Four Seconds to Lose
Page 45
They’re all violet.
The exact bluish-purple hue of my eyes.
Few people know about my natural eye color. Only one person in Miami knows. Flutters stir inside my chest as I pull out the small card tucked within. The words are simple, the request clear:
Your secrets are safe with me. Please give me a chance—Cain
I had wondered if Cain noticed that my eyes were not truly brown that day at my old apartment. It would be hard not to, but then again, he is a guy and most guys don’t notice basic details like eye color. Cain obviously had, but he never uttered a word.
Please give me a chance . . . “I wish I could,” I whisper, that painful lump forming in my throat again as I let my fingers rub the velvety petals.
If I wait any longer, Ginger will be at my door for coffee.
I have to leave now.
I shut the door of my apartment for the last time and drop the key in through the mailbox slot. Tanner will find it when they figure out that I’m gone. Quickly and quietly wheeling my suitcase down the path, I make my way out the gate and to my SUV, which I’ll be selling at a dealership fifteen minutes away after I pull all my money from the bank.
With my hands gripping the steering wheel, I take a few minutes to stare at the white stucco of the building for the last time, recalling Cain’s gorgeous form pacing around this very parking lot only three weeks ago. Glancing down at the flowers on my passenger side, which I can’t bear to abandon, I feel the hot tears begin streaming down my cheeks.
I know leaving is the right decision. I do.
And yet each step is taking every ounce of willpower that I have.
Chapter twenty-one
CAIN
“Ronald Sullivan. Forty-two. No wife, no kids. Assault charge back in ’95 that was dropped. Suspected of selling narcotics but hasn’t been nailed with anything. I’ll fax through his picture so you can validate it. I have his address, too, if you want it. He lives in an apartment off Twenty-third.”
Oh, Charlie. What did you get yourself into? “As always, you’re invaluable, John.”
“And you are single-handedly funding my retirement villa in Tahiti. Just don’t tell the witches of Eastwick.” I have to pull my phone from my ear as John’s boisterous laugh blasts through.
“I have no reason to talk to your ex-wives, John. Unless it’s about how big of a shmuck you are.”
Another round of laughter sounds as my ribbing rolls off John’s sturdy back. “Is this all about the girl?”
With a sigh, I mutter, “Everything is about the girl, these days.” After Ginger filled me in on what happened on Monday—the call from a “father” on Charlie’s second phone, who I know couldn’t be her father because her father is in jail and only making collect calls these days—I sent her home early to check up on Charlie. Then I reviewed the surveillance video of V.I.P. room two.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Charlie knew who that guy was. The way she strolled into the room, arm-in-arm with him, the covert way she warned him about the camera. Everything about the interaction screamed familiarity. When I watched his hand reach up under her skirt, my jaw cracked from the tension in my face. When I saw him backhand her, I had to pause and take a deep, calming breath.
As usual, I could count on Nate to handle the situation. After delivering a blow to the guy’s gut in a quiet corner of the parking lot outside—I watched that surveillance tape too, with a big f**king grin on my face—Nate dragged him to the black Camry he pointed out as his and left him writhing in pain on the ground while he searched his wallet and car, taking down as much information as he could. Once Nate had confiscated the loaded gun that he found beneath the seat, he tossed the guy into the driver’s side as if he were a chew toy. Next to Nate, everyone looks like a chew toy.
Nate made it clear that if anything ever happened to Charlie, that surveillance tape would go to the police along with all of Ronald’s info, and then it would be a race to see who got to him first, me or the cops.
And Ronald would want it to be the cops.
As a parting gift, Nate dropped one last brutal punch to the douchebag’s nose and left him there, cupping his face against the rush of blood. I imagine Ronald Sullivan spent the night in a lot of pain and, possibly in the ER.
Nate and I know we’ll have to watch our backs for a while. But if I see the guy here again, I won’t hesitate to put him down.
“And her father’s still locked up, right?”
“Yes, sir. He won’t be getting out for a long time.”
“Thanks for the quick turnaround, John,” I offer before I hang up, looking at the clock as I take a long draw of my drink. It’s four thirty. Charlie was supposed to be here at four for that administrative work and she’s never late. I shouldn’t be surprised that she hasn’t shown up. After last night, I’ll be surprised if she comes at all.
She hasn’t answered my calls, though the florist confirmed that she received my flowers this morning. I’ve never sent a woman flowers. I hope it wasn’t too much. I hope she didn’t think it was tacky. I’m still at a loss for what to say, what to do, how much time and space I should give her.
