front of me, considering my next move. How was it that Marc had gotten information out of his source, while I’d only gotten paperwork?
Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to play the boob card against Jeff. Surely that would be easier than testing a patch of my skin for an allergy to double-sided tape.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t flash my flesh in exchange for information. For my life, yes. I’d been down that road three months earlier, and vowed never to travel it again. And I wasn’t willing to break my vow for mere information. I didn’t fault Marc for flirting in the name of duty, but neither could I follow his example. That would be demeaning myself, and using Jeff, and I just couldn’t do either.
I’d have to find another approach. An approach that left me with my clothes—and my self-respect—intact.
Slowly, an idea began to form. I’d already made up a name, so why not make up a story to go with my new character? What if Julie hadn’t really come to Forbidden Fruit looking for a job? What if she’d come for something else?
When the rush was over and Jeff came back, I was ready.
“You forget how to spell your name?” he asked, nodding at the blank application as he set a bottle of spring water on the bar in front of me.
“Thanks.” I stared at the bottle as I opened it and took a long drink, intentionally—and hopefully obviously—avoiding his eyes as I recapped the bottle and set it back on the bar.
“Something wrong?” he asked, ducking his head into my line of sight to catch my eyes.
I gave him a hesitant, self-conscious smile. “I, um, I’m not really here for a job.”
Jeff arched one eyebrow and grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Leaning into the corner formed where the bar turned at a ninety-degree angle, he popped one of the nuts into his mouth, chewing while he watched me. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What do you want?”
Smiling, I let genuine relief show on my face. I’d been counting on his curiosity, which wasn’t really such a risk. Most guys will take any chance to prolong a conversation with a pretty girl. Jeff wore no wedding ring, and I’d already gathered that he liked women, so the odds of him showing interest were in my favor.
Score one for my approach.
“Information,” I said as I let my smile fade into a serious expression, with just enough anger to lend authenticity.
“Information? That’s a new one.” He paused to chew on a few more nuts, and I kept my eye contact bold to show determination. “What kind of information?” he asked, his mouth still half-full.
“I want to know who my husband is fucking.”
Jeff choked on his mouthful, coughing to clear his throat. When he could breathe again, he laughed out loud, admiration showing in his eyes, hopefully for me, and not for my “husband.” He dropped the remaining peanuts back into the bowl and brushed salt from his palms, glancing pointedly at my left hand. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.”
“Would you, if your wife were screwing someone else?” I spat, maintaining eye contact to reinforce my sincerity. “Besides, I seriously doubt Robby wore his when he was here. Turnabout’s fair play, right?” I shrugged, and tilted my water bottle back for another drink.
“So, who’s your husband, and why do you think he’s cheating on you?” he asked, leaning back to work on another handful of peanuts.
“My husband.” I sighed, as if settling in for a long story. “Robby Harper, computer programmer and wanna-be stud. We’ve been married less than a year, and he’s already looking for a little something extra on the side.” I paused and gave a bitter laugh. “Well, as of last night, I guess he’s not just looking anymore.”
“And you know this because…?”
I glanced up sharply, letting a little bite seep into my tone. “Because he didn’t even bother to shower before he came home. I could smell the bitch on him.” Oops. “Her perfume,” I added quickly, as it occurred to me that humans probably couldn’t smell one another’s personal scents the way cats could. “I think he met her here, and I want to know who she is.” I made a show of glancing around the room, eyeing the dancer strutting around onstage in a Princess Leia bikini before turning back to Jeff.
He nodded in understanding. “I don’t know many of the regulars by name, so you’ll have to tell me what he looks like. But I can tell you right now that he probably wasn’t with one of our girls. My brother runs this place by the book, and girls who break the rules don’t last long.”
I dismissed his opinion with a careless wave of my hand. I already knew I wasn’t looking for a stripper. But Julie Harper didn’t. “He’s about five ten, with short brown hair and dark eyes. They’re nearly black, actually.”
Jeff frowned and shook his head. “I don’t usually get close enough to the customers to notice their eye color, and other than that, you’ve just described a good third of our regulars. Anything else about him I might remember?”
I chewed on my bottom lip as I thought. “Yeah.” I shifted on the bar stool, where my bare thighs were stuck to the vinyl again, and turned to face the booth where Marc and Kevin still sat with Corinne. “See those guys sitting with Little Red Riding Hood?” I turned around to see Jeff squinting into the dimly lit main room.
“Yeah.�
��
“The one on the left is a friend of Robby’s. They usually come in here together. Until last night, I thought they were going to the gun range.”
