Five Ways to Fall
Page 74
I wish I had kissed Cain today. Just one last kiss. Will he care that I’m gone? Will he even bother trying to contact me again? Will he figure out that I’m dead?
Now I can see the gun, see Manny’s hands, see his finger on the trigger as it pulls. I jump with that clicking sound but otherwise stay still. Stay frozen. How? I don’t know. How have I not lost consciousness now?
“Damn clip. Not sure how many bullets I have in here,” Manny murmurs with a cruel smile.
“Manny,” I hear Eddie call somewhere in the background. At least I think I do. My senses are sharper and at the same time feel completely unreliable. “Quit playing games. It’s unnecessary.”
“You are an odd one,” Manny murmurs, ignoring his partner. “I have a few bitches bringing stuff in from Mexico. They drop to their knees for me as soon as I show them my gun, groveling and crying. But you . . .” His jaw offsets as he ponders me, his eyes shifting down to my chest. He pushes the metal harder against my chest . . . harder . . . harder . . . until I grit my teeth to keep from crying out in pain. “Trying to be tough. I’ll bet you’d cry by the end. That’s all right, though . . .” With the gun still pressed painfully against my chest, his free hand reaches down to grab hold of an inner thigh. I can feel the heat from his fingers as he squeezes my flesh painfully hard. “I’ll make you scream one way or another.”
The cool feeling deep inside me spreads wider and wider, fully taking over my senses now, as my breathing turns shallow.
And I know that shock has settled in.
Shock is good.
Shock will get me through this.
If anything can get me through this.
Eddie’s still talking in the background. “This is good stuff, Manny. Don’t burn this bridge for us right out of the gate.” He’s sitting on the bed, his hand over the suitcase, his face calm but his eyes full of wariness.
At first I don’t think Manny heard him. But then I see his eyes tighten, and I can tell he’s weighing his options. I imagine I know what they are: on one side of the scale is a valuable shipment of drugs that he could walk out of here with for free, but have to deal with a body and possible repercussions; and on the opposite side is a long-term business relationship. How long-term, really? Will it be two drops or ten before he make good on his promise? I imagine it’s only a matter of time.
“It’s all good. All here,” Bob says, thumbing through the multitude of vials. “Let’s finish this up and move on. We don’t need a mess to clean up.”
“Just remember this moment if you ever think to come in here with the cops in your pocket.” With one last long, hard look at my face, Manny drops his arm and steps away. I don’t allow myself to take a full breath, even as Bob hands me the camera bag full of money, opened.
I struggle to keep my focus on the money as I flip through a few bundles, making sure they’re not just newsprint or blank paper. Though, really, I don’t see what the point is. If these guys want to rip Big Sam off, they easily can. If they want to rape me and chop me up into a thousand pieces for the gators, they can do that too. Manny’s right. Young women are used as expendable mules across borders for small deliveries, not to complete massive transactions in hotel rooms. Sending me in here is just a disaster waiting to happen.
“We’re good,” I manage to force out, though my throat is bone dry. I throw the strap over my shoulder and turn, my hearing warped, my vision blurry as it focuses intently on the door.
“Look forward to seeing you again,” Manny calls out with a wicked voice as Bob walks me to the door. As I step out, a fist seizes my wrist. “Girl.”
The last thing I want to do is talk to him, but I don’t have much choice. He’s leaning out the door, glancing over his shoulder, as if he doesn’t want them to hear him. “If I ever see you again, I promise I’ll make good use of that bed, do you understand?” He speaks in a low, fast, harsh whisper. “Get the f**k away from here and don’t come back. I’m not taking the heat from your club friends when you turn up dead.” He releases my wrist with a throw and slinks back, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Leaving me standing alone in a hallway with a bag of money, a bubble of vomit rising, and the knowledge that I was seconds away from dying tonight.
Chapter thirty-seven
CAIN
“So . . .” Storm’s arm is still linked around mine as we walk along the sidewalk, the oppressive summer heat making our pace extra slow.
“Are you sure we should be walking out here?” I ask, glancing down at her ever-growing belly.
She swats away my concern with her free hand. “Yes, I’m fine. And if I’m not, you can carry me back. Now, stop trying to change the subject.” She peers up at me with that cute, curious stare of hers. “What made you show up on my doorstep tonight with that sad look upon your face?”
With a sigh, I mutter, “I don’t know where to begin, Storm.” Storm is the most nonjudgmental person I’ve ever met. I know I can tell her anything and not worry about her disapproval. Nor will she divulge anything. With my free hand lifting to rub the tension out of my neck, I give her the basic rundown of the last few weeks, ending in today’s disastrous events.
