Текст книги "Behind Your Back"
Автор книги: Chelsea M. Cameron
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BEHIND YOUR BACK
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
CHELSEA M. CAMERON
Behind Your Back
Copyright © 2015 Chelsea M. Cameron
All Rights Reserved.
Editing by Jen Hendricks
Cover by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations
Formatter: Elle Chardou at Midnight Engel Press, LLC
chelseamcameron.com
Behind Your Back is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
CONTENTS
Cover Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Find Chelsea Online
All Novels & Novellas by Chelsea M. Cameron
One
She wore a wig and colored contacts the first time I saw her in person. But underneath the plain brown wig, the brown contacts and the bored expression, something shone through that she couldn’t cover up.
I recognized it right away. Raising myself from my chair, I crossed the coffee shop. She watched her phone, pretending to be the kind of girl who can’t abandon her Facebook page for longer than three seconds. But I knew. I knew her.
Her finger hovered over the screen of the phone, her shoulders slumped, but her foot jiggled just a little bit. Not enough for anyone besides me to notice. But I saw it. I saw her.
I passed by her table on my way out the door and gave her one glance. A visual brush over her body. I knew she saw me, but she pretended not to. She brushed the wig back and I could just barely see the flash of red hair at the nape of her neck, along with a tattoo. I couldn’t see all of it, but I didn’t need to. I knew that, too. A Celtic knot.
I passed through the door and didn’t look back. Her eyes followed me down the street to the crosswalk and until I was out of view.
She saw me.
One month earlier…
“Another?” the bartender says, leaning his hairy arms on the bar as I set down my empty beer glass. I shake my head and get up.
“Son of a bitch,” a voice says behind me and I try not to flinch at the sound of it. I’d thought, by coming to this particular bar, that I wouldn’t be bothered by my day job. But it seems to follow me everywhere.
I keep my face blank and turn around.
“Dale, fancy seeing you in this part of town,” I say, automatically sticking my hand out for him to shake. He takes it and guffaws, the sound bouncing around the bar and grinding against my eardrums. I can’t stand this man, but he has no idea. He thinks we’re the best of pals. Golf buddies, gambling buddies, drinking buddies. We are none of those things. Yes, I may do those things with him, but we are not friends. I don’t mix business with pleasure, and I would never mix with his sort. He doesn’t even know my real name.
“Oh, I just decide to go slumming sometimes. You know how it is, Quinn.” He winks and laughs again. Dale thinks he’s funny, but the only reason people laugh at his jokes is because he has money and essentially pays them to.
“Oh, I do,” I say with a smile, hating myself for it the entire time. “Well, I’ve got things to do, if you know what I mean.” It’s my turn for the roguish wink. Christ, I hate doing this, but it’s the price I pay to get what I want.
Dale shakes my hand again and heads further down the bar, slapping his meaty hand on it and calling out to the bartender in a booming voice that I’m sure makes the bartender cringe. I feel as if I should leave him an extra-large tip for his troubles. No doubt Dale will wind up being carried out and thrown into a cab in a few hours. That is, if he doesn’t woo some woman with his promises of jets and jewelry and a wife that’s away.
I hate him.
I leave the bar, considering hailing a cab, but deciding on walking instead. I need the air.
But my feet don’t take me home. They take me to the park. I easily hop the iron fence studded with warning signs; I’ve come here for years and never been caught. I’d say it’s because I’m especially stealthy, but it’s probably pure dumb luck. That’s how most of my life has gone so far. Dumb luck, bad luck, shitty luck. But I’m foolishly trying to change that. So far, things have gone in my favor, but eventually, my luck will run out.
I pace the garden, every now and then peering through a window at the darkness inside. It’s late and most normal humans are tucked in bed with their husband, wife, or another companion. I lean down and take off my shoes and socks, letting the blunt tips of the grass brush the undersides of my feet as I walk.
I have to work tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. I used to relish every day, but now…
Things change. They do. Always.
When I started, I’d been full of fire and vengeance and passion. Now all I feel is boredom and frustration. I’m burning out at the ripe old age of twenty-four. Shaking my head at my self-indulgent thoughts, I head out of the park and back toward my shitty apartment and my shitty bed.
“Hey, Leo,” I say to my cat as he runs to the door to greet me. At least I have him. I’ve never thought of myself as the type of guy to have a cat, but when I found him in a box outside on the street, I couldn’t just let him die. I’d intended just to care for him for one night and then take him to the humane society. That plan went to shit when he curled up in my lap and fell asleep with his tongue partially sticking out. I couldn’t resist him.
