Текст книги "Behind Your Back"

Автор книги: Chelsea M. Cameron

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Three

“Why do you always get to be the one that gets the pussy?” Baz asks at our meeting that week.

“Need I remind you how you nearly fucked us to hell with that damn secretary? And the girl before that? And the one before that?” Baz has a history of pissing off the opposite sex. It’s a wonder one of them haven’t put a bullet between his eyes.

Baz’s face goes a little red, but it might be because of the beer.

“You have no game, fucker,” Cash says, laughing. Baz chucks an empty bottle at him, but Cash catches it easily.

“Don’t throw shit in my house!” he bellows. I watch Baz, waiting to see if I need to break it up before things escalate, but he just shuts his mouth and sits back on the couch.

“Fuck you,” he mutters in Cash’s direction. I decide to get things back on track.

“As I was saying, it’s our classic plan.” My proclamation is met with cheers and raised bottles.

“I wish it was me,” Track says in a wistful voice. “You sure Mr. B isn’t of the gay persuasion?” We’d done research and hadn’t found any hint of gay activity in his life. In addition, I’d watched him as he talked about his wife and there was genuine affection there.

I shake my head.

“Don’t think so, but I’ll do a little more research, just to make sure,” I say and Track rubs his hands together.

We finish talking about business and then Row tries to pitch his idea of starting a garage that doubles as a chop shop. He and Hardy had worked in one before, which is how I’d found them. Not what I want to get into. At least not anymore.

I entertain their ideas, and then put it to a vote. I can’t shut the idea down by myself. I need a majority. The only one who goes for it is Row. He glares at his brother.

“What the fuck?”

Hardy just calmly sips his beer.

“It’s not the right time now. There are two other shops within a ten-mile radius and they have a combined value of about four million.” Hardy lists some more numbers. I would have been surprised if I hadn’t seen him do something like this before. I’m damn glad he’s on my team. He’s worth his weight in pure cocaine.

Row is pissed, but it doesn’t last long. Hardy has a point, which is why he wins nearly every argument he’s ever had.

“So what’s your plan with the daughter?” Cash asks. We have different techniques for a female mark, depending on what kind of girl she is. I have a number of tools at my disposal, including fancy cars, tons of Tiffany jewelry, and bottles of thousand dollar champagne. Money is an aphrodisiac to a lot of women, but I have the feeling Miss Saige Beaumont will be a bit of a challenge, which makes me smile to myself. I fucking love a challenge, and a redheaded one at that.

“I think I’ll show up at one of her events. Wear the Brioni. Be mysterious. Give her just a taste, but leave her wanting more.” Sometimes it’s shockingly easy, and somewhat boring. I hope she’ll at least give me a little resistance before I dominate her.

Another image of her flashes through my head, of her lying against silky black sheets, her arms tied above her head. I push the image aside as the guys start giving me pointers, even though I’ve done this before. We all have, except for Hardy. Either he’s taken a chastity vow, he isn’t into women, or he doesn’t like to mix business and pleasure. I’ve thought about asking him, but he won’t give me a straight answer anyway. What he does on his own time is his fucking business. Literally.

“She’s going to be at the Hudson Gala this weekend,” Cash says, looking up from the glow of his laptop. Perfect timing. I rub my face, thinking it’s time to get another shave. One of the indulgences I allow myself is the occasional professional shave. I’ll have to get one before the gala so I look perfect.

“Need a wingman?” Cash says and Baz’s eyes light up. Sometimes we work in teams, in case we aren’t sure what the girl might go for. Gotta give her a choice, right?

“No, I think I’ve got this. If I have any problems, then I’ll let you know,” I say, my voice sounding a little possessive. I shake my head to myself. This isn’t any different than any other time. I’ve done this so much I could do it with both my eyes closed. A routine, like brushing your teeth. Simple. Get in, get the money, get out.

I endure some trash talk from the guys and then we all head back to our separate residences.

“Go get her,” Cash says, clapping me on the shoulder. “And if you can’t get it up, call me.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say and he shuts the door in my face.

“Mr. Brand, it’s nice to see you again,” Ken, my barber, says with a smile as he whips the cape around my shoulders and tilts my chair back. He’s an older man, but has one of those faces where he could be fifty, or he could be eighty. I’ve never asked his age. I like him because he doesn’t ask too many personal questions and still gives me a damn good shave.

“How’s business?” he says.