Jeff nodded and popped another peanut into his mouth. He chewed, then swallowed while I waited, growing more nervous with each passing second. Then he nodded again. “Yeah, I remember your husband. He comes in a couple of times a month. Usually gets a lap dance from Ginger, the redhead in the coconut bra and grass miniskirt.” I glanced around the room, trying to locate “Ginger,” as Jeff continued. “But Ginger doesn’t work the day shift, and yesterday your hubby was here for lunch. First one through the door. I remember because he left with the only female customer we’ve had all week. We get a few who come in on Friday and Saturday nights with their husbands and boyfriends, but we hardly ever get women in for lunch. And they almost never come alone.”
My heart pounded. He’d seen the tabby. And he remembered her. “Robby left with this woman?”
“Yeah. Maybe…an hour after we opened? Something like that.”
I leaned over the bar, fighting not to appear too eager. “Do you know her name?”
“Nah. I’d never seen her before yesterday. She drank a club soda, though. Ordered it with this really thick, sexy accent. Spanish, maybe.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
Jeff frowned, as if I’d just asked him if sugar was sweet. “I’ll never forget what she looked like. She was hot.”
I rolled my eyes, prepared for a bit of exaggeration in his response. After all, he’d offered me a job as a stripper. How high could his standards be? “Got anything more specific than ‘hot’?”
“Yeah, sorry.” And he actually looked sorry. Or at least sheepish. “She was about your height, maybe a little shorter. Dark, exotic skin. Long, curly hair, not quite as black as yours, but still pretty dark. Pale gray eyes. Weird-pale, but beautiful. Her eyes I noticed. I remember when she left because I’d been about to offer her a drink on the house, then I looked up to see her heading out the door with…well, with your husband.” Jeff shrugged apologetically. “Did that help?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I stood, already turning to go.
“Hey, what are you gonna do when you find her?”
I answered him beneath my breath. “I’m gonna use up a few of her nine lives.”
Fourteen
I thanked Jeff for his help and caught Marc’s eye from across the room. He raised one brow at me in question, and I tossed my head toward the entrance to tell him I was ready to go. He gave me a single, brief nod and tapped Kevin on the shoulder. Together, they stood, and Corinne slid out of the booth behind Marc. He offered her his hand, but she hugged him instead, standing on her toes to whisper something in his ear. Her lips actually moved that time, but I didn’t want to know what she was saying, so I turned and wound my way through a jumble of tables, heading toward the door.
We had lunch at the Cajun Bar and Grill, where Marc and I exchanged information over spicy jambalaya, doing our best to ignore Kevin’s interruptions. He was working overtime to get on our collective good side, but he might as well have saved his breath. We’d be reporting him to my father even if he’d been able to hand over the murdering tabby bound and gagged.
After lunch, Kevin drove us across the Mississippi border into Picayune, where we found Robert Harper’s apartment with little trouble. He lived on the second floor, next door to Mrs. Grady, a friendly—and obviously bored—senior citizen who would have been more than happy to help Robby’s best friends and his little sister, Julie, make up the guest list for his surprise birthday party. Unfortunately, she didn’t know the names of any of his numerous lady friends.
According to Mrs. Grady, Harper’d had frequent overnight guests in the four years he’d lived next door, but none had stayed more than one night, and none of them came even close to fitting the tabby’s description. Evidently big brother Robby had a thing for redheads, and while he’d settle for a blonde in a pinch, he’d never shown any interest in brunettes.
However, according to Jeff’s description of the woman seen with Harper the day before, it was obvious that species trumped hair color any day of the week.
When we’d gathered everything we could from Mrs. Grady, Marc and I left Kevin in the hall listening to her party-menu suggestions while we used Julie’s key—which had actually come from Harper’s own pocket—to check out the apartment. We discovered nothing more interesting than a massive pile of dirty laundry and an unhealthy fondness for SPAM and SpaghettiOs.
We rescued Kevin from Mrs. Grady, reluctantly, and he drove us back into New Orleans, where we made a short stop for beignets and cafés au lait before heading out to catch our flight home. At the airport, Kevin pulled into a space in short-term parking and popped the trunk without getting out. I got out on the passenger side and circled around to grab our small bags from the back while Marc knelt to have a final word with Kevin through the lowered driver’s window.
“Stay close to home and keep your phone within reach.” Marc’s voice was low and amazingly professional. “You’ll be getting a call from Greg very soon.”