I have no idea what kind of cat he is, except that his orange and white fur grows extremely long around his neck, making him look like the least ferocious lion ever.
He rubs himself on my legs and makes a pitiful sound. I fed the beast only a few hours ago, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll sing me the song of his people until I feed him again.
“Fine,” I say going to the cupboard and getting down a can of food for him. He freaks out until I actually put it in his bowl, his tail swishing wildly. Of course, as soon as he’s done with his food, he’ll want to play fetch. Just like a dog.
I get myself a glass of water to start staving off any lingering effects of the beer I consumed earlier and walk toward the living room. I’m no decorator, so my place is filled with things I’ve either picked up off the side of the road for free, or have come from Scandinavian companies through the mail and needed to be assembled.
My coffee table is one of the only things I’ve had with me for a long time. I brush my hand over the corner that’s charred, getting a little bit of black soot on my hands. I rub my hands together. It’s a superstition, but I can’t shake doing this every day.
Leo, finally satiated, races to me, a ball of yarn in his mouth.
“Fine, but just this once,” I say, taking it from him and tossing it across the room. He dashes to retrieve it and bring it back, dropping it at my feet.
“No, I said once,” I say. He answers in Cat Language, which could probably be translated as throw the damn ball, you bastard. Of course I do, and he chases after it happily.
My phone goes off and I groan. It’s not my work cell phone, but the crappy burner I got from Cash two weeks ago.
I pull it out of my back pocket and answer it.
“What’s up?” I say, knowing it has to be something huge, or else he wouldn’t have called. Sure, the phone may be untraceable, but it’s best to keep communication to a minimum anyway.
“We have a problem.” This is my least favorite phrase in the entire world. Right behind “we need to talk.” Cash always has the same tone of voice when he speaks. Fucking cheerful, even when delivering bad news.
“What?” I say, taking the ball from Leo and tossing it again. He can go on for hours like this, and sometimes he’ll wake me up in the middle of the night to play.
“That stupid secretary Baz has been banging is a liability. I have reason to believe she’s not going to keep her mouth shut.” I knew this was going to happen. I told him, but Baz can’t resist a pretty face and a great pair of tits. Lets his cock get in the way of everything. This isn’t the first time he’s fucked things up. Jesus Christ.
“Then tell him to get the fuck out of it. And to stop thinking with his dick instead of his head.” Cash laughs. So fucking cheerful. All the damn time.
“I’ll get right on that. But do you think we should still go through with it?” he says. I nod, even though he can’t see me. Leo meows because I’ve been taking too long to throw his ball. I pick it up and toss it as far across the room as I can.
“Yes, we’ve put in too much time to pull out now. We don’t need her anymore. Just extract Baz and go ahead. We should be golden, but if anything goes wrong, you know what to do.”
“Got it. See you soon.” I hang up without saying goodbye.
“I’m surrounded by idiots,” I say to Leo. He blinks at me and paws at his ball. “Not you, of course.” He meows again.
In the morning I don my suit and tie and shoes that squeak when I walk. In hindsight, it was smart of me to get into a job where my uniform covers any number of sins, including my multitude of tattoos. If my regular customers knew anything about them, they’d never let me touch a cent of their money, which would be a shame.
“Good morning, Grace,” I say as I walk past my assistant. I’m sure she’s in love with me, but I’ve never pursued anything. Once again, not a good idea to mix business and pleasure. She’s a bit too buttoned-up for my tastes anyway; all perfectly-lined lips and hard angles and stiff hair. I like my women with a bit of a wild streak in them.
“Good morning Mr. Brand,” she says, patting her hair to make sure nothing is out of place. She may not be my type, but sometimes I wonder what she’d be like if I got her home and tugged on that hair a little bit. Smeared her lipstick. Ripped her skirt. But then I might lose her as an employee and she’s a damn good assistant.
She hands me a printed version of my schedule for the day. Meetings with clients, with just a few spare hours to work on paperwork and make calls. Yet another shitty day.
“Mr. Beaumont is here for you,” Grace says in a quiet voice, gesturing to the man in the waiting room. He’s early, the bastard. I haven’t even had time to drink my coffee and eat the scone I know is waiting on my desk, courtesy of Grace.
“Tell him I’ll be ready in a moment,” I say, and Grace knows exactly what this means. I head to my office and set my briefcase down. Mr. Beaumont’s file is already on my desk, along with a few others I have waiting for me. I examine it while sipping my coffee and eating the scone. Beaumont’s a new client, but an important one. I’ll need to take special care with him.