What if she won’t want me once she knows what I’m all about?
My hands find their way behind my neck, where they clasp tightly. How is this going to go? Will she see me as another Ronald Sullivan? Or someone as violent as her father? Or some other guy who’s probably taken advantage of her in the past, who may still be doing so?
Maybe she will see me as any or all of them. Maybe I’ll spill my guts to her and she’ll run away from me and into the arms of a normal guy with normal parents and a normal career. Maybe that would be for the best.
I’m sure my body visibly slackened the second I walked out into the club earlier tonight, to see Charlie behind the bar. I had convinced myself that she wasn’t coming in, but she’s here, mixing drinks, smiling at customers.
Avoiding me.
She immediately shifted to the opposite end of the bar when I approached her. I’m not going to lie—that felt like a punch to the heart. I fought the urge to throw her over my shoulder and demand we talk. I had to hide out in my office to calm myself.
But now I’m back, because I can’t stay away from her. It’s ten o’clock. I’m just waiting for her to attempt to get up on that stage again. I will throw her over my shoulder if she tries that.
“Cain!” a familiar voice calls out, a second before a hand smacks my shoulder. It’s Storm’s fiancé, Dan, and Ginger is lining shots up in front of him.
In my peripheral vision, I catch Charlie looking up at the sound of my name being called, but her eyes are already down when I try to make eye contact. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to Dan for the time being. “What are you doing here?” I am genuinely curious, given that he’s not the type to frequent strip clubs. He hated Storm working here—rightfully so—and was only too happy the day she quit.
A guy behind him, who’s obviously part of Dan’s group, slaps his back and shouts, “Celebrating! You’re looking at Special Agent Dan Ryder.”
Dan just shakes his head, but he can’t keep the wide grin from escaping.
And I can’t help but match it, announcing, “Next round’s on me!”
When John did the background check on Dan—of course I had Storm’s guy investigated—he came back stamping Dan as the last true boy scout. And everything Dan has done since that day has only strengthened the claim. The guy inherited a shitload of money a few years back from his oil-tycoon grandma. Enough that he could be spending the rest of his life lying on a beach, fishing . . . doing anything, really. Instead, he kept chasing criminals, holding out hope to join the DEA. And he finally made it. He’s about to be chasing dangerous lowlifes, making a big difference.
The exact bluish-purple hue of my eyes.
Few people know about my natural eye color. Only one person in Miami knows. Flutters stir inside my chest as I pull out the small card tucked within. The words are simple, the request clear:
Your secrets are safe with me. Please give me a chance—Cain
I had wondered if Cain noticed that my eyes were not truly brown that day at my old apartment. It would be hard not to, but then again, he is a guy and most guys don’t notice basic details like eye color. Cain obviously had, but he never uttered a word.
Please give me a chance . . . “I wish I could,” I whisper, that painful lump forming in my throat again as I let my fingers rub the velvety petals.
If I wait any longer, Ginger will be at my door for coffee.
I have to leave now.
I shut the door of my apartment for the last time and drop the key in through the mailbox slot. Tanner will find it when they figure out that I’m gone. Quickly and quietly wheeling my suitcase down the path, I make my way out the gate and to my SUV, which I’ll be selling at a dealership fifteen minutes away after I pull all my money from the bank.
With my hands gripping the steering wheel, I take a few minutes to stare at the white stucco of the building for the last time, recalling Cain’s gorgeous form pacing around this very parking lot only three weeks ago. Glancing down at the flowers on my passenger side, which I can’t bear to abandon, I feel the hot tears begin streaming down my cheeks.
I know leaving is the right decision. I do.
And yet each step is taking every ounce of willpower that I have.
Chapter twenty-one
CAIN
“Ronald Sullivan. Forty-two. No wife, no kids. Assault charge back in ’95 that was dropped. Suspected of selling narcotics but hasn’t been nailed with anything. I’ll fax through his picture so you can validate it. I have his address, too, if you want it. He lives in an apartment off Twenty-third.”
Oh, Charlie. What did you get yourself into? “As always, you’re invaluable, John.”
“And you are single-handedly funding my retirement villa in Tahiti. Just don’t tell the witches of Eastwick.” I have to pull my phone from my ear as John’s boisterous laugh blasts through.
“I have no reason to talk to your ex-wives, John. Unless it’s about how big of a shmuck you are.”
Another round of laughter sounds as my ribbing rolls off John’s sturdy back. “Is this all about the girl?”
