Unwanted
Page 6
The anger slowly leaked out of me, replaced by a growing sense of dread and melancholy, and there was nothing left for me to do but face the inevitable.
Sighing, I headed back into the bank to get ready for another innocent man’s funeral.
3
Mosley was still talking to the teller, although he glanced at me as I moved past him. I nodded at the dwarf, then did my best to ignore my coworkers’ hostile glowers. I went back downstairs to my office, shut the door, and changed into my black funeral suit, along with a dark gray shirt and a black tie.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark brown hair, green eyes, handsome face, muscled body, not-so-cheap suit. I looked the same as always, and no scars remained from the brutal, prolonged beating that Rodrigo Santos had given me or the blue-white Ice burns that Deirdre had blasted all over my body.
Not on the outside, anyway.
The Ice burns might be gone, but just the thought of them made my eyes twitch, my palms sweat, and my stomach churn. I remembered where she had put each mark on my skin, how horribly they had all hurt, and, worst of all, how much my own mother had enjoyed torturing me. I shivered, dropped my gaze from the mirror, and left the bathroom.
There was one more thing I needed to do before I left for the funeral. I went over to my desk, sat down in my chair, grabbed my landline phone, and hit one of the speed-dial buttons. The call went through, and she answered on the second ring.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I drawled.
“Hello there, yourself, handsome.” Detective Bria Coolidge’s light, lilting voice sounded through the phone. “How are you? Gin told me you had another funeral this afternoon.”
“Yeah.”
Even though Peter Vargas and the other guards had died during the bank robbery a couple of weeks ago, the police had only recently released their bodies to their families. So all the funeral services and burials had taken place over the last few days, with Peter’s being the final one.
“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you okay?”
I grimaced. Gin and Bria had been tag-teaming me for the last several days, with Gin coming over to the bank for lunch and Bria bringing me dinner at night, or vice versa. Even when they weren’t around, the two of them were still talking and texting about me, debating how I was handling everything, and plotting ways to cheer me up. I knew they meant well and that it was all part of their plan to Make Finn Feel Better About His Colossal Fuckup, but their care and concern only made me feel worse. Especially since I’d treated them both so badly when Deirdre had been around.
“I’m okay. Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor and run a license plate,” I said, changing the subject and pulling up my email on my cell phone. “I’m sending you the photo now.”
“Sure,” Bria said. “What’s up?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” I lied. “Just a car I saw sitting outside the bank. But Mosley asked me to check it out, and I can’t let the big boss down again, now, can I?” I tried to make my tone teasing and lighthearted, but even I could hear the tension in my voice.
“Okay,” Bria said. “Give me just a second.”
Through the phone, I could hear her typing, along with the distant murmurs of other conversations in the police station.
“Got it,” she said a few seconds later. “That SUV is registered to Bartholomew Wilcox. I’ve seen that name before. Isn’t he some sort of bookie? Have you heard of him?”
Oh, I’d heard of him all right. Bart the Butcher. That had been his nickname back when he’d been a professional boxer, and it had stuck, even after his retirement from the ring. Now he was a powerful bookie who ran a massive gambling operation and would bet on anything and lend money to anyone—provided you paid him back with fifty-percent interest.
And if you didn’t pay up in a timely fashion, well, Bart liked getting his hands dirty. Instead of killing people, he had a reputation for being a sadist who enjoyed crippling folks—and then demanding seventy-five-percent interest as a “service fee” for needing to beat you down.
I should have known who he was the second I saw all those ugly gold rings flashing on his fingers. Not so much gaudy baubles as his own personalized set of brass knuckles. Bartholomew Wilcox was trouble, all right, the most dangerous kind.
But the real question was, what was Isabelle Vargas doing with a hard-core gangster like that?
“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Just making a note. Now that you mention it, the name does sound familiar. I think he has some accounts here at the bank. So it’s nothing, just like I thought.”
“Yeah. Nothing.” Disbelief colored Bria’s voice, but she didn’t press me for answers. Instead, she changed the topic. “You want me to come over tonight? After you get back from the service?”
The last thing I wanted to do was go to another funeral, much less see anyone after it, but Bria was just trying to help, the same way Gin was with her boxes of barbecue.
“Sure,” I said. “That would be great. I’ll text you when I’m done for the day. It might be a while, though. Mosley will probably find something for me to do here at the bank afterward.”
“Okay. Talk to you later. I love you, Finn.”
The warm, earnest sincerity in her voice was another punch to my gut. Just like Gin, Bria had risked her life to break into the bank to save me, and she’d stood by me ever since, despite all the times I’d ignored her when Deirdre had been alive.
“I love you too,” I said in a hoarse voice. “I gotta go now.”
“I know, baby,” she whispered back. “I know.”
We both hung up. I sighed and slumped back in my chair, eyeing the dark, empty space under my desk. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into my dad’s office at home, curl up under his battered old wooden desk, and read my comic books for hours on end. I’d pretend it was my own fort, my secret hiding place, where no one could ever find me. Right now, I wanted to be that happy, carefree kid again, curl up under this desk, and pretend the last few weeks had never happened.