I brush any crumbs off my suit and double check my appearance in the mirror in my bathroom. I’m one of the only people here who have an en suite bathroom, and I’m also the youngest. Because I’m damn good at what I do. I’m damn good at a lot of things.
I send a signal to Grace to show him in.
She ushers him through the door and asks if he needs anything. He sits down and tells her he’d like a glass of water, which she fetches from the table in my office. One of her main jobs is to keep the coffee coming, and the pitcher full of ice water. She’s also in charge of fulfilling all guests’ requests. These are powerful people and they expect to get what they want.
We start off with the preliminary small talk. It’s all the same. What brings him here, what he hopes to achieve, how risky he wants his investments to be. All standard for a financial advisor. But my questions veer off quickly.
“How far are you willing to go?” I ask, and he knows exactly what I mean.
“Can you promise me everything will be off the books?” I nod.
“Mr. Beaumont, I’m damn good at what I do. I take rich men like yourself and make them richer. My means may be… unorthodox, but I get the job done. And you’ll come out smelling like a rose.” All the language is subtle, nothing directly alluded to. But that’s how we have to play it. You can never be too careful.
“That sounds like what I’m looking for. How much will you need?” I write down a figure and slide it across the desk so he can read it.
“That’s a start. But I have the feeling the more profit you’ll see, the more you’ll want to put in.”
He looks at the figure and nods.
“When do you need it?” he asks.
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll make arrangements.” This isn’t his first rodeo. Only those who are referred and vetted make it to this meeting.
I wish him a good day as we stand and shake hands and he says he’ll contact me as soon as he has the money together.
He leaves and I tear up the note with the figure on it. No paper trail. I have a few minutes before my next meeting, so I turn on my computer and bring up the electronic file on him that I didn’t have on my desk. The one Cash worked on for me. I didn’t get a chance to look at it before this morning.
It contains more than just his financial records and bank accounts and basic personal information. This has just about everything, including pictures.
I scan the information, taking all of it in for future reference. As far as they go, Mr. Beaumont is one of the worst. From child labor to buying off government officials to using shoddy materials and selling them at a premium. He’s done it all with his discount clothing company. A few years ago, I would have been disgusted, but now it’s just par for the course. I scan the rest of the information, noting that he has a twenty-year-old daughter, but don’t notice anything until I get to the pictures.
I scroll until I see one of Mr. Beaumont on his boat with his wife and daughter.
Red hair. Wild red hair blows across her face, partially obscuring her brilliant green eyes. Her lips are drawn into a smile as she tries to push her hair back. Her parents are stiff. Posed. Mannequins. In contrast, she nearly leaps out of the picture.
Saige Juliette Beaumont.
I hadn’t accounted for her in my original plans, but now I have to reevaluate everything. I need to get to Mr. Beaumont, and she just might be the way to do it.
Two
I meet Cash down the street from his apartment. Unlike me, he enjoys the finer things in life and has decided to occupy a place in the nicer part of the city.
“You look wrecked,” he says by way of a greeting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a compliment.
“Thanks,” I say and he laughs, his blue eyes sparkling. Cash is a contradiction of a person. Tall and built like a wall of bricks, he’s one of the happiest people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. When we walk down the street, people seem to cower away from him, but he just smiles at them as if it doesn’t bother him one bit. The ancient leather jacket that belonged to his grandfather adds to his ferocious image. Cash can act the part of muscled tough when push comes to shove. But as soon as the act is over, he’s back to his sweet self.
“Have you heard from Baz?” I ask as we walk back to his place. We never meet in front of his apartment, and soon we’ll part company and enter the building separately. You can never be too careful.
“Yes. He’s out. Completely extracted. Told the girl he was married.” This makes me laugh.
“How did she take it?” Knowing Baz, he was none too tactful going about it. Words weren’t his strong suit.
“He’s sporting a lovely mark on his cheek and his balls are a little sore, I think,” Cash says as we part company, him to walk the short way and me to take the long back around the building. It’s a risk every time we meet and it’s one of the reasons we move so much. We’ve been here for about eight months so far.
Everything we do is calculated, planned. Nothing spontaneous, if we can help it. We can’t take any risks, which is why I changed out of my business attire and into a ripped pair of jeans and baggy hoodie. None of my clients would recognize me like this, because they wouldn’t give me a second look. That’s the beauty of what we do.
“What the hell is that?” I ask when Cash lets me in. Occupying an enormous space in his dining room is what looks like an old-fashioned writing desk.
“What the fuck does it look like? It’s an antique writing desk. Belonged to a famous writer.” He doesn’t tell me who, but I know, without a doubt, that he’s got a certificate of authenticity and has verified that it’s the genuine article. Among other things, Cash is an antique collector. It’s a bitch whenever we have to move, because he won’t leave anything behind, and some of his pieces are fucking huge and heavy.