“Hey, it doesn’t have to be like that,” Kevin whispered. “There’s no reason to involve Greg in this. I’m sure we can work something out, just between the two of us.”
“No,” Marc said. “We can’t.” He stood and turned his back on the prick behind the wheel, accepting the bag I handed him.
“…think you’re so much better than me,” Kevin hissed at Marc, when we were several feet from the car. “Faythe’s the only reason you’re even here. Without her, you’re just another stray cat licking the Alpha’s boots, one false move away from the wrong side of the river.”
“What did he say?” I demanded, turning back to face our idiot of an escort. But by the time I had him in sight, Marc was already beside the car, swinging a rare left-handed punch, because of the angle of the open window. His fist smashed into Kevin’s nose. Blood spurted all over the steering wheel, the windshield, and the front of Kevin’s shirt.
Kevin was too busy spitting out his own blood to scream, and Marc turned back toward me calmly, already wiping blood from his fist with a wet wipe from his backpack. He threw the wipe in the nearest trash can, and we continued on into the airport without another word.
I finally thought to turn my cell phone ringer back on and check my voice mail at the gate, as we waited to board the plane. There were two. Messages, not planes.
The first was from my father, telling me he’d sent Vic and Owen after yet another body, following a second tip by the same anonymous informant. They’d gone to Pickering, a tiny Louisiana town near the western edge of the Calcasieu Ranger District of the Kisatchie National Forest. Marc had a similar message on his own voice mail.
My hand began to shake when I saw the number the second voice mail had come from. Andrew. Shit. I waited to listen to the message until Marc ducked into the men’s room nearest our gate.
“I got your message, Faythe. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you—” His voice was interrupted by a series of loud pops or explosions, followed by the distinctive thwup, thwup, thwup of blades beating the air, like the rotors on a helicopter, only older and more rickety-sounding. And when silence settled in again, he went on, as if he’d never been interrupted. “—you don’t want to see me. But I’m looking forward to seeing you. Won’t be long now.” His next words were swallowed by another series of booms, just as Marc came out of the men’s room, heading right for me. Smiling, I flipped the phone shut and shoved it into my pocket as he sank into the molded plastic airport chair on my right.
This had gone too far. I would have to tell both Marc and my father about Andrew; there was no getting around that now. But I couldn’t do it in the airport, or on the plane. Marc was not going to react well, and shouldn’t be cooped up on a plane full of humans when he found out.
I’d tell him later, when we were alone together. Then my father.
It was going
to be a long night.
By nine o’clock that evening, Marc and I were back at the ranch. My mother had held dinner for us, so the entire household—minus Vic and Owen—sat around the eight-foot dining-room table, eating baked halibut and listening to our report.
“So, Harper left with the tabby voluntarily?” Jace asked, stabbing two spears of asparagus with his fork.
“So it would appear.” I stirred sugar into my tea as I continued. “According to Jeff-the-bartender, she was more than adequately equipped to lure any man away from his favorite stripper. Or his wife. A regular siren on two legs. Jeff didn’t know her name, but he gave me a good physical description. She’s my height. Maybe a little shorter. Long, dark, curly hair. Pale grayish eyes. Dark, exotic skin. And he said she was hot, which I assume means she’s curvy.” Or maybe that she’s all ready to burn in hell for her crimes.
Ethan’s eyes lit up, and I rolled my own. I should have known he’d care more about the tabby’s build than the fact that she’d already murdered at least two toms. I occupied my mouth with a bite of fish to keep from telling him exactly how screwed up I thought his priorities were. He wouldn’t listen to me, anyway.
Ignoring my hormone-challenged brother, I looked toward the end of the table, where my father had sat for the past fifteen minutes, chewing quietly as he listened to my informal report. “What did your Venezuelan contact have to say?”
He set his fork on the edge of his plate and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Nothing yet, but I expect to hear something soon. Until then, all we have to go on is your description.”
“Wonderful.” I frowned down at my halibut.
“It’s a start, which is more than we had before,” Parker said, cutting into a slice of scalloped potatoes with the side of his fork. “But I can’t believe Kevin Mitchell knew Harper was trespassing and didn’t report it. You’d think he’d know better than that.”
“Yeah, you’d think,” I mumbled, pushing my asparagus around in a puddle of hollandaise. I wasn’t exactly eager to tell my father that Kevin blamed me for our lack of manpower. Fortunately, Marc seemed disinclined to mention it, too. I’d have to remember to thank him—after I kicked the shit out of him for trying to turn me into a stripper.
Rogue Page 14