With a sigh, I mutter, “Everything is about the girl, these days.” After Ginger filled me in on what happened on Monday—the call from a “father” on Charlie’s second phone, who I know couldn’t be her father because her father is in jail and only making collect calls these days—I sent her home early to check up on Charlie. Then I reviewed the surveillance video of V.I.P. room two.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Charlie knew who that guy was. The way she strolled into the room, arm-in-arm with him, the covert way she warned him about the camera. Everything about the interaction screamed familiarity. When I watched his hand reach up under her skirt, my jaw cracked from the tension in my face. When I saw him backhand her, I had to pause and take a deep, calming breath.
As usual, I could count on Nate to handle the situation. After delivering a blow to the guy’s gut in a quiet corner of the parking lot outside—I watched that surveillance tape too, with a big f**king grin on my face—Nate dragged him to the black Camry he pointed out as his and left him writhing in pain on the ground while he searched his wallet and car, taking down as much information as he could. Once Nate had confiscated the loaded gun that he found beneath the seat, he tossed the guy into the driver’s side as if he were a chew toy. Next to Nate, everyone looks like a chew toy.
Nate made it clear that if anything ever happened to Charlie, that surveillance tape would go to the police along with all of Ronald’s info, and then it would be a race to see who got to him first, me or the cops.
And Ronald would want it to be the cops.
As a parting gift, Nate dropped one last brutal punch to the douchebag’s nose and left him there, cupping his face against the rush of blood. I imagine Ronald Sullivan spent the night in a lot of pain and, possibly in the ER.
Nate and I know we’ll have to watch our backs for a while. But if I see the guy here again, I won’t hesitate to put him down.
“And her father’s still locked up, right?”
“Yes, sir. He won’t be getting out for a long time.”
“Thanks for the quick turnaround, John,” I offer before I hang up, looking at the clock as I take a long draw of my drink. It’s four thirty. Charlie was supposed to be here at four for that administrative work and she’s never late. I shouldn’t be surprised that she hasn’t shown up. After last night, I’ll be surprised if she comes at all.
She hasn’t answered my calls, though the florist confirmed that she received my flowers this morning. I’ve never sent a woman flowers. I hope it wasn’t too much. I hope she didn’t think it was tacky. I’m still at a loss for what to say, what to do, how much time and space I should give her.
What if she won’t want me once she knows what I’m all about?
My hands find their way behind my neck, where they clasp tightly. How is this going to go? Will she see me as another Ronald Sullivan? Or someone as violent as her father? Or some other guy who’s probably taken advantage of her in the past, who may still be doing so?
Maybe she will see me as any or all of them. Maybe I’ll spill my guts to her and she’ll run away from me and into the arms of a normal guy with normal parents and a normal career. Maybe that would be for the best.
I’m sure my body visibly slackened the second I walked out into the club earlier tonight, to see Charlie behind the bar. I had convinced myself that she wasn’t coming in, but she’s here, mixing drinks, smiling at customers.
Avoiding me.
She immediately shifted to the opposite end of the bar when I approached her. I’m not going to lie—that felt like a punch to the heart. I fought the urge to throw her over my shoulder and demand we talk. I had to hide out in my office to calm myself.
But now I’m back, because I can’t stay away from her. It’s ten o’clock. I’m just waiting for her to attempt to get up on that stage again. I will throw her over my shoulder if she tries that.
“Cain!” a familiar voice calls out, a second before a hand smacks my shoulder. It’s Storm’s fiancé, Dan, and Ginger is lining shots up in front of him.
In my peripheral vision, I catch Charlie looking up at the sound of my name being called, but her eyes are already down when I try to make eye contact. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to Dan for the time being. “What are you doing here?” I am genuinely curious, given that he’s not the type to frequent strip clubs. He hated Storm working here—rightfully so—and was only too happy the day she quit.
A guy behind him, who’s obviously part of Dan’s group, slaps his back and shouts, “Celebrating! You’re looking at Special Agent Dan Ryder.”
Dan just shakes his head, but he can’t keep the wide grin from escaping.
And I can’t help but match it, announcing, “Next round’s on me!”
When John did the background check on Dan—of course I had Storm’s guy investigated—he came back stamping Dan as the last true boy scout. And everything Dan has done since that day has only strengthened the claim. The guy inherited a shitload of money a few years back from his oil-tycoon grandma. Enough that he could be spending the rest of his life lying on a beach, fishing . . . doing anything, really. Instead, he kept chasing criminals, holding out hope to join the DEA. And he finally made it. He’s about to be chasing dangerous lowlifes, making a big difference.