“What are you going to do with a writing desk?” I ask. I can’t picture Cash squeezing his large body into a chair and sitting at the desk composing letters.
“I’m not going to do anything with it. I’m going to admire it.” He stares at the desk as if to illustrate his point.
“Is this you admiring?” I ask.
“Shut up. Do you want a beer?” He pops the tops and hands one to me. I savor a foamy sip and we head to his office.
Cash’s office is bigger than his bedroom, mostly because we store so much crap here. There’s also a small gym in the corner of the room. Cash might have been born with more muscle than the average man, but he still has to work out.
Cash’s burner phone makes a noise and he looks down at it.
“Baz is on his way with Row, Track and Hardy,” he says, listing the other members of our group. We don’t have an official name, because we aren’t cartoon characters, but sometimes Cash tries to come up with one. So far, they’re all fucking lame.
“I was thinking about beating his ass, but it sounds like that secretary did it for me,” I say as Cash goes to the fridge for three more beers. We’re going to go through quite a few before the evening is out. I don’t know why he just doesn’t put a fridge in the office and be done with it.
The other three arrive with pomp and circumstance. Well, Row, Track and Hardy do. Baz lumbers in behind them, a red mark across his cheek and a glare in his eyes. Cash busts out laughing the minute he walks in. Normally, this would be cause for Baz to get violent, but Cash gets away with everything.
“How’s your pride?” I ask as he takes a beer from Cash and settles on the couch next to the others, who are giggling like schoolgirls. I glare at them, but they don’t stop.
“Fucking fantastic. Never been better,” he says with a scowl. “She wasn’t that great in bed anyway.” He’s such a liar. He’d gone on and on when he’d first started going with her about how great she was in the sack.
“Well, if you get lonely, let me know,” Track says with a wink. He’s gay and flirts with whomever he likes. Baz just sips his beer in silence.
Our group runs the gamut, from Cash the dark-haired tank; to Baz with his fair hair and stormy eyes; to Track with his pretty, pretty face; to Hardy and Row, brothers with matching brown mops of hair and opposite personalities.
We’re an odd bunch, but we all have a common goal. Humans can get along surprisingly well when they all have something to work toward.
“I still say we need a gavel,” Cash says as I stand. I might not be the oldest in the group, but I’m the one who started this.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “Who’s got a report for me?”
Hardy raises his hand. He’s one of our most useful assets, due to his memory. If he reads something, or hears it, he’ll remember it forever. I can ask him what he had for breakfast three years ago on a specific date and he’ll know. It’s fucking annoying when you’re trying to settle an argument, though.
“So far from 137 we’ve got exactly two million three hundred and thirty-four thousand. And twenty-one cents,” he adds at the end. We always give each of our marks’ numbers, instead of names. Hardy has them all memorized, but it takes the rest of us a second to catch up.
“That’s which one?” I ask.
“Mr. A,” he says and it all clicks in my brain.
“Excellent. So what are we up to, total?”
“Nearly three hundred million,” he rattles off. Hardy is also our bookkeeper, naturally.
“Does anyone need supplies? Now would be a good time to ask. No, Cash, I won’t entertain anything ridiculous today.” I see him open his mouth and then close it. He’s always trying to get something and claim it’s for the job. He’ll probably try to claim the writing desk is a work expense. But unlike the IRS, he can’t write it off with us.
“Fine,” he says, crossing his arms, making his muscles bulge.
“I need to make a run,” Row says. We’ve got codes for everything. This means he needs to buy drugs. When it comes to getting information, sometimes that’s the best way to do it. Greases the wheels a bit.
“How’s our stash?” I ask Cash and he goes to check. We’ve got this place outfitted with plenty of hiding places, so a cursory search would turn up nothing.
“Low,” he says when he comes back. “Very low.”
“Okay, just let Hardy know how much you need.” Row might have been a liability if it weren’t for Hardy. He’s honest and trustworthy enough for both of them, and Row would never betray his brother.
Track is next, with a report that he might have a new potential mark for us that he’ll be sending my way. He works at one of the most exclusive country clubs and has a way with people and getting information out of them. He’s also not opposed to using sex to get information, something that has come in handy more than once. It’s shocking how many married men are quick to bang the pretty boy who brings them drinks at the club.
I give them an update on Mr. Beaumont, but I leave out the daughter. It’s not like me, but I can’t seem to make myself say her name. She’s in my head, though, and not in the way I want. I picture that hair spread out across my sheets. That mouth open in ecstasy. Those legs spread wide for me.