She groans. “Oh, Cain. I’m so sorry. Fucking China.” It sounds so off-kilter to hear Storm swear. Then again, no one would think she used to swing from a brass hoop above my stage only a few years ago. But if anyone can make Storm swear, it’s China.
“I know. But China has issues. You know that.”
“Everyone has issues, Cain. Stop making excuses for her,” Storm scolds. “And if you have any hope of a relationship with Charlie then you know what you need to do.”
I sigh, dreading the words. “China’s got to go.” Already, my chest is tightening, visions of the raven-haired woman kneeling on a dingy carpet in front of some ass**le assaulting my conscience. Fuck. “But she’s just so close to—”
“She’s got to go, Cain,” Storm says more forcefully. “We all make our own choices. You’ve helped her more than anyone ever has and probably more than anyone ever will. Now she needs to help herself.” She stops and steps in front of me, poking my chest with a manicured finger. “And you have to stop living in your past or you’re going to die a very sad, very lonely man. The thought of that breaks my heart.” Stepping back, she gives my arm a gentle rub and then prods the conversation. “So you saw Charlie at the café, in a wig, with this uncle . . .”
I tell her the rest, including the phone call from the guy who’s supposedly her father, “Sam.”
“And it doesn’t match up with what John’s found out for you?”
“No.” Part of me feels like I’m betraying Charlie by divulging this, even to Storm, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to think. With a hiss through my gritted teeth, I shake my head and admit, “I was so close to throwing her over my shoulder and walking out of there.”
“I am surprised that Caveman Cain didn’t make an appearance,” she says with a giggle, her vision clouding over as her thoughts drift to the past, I’m sure to the time that I did that to her. I’ll never forget it. The first day Storm came in with heavy makeup around her eye and a story about an unfortunate tumble into the wall, my gut told me to call John and ask him to do some research on her husband. When she came in with a fat lip a week later, my gut said f**k the research. Nate and I drove her home to find a coked-out ass**le on the couch and a toddler crying in the crib. Storm started babbling about how he was stressed, how she’d said something stupid to him, that he’d never hurt Mia. All typical excuses used by an abused woman. I had heard it all before. That’s why I scooped Mia up in one arm and, leaning down, hoisted a teary-eyed, scared Storm over my shoulder. In hindsight, I probably could have escorted her out on her own two feet but at the time, all I could think of was filling my arms so I didn’t have a chance to beat that ass**le senseless.
Now I can see the gun, see Manny’s hands, see his finger on the trigger as it pulls. I jump with that clicking sound but otherwise stay still. Stay frozen. How? I don’t know. How have I not lost consciousness now?
“Damn clip. Not sure how many bullets I have in here,” Manny murmurs with a cruel smile.
“Manny,” I hear Eddie call somewhere in the background. At least I think I do. My senses are sharper and at the same time feel completely unreliable. “Quit playing games. It’s unnecessary.”
“You are an odd one,” Manny murmurs, ignoring his partner. “I have a few bitches bringing stuff in from Mexico. They drop to their knees for me as soon as I show them my gun, groveling and crying. But you . . .” His jaw offsets as he ponders me, his eyes shifting down to my chest. He pushes the metal harder against my chest . . . harder . . . harder . . . until I grit my teeth to keep from crying out in pain. “Trying to be tough. I’ll bet you’d cry by the end. That’s all right, though . . .” With the gun still pressed painfully against my chest, his free hand reaches down to grab hold of an inner thigh. I can feel the heat from his fingers as he squeezes my flesh painfully hard. “I’ll make you scream one way or another.”
The cool feeling deep inside me spreads wider and wider, fully taking over my senses now, as my breathing turns shallow.
And I know that shock has settled in.
Shock is good.
Shock will get me through this.
If anything can get me through this.
Eddie’s still talking in the background. “This is good stuff, Manny. Don’t burn this bridge for us right out of the gate.” He’s sitting on the bed, his hand over the suitcase, his face calm but his eyes full of wariness.
At first I don’t think Manny heard him. But then I see his eyes tighten, and I can tell he’s weighing his options. I imagine I know what they are: on one side of the scale is a valuable shipment of drugs that he could walk out of here with for free, but have to deal with a body and possible repercussions; and on the opposite side is a long-term business relationship. How long-term, really? Will it be two drops or ten before he make good on his promise? I imagine it’s only a matter of time.
“It’s all good. All here,” Bob says, thumbing through the multitude of vials. “Let’s finish this up and move on. We don’t need a mess to clean up.”
“Just remember this moment if you ever think to come in here with the cops in your pocket.” With one last long, hard look at my face, Manny drops his arm and steps away. I don’t allow myself to take a full breath, even as Bob hands me the camera bag full of money, opened.