Sighing, I headed back into the bank to get ready for another innocent man’s funeral.
3
Mosley was still talking to the teller, although he glanced at me as I moved past him. I nodded at the dwarf, then did my best to ignore my coworkers’ hostile glowers. I went back downstairs to my office, shut the door, and changed into my black funeral suit, along with a dark gray shirt and a black tie.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark brown hair, green eyes, handsome face, muscled body, not-so-cheap suit. I looked the same as always, and no scars remained from the brutal, prolonged beating that Rodrigo Santos had given me or the blue-white Ice burns that Deirdre had blasted all over my body.
Not on the outside, anyway.
The Ice burns might be gone, but just the thought of them made my eyes twitch, my palms sweat, and my stomach churn. I remembered where she had put each mark on my skin, how horribly they had all hurt, and, worst of all, how much my own mother had enjoyed torturing me. I shivered, dropped my gaze from the mirror, and left the bathroom.
There was one more thing I needed to do before I left for the funeral. I went over to my desk, sat down in my chair, grabbed my landline phone, and hit one of the speed-dial buttons. The call went through, and she answered on the second ring.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I drawled.
“Hello there, yourself, handsome.” Detective Bria Coolidge’s light, lilting voice sounded through the phone. “How are you? Gin told me you had another funeral this afternoon.”
“Yeah.”
Even though Peter Vargas and the other guards had died during the bank robbery a couple of weeks ago, the police had only recently released their bodies to their families. So all the funeral services and burials had taken place over the last few days, with Peter’s being the final one.
“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you okay?”
I grimaced. Gin and Bria had been tag-teaming me for the last several days, with Gin coming over to the bank for lunch and Bria bringing me dinner at night, or vice versa. Even when they weren’t around, the two of them were still talking and texting about me, debating how I was handling everything, and plotting ways to cheer me up. I knew they meant well and that it was all part of their plan to Make Finn Feel Better About His Colossal Fuckup, but their care and concern only made me feel worse. Especially since I’d treated them both so badly when Deirdre had been around.
“I’m okay. Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor and run a license plate,” I said, changing the subject and pulling up my email on my cell phone. “I’m sending you the photo now.”
“Sure,” Bria said. “What’s up?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” I lied. “Just a car I saw sitting outside the bank. But Mosley asked me to check it out, and I can’t let the big boss down again, now, can I?” I tried to make my tone teasing and lighthearted, but even I could hear the tension in my voice.
“Okay,” Bria said. “Give me just a second.”
Through the phone, I could hear her typing, along with the distant murmurs of other conversations in the police station.
“Got it,” she said a few seconds later. “That SUV is registered to Bartholomew Wilcox. I’ve seen that name before. Isn’t he some sort of bookie? Have you heard of him?”
Oh, I’d heard of him all right. Bart the Butcher. That had been his nickname back when he’d been a professional boxer, and it had stuck, even after his retirement from the ring. Now he was a powerful bookie who ran a massive gambling operation and would bet on anything and lend money to anyone—provided you paid him back with fifty-percent interest.
And if you didn’t pay up in a timely fashion, well, Bart liked getting his hands dirty. Instead of killing people, he had a reputation for being a sadist who enjoyed crippling folks—and then demanding seventy-five-percent interest as a “service fee” for needing to beat you down.
I should have known who he was the second I saw all those ugly gold rings flashing on his fingers. Not so much gaudy baubles as his own personalized set of brass knuckles. Bartholomew Wilcox was trouble, all right, the most dangerous kind.
But the real question was, what was Isabelle Vargas doing with a hard-core gangster like that?
“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Just making a note. Now that you mention it, the name does sound familiar. I think he has some accounts here at the bank. So it’s nothing, just like I thought.”
“Yeah. Nothing.” Disbelief colored Bria’s voice, but she didn’t press me for answers. Instead, she changed the topic. “You want me to come over tonight? After you get back from the service?”
The last thing I wanted to do was go to another funeral, much less see anyone after it, but Bria was just trying to help, the same way Gin was with her boxes of barbecue.
“Sure,” I said. “That would be great. I’ll text you when I’m done for the day. It might be a while, though. Mosley will probably find something for me to do here at the bank afterward.”
“Okay. Talk to you later. I love you, Finn.”
The warm, earnest sincerity in her voice was another punch to my gut. Just like Gin, Bria had risked her life to break into the bank to save me, and she’d stood by me ever since, despite all the times I’d ignored her when Deirdre had been alive.
“I love you too,” I said in a hoarse voice. “I gotta go now.”
“I know, baby,” she whispered back. “I know.”
We both hung up. I sighed and slumped back in my chair, eyeing the dark, empty space under my desk. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into my dad’s office at home, curl up under his battered old wooden desk, and read my comic books for hours on end. I’d pretend it was my own fort, my secret hiding place, where no one could ever find me. Right now, I wanted to be that happy, carefree kid again, curl up under this desk, and pretend the last few weeks had never happened.