Sex isn’t forbidden, but relationships of any kind are. It’s just common sense, really. We can’t run the risk that someone would find out what we do and then turn us in. There have been close calls, like with Baz and the secretary, but they’ve been fewer than I expected. As long as the guys can sleep with whomever they want, they seem to be happy. Or at least not miserable.
Once we get through business all of us start hassling Baz to tell us the story of the secretary.
“I just told her that I was married,” he says, but knowing him, he didn’t word it that way. “I let her get the slap in, okay? Figured she’d have a good story to tell. Just didn’t know it would hurt that much, or that she’d go for my balls.” We all wince in unison.
“Never underestimate a woman,” Cash says.
“Hear, hear,” Track says, raising his beer. “That’s why I stay away from them.”
We talk about other things and keep drinking late into the night. I have to work tomorrow, but I’ll survive. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.
Row and Hardy are the first to leave for their apartment, followed by Baz and then Track.
“You doing okay, Sylas?” Cash asks.
“Fine, why?” I say. That’s another thing about Cash. He’s fucking cheerful and fucking perceptive.
“Nothing,” he says, sensing that even if I knew what was bothering me, I wouldn’t be quick to share it.
I say goodbye to him and take a cab back to my apartment, paying in cash so as not to leave a trail.
The next morning I have a break between meetings. Some of the work I do is legit, but it’s mostly there to cover up for the work that isn’t so legit. On the outside, we’re just an investment firm, but appearances are nearly always deceiving.
Working here also has its advantages, since I have access to untraceable Internet. I tell myself I’m doing all this in the name of research and take the extra precautions Cash taught me before I start searching for her.
Saige.
Thinking her name reminds me of the herb. I wonder where her parents got that name from. It fits her, in an odd way. Her name is unusual and matches the way she looks. Don’t get me wrong, she’s definitely pretty. But a different kind of pretty. She’s pretty in the way a thunderstorm with lightning forking across the sky is pretty.
I scan her social media pages, but they’re sparse and the only pictures of her are those that you’d find in the society pages. Even in those, she doesn’t look polished or posed.
In one, I can tell her mother is angry with her, although she tries to hide it. Saige has a black dress on with little white designs on it. Upon closer inspection, I see that they’re skulls, done in the style of Mexican Day of the Dead. I nearly laugh out loud when I see that.
And then I want to slap the shit out of myself. She’s the daughter of a mark. Nothing more. Just a means to an end.
My office phone interrupts my perusal and I quickly click the windows closed, as if I’m worried whoever is on the other end of the line is going to somehow see what I’d been researching.
“Yes,” I say, picking up.
“Mr. Beaumont is here to see you,” Grace says in her robotic professional voice that has just a hint of sex appeal.
“Excellent, send him in.” Just the man I want to see. I’m a little surprised he decided to bring the money himself. Most in his position would send a middleman so they don’t get their hands dirty with all that laundered money.
Grace knocks at the door and it opens to reveal Mr. Beaumont, clad in a superb Ralph Loren suit. After we shake hands, he produces an envelope full of cash from his briefcase.
I count the money quickly, just to make sure it’s all there. You can never be too careful.
“Is it clean?” I ask as I thumb through the bills.
“Do you doubt me?” Mr. Beaumont asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Just double checking. In my line of work, you can never be too sure of anything.” I put the money aside. I’ll check it over more carefully later, and then I’ll have one of the boys put it through its paces to make absolutely sure it isn’t dirty or counterfeit. It happened once before, early on when I wasn’t as careful. I won’t let it happen again.
Mr. Beaumont and I talk more about money and what I’m going to do with his and how he’s going to get paid. It’s simpler than it sounds, actually.
What he doesn’t know, of course, is that part of his money will be funneled to my own account. He’ll never know because I can make the numbers say whatever I want them to. It’s all part of the process. It takes time, but it’s worth it in the end.
Inside, I’m buzzing with the high I get from doing what I do. The edge had worn off in recent months, like an old knife blade. I need to sharpen my resolve. Remember why I’d started this.
Once we talk about the money, I move into small talk. The kind of thing we’d chat about on a golf course, or over drinks. I ask him about his family, his wife and finally, his daughter. Nothing too probing, lest I set off any alarms in his mind.
He doesn’t speak much of his daughter, but the second he says her name, his entire demeanor changes. She’s his only child, and from the way the lines around his eyes soften when he speaks of her, she is dear to him.
Perfect. Just what I need. Using her to break him will make this all the sweeter in the end.