I struggle to keep my focus on the money as I flip through a few bundles, making sure they’re not just newsprint or blank paper. Though, really, I don’t see what the point is. If these guys want to rip Big Sam off, they easily can. If they want to rape me and chop me up into a thousand pieces for the gators, they can do that too. Manny’s right. Young women are used as expendable mules across borders for small deliveries, not to complete massive transactions in hotel rooms. Sending me in here is just a disaster waiting to happen.
“We’re good,” I manage to force out, though my throat is bone dry. I throw the strap over my shoulder and turn, my hearing warped, my vision blurry as it focuses intently on the door.
“Look forward to seeing you again,” Manny calls out with a wicked voice as Bob walks me to the door. As I step out, a fist seizes my wrist. “Girl.”
The last thing I want to do is talk to him, but I don’t have much choice. He’s leaning out the door, glancing over his shoulder, as if he doesn’t want them to hear him. “If I ever see you again, I promise I’ll make good use of that bed, do you understand?” He speaks in a low, fast, harsh whisper. “Get the f**k away from here and don’t come back. I’m not taking the heat from your club friends when you turn up dead.” He releases my wrist with a throw and slinks back, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Leaving me standing alone in a hallway with a bag of money, a bubble of vomit rising, and the knowledge that I was seconds away from dying tonight.
Chapter thirty-seven
CAIN
“So . . .” Storm’s arm is still linked around mine as we walk along the sidewalk, the oppressive summer heat making our pace extra slow.
“Are you sure we should be walking out here?” I ask, glancing down at her ever-growing belly.
She swats away my concern with her free hand. “Yes, I’m fine. And if I’m not, you can carry me back. Now, stop trying to change the subject.” She peers up at me with that cute, curious stare of hers. “What made you show up on my doorstep tonight with that sad look upon your face?”
With a sigh, I mutter, “I don’t know where to begin, Storm.” Storm is the most nonjudgmental person I’ve ever met. I know I can tell her anything and not worry about her disapproval. Nor will she divulge anything. With my free hand lifting to rub the tension out of my neck, I give her the basic rundown of the last few weeks, ending in today’s disastrous events.
She groans. “Oh, Cain. I’m so sorry. Fucking China.” It sounds so off-kilter to hear Storm swear. Then again, no one would think she used to swing from a brass hoop above my stage only a few years ago. But if anyone can make Storm swear, it’s China.
“I know. But China has issues. You know that.”
“Everyone has issues, Cain. Stop making excuses for her,” Storm scolds. “And if you have any hope of a relationship with Charlie then you know what you need to do.”
I sigh, dreading the words. “China’s got to go.” Already, my chest is tightening, visions of the raven-haired woman kneeling on a dingy carpet in front of some ass**le assaulting my conscience. Fuck. “But she’s just so close to—”
“She’s got to go, Cain,” Storm says more forcefully. “We all make our own choices. You’ve helped her more than anyone ever has and probably more than anyone ever will. Now she needs to help herself.” She stops and steps in front of me, poking my chest with a manicured finger. “And you have to stop living in your past or you’re going to die a very sad, very lonely man. The thought of that breaks my heart.” Stepping back, she gives my arm a gentle rub and then prods the conversation. “So you saw Charlie at the café, in a wig, with this uncle . . .”
I tell her the rest, including the phone call from the guy who’s supposedly her father, “Sam.”
“And it doesn’t match up with what John’s found out for you?”
“No.” Part of me feels like I’m betraying Charlie by divulging this, even to Storm, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to think. With a hiss through my gritted teeth, I shake my head and admit, “I was so close to throwing her over my shoulder and walking out of there.”
“I am surprised that Caveman Cain didn’t make an appearance,” she says with a giggle, her vision clouding over as her thoughts drift to the past, I’m sure to the time that I did that to her. I’ll never forget it. The first day Storm came in with heavy makeup around her eye and a story about an unfortunate tumble into the wall, my gut told me to call John and ask him to do some research on her husband. When she came in with a fat lip a week later, my gut said f**k the research. Nate and I drove her home to find a coked-out ass**le on the couch and a toddler crying in the crib. Storm started babbling about how he was stressed, how she’d said something stupid to him, that he’d never hurt Mia. All typical excuses used by an abused woman. I had heard it all before. That’s why I scooped Mia up in one arm and, leaning down, hoisted a teary-eyed, scared Storm over my shoulder. In hindsight, I probably could have escorted her out on her own two feet but at the time, all I could think of was filling my arms so I didn’t have a chance to beat that ass**le senseless.