“Booming,” I say and he nods as he swirls the brush over my face to coat it with the shaving cream.

“You got yourself a woman yet?” I laugh good-naturedly.

“Several,” I say and wink at him. He purses his lips and shakes his head.

“Every man needs a good woman. You need yourself a good woman, Mr. Brand.” I close my eyes as he starts scraping the hair from my face with the straight razor. The sound lulls me, and I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks. Funny how having a sharp blade running across your face can do that to you. Or maybe it’s Ken’s demeanor.

I make a non-committal sound and keep my face still. Not a good idea to move your face around when getting shaved.

He doesn’t ask me more questions and instead hums along with the Frank Sinatra track that plays from hidden speakers in the shop. It’s quiet today, the shop relatively empty of customers. Ken finishes me with a hot towel and a bit of aftershave. He slaps my cheeks and then takes the cape off.

“You’re done.”

“Thank you,” I say, handing him a hundred. He takes it and bows.

“No, thank you, Mr. Brand. You come and see me again soon,” hey says. I reply that I will and head out of the shop.

My suit is still in the bag from drycleaners. I had it cleaned a few weeks ago, and it’s time to bring it out again. The rest of our group all has custom suits in their arsenal as well. One of the perks of high-class crime. Pricey toys and pricey suits. The suit is custom-made and fits me like my own skin. I’m not vain by any means, but I know I look good in it. Track said he’d fuck me while I was wearing it, so that has to mean something.

I put my suit on, using the cracked mirror in my bathroom to make sure there aren’t any loose threads before slotting in my cufflinks. They aren’t easy to do by yourself, but I’d learned. Like anything, practice makes perfect.

I double check to make sure none of my tattoos are showing and do a once-over on my dark hair. I’ve gelled it back, but not so much that it looks like a helmet. I want it to look like a woman has recently been running her fingers through it.

My phone buzzes and I know my ride is here. Cash is taking me to a swanky hotel, where the car that will be driving me to the event will pick me up. It would set off too many red flags if I had gotten picked up at my apartment. Not to mention, it would have linked my address with me.

Cash whistles as I get in the front seat.

“You ready, Mr. Brand?” he says, using my current alias.

“Yes,” I say, tugging on my sleeves.

“Are you nervous?” Cash asks as he pulls his car away from my apartment. I still my hands and give him a look.

“No. Why would I be? I’ve done this hundreds of times.” Cash just keeps glancing at me, so I turn on the radio. I have to fight the urge to put my hands on my ears to make it stop. Cash turns down the volume.

“What the fuck is that shit?” I quickly change the station and get static. At least that’s better than the initial auditory assault.

“Music, you asshole. You just don’t know good stuff when you hear it,” he says.

“No, that was not music. That was noise and autotuning.” I change the station again and “Smooth” by Santana comes through the speakers. Thank GOD.

“This is music, Cash.” He opens his mouth to argue, but decides not to. We’ve had this same fight since the day we met five years ago. Neither of us is going to change our minds anytime soon.

Cash gripes about my music the rest of the way to the hotel, but I refuse to listen to his crap.

“I’m wearing the suit. So I get to have the say on musical selections,” I say. He just keeps muttering under his breath. I’ll be really glad to get into the other car because the driver won’t talk to me.

“Go get her,” he says as he drops me off near the hotel. He pats my shoulder, which nearly knocks it out of the socket. Cash sometimes doesn’t know his own strength.

“That’s the plan,” I say. “I’ll call you if anything goes south.” He gives me a little salute.

“Aye, aye Captain!” I just shake my head at him and shut the car door. He’ll be waiting near the event as the getaway driver, just in case. I also have Hardy on call. For a bunch of assholes who don’t like to answer to anyone, the guys work really well together.

Five minutes after I enter the hotel lobby, I get a text message letting me know my car’s here. I check my hair one more time in a mirror above one of the lavish gold tables in the lobby before I head out to the car. Sleek and black, it shines in the moonlight and has an engine that purrs like a panther.

“Good evening, Mr. Brand,” the driver says, holding the door open for me.

“Thank you,” I say, and slide in. Sometimes I enjoy this part of the job. The suits, the champagne, the glitter of it all. But it isn’t real. It’s all an illusion. A trick. Magic. With enough money, you can make someone see whatever you want them to see. Abracadabra.

The drive to the event is short, so I only get to enjoy the comfort of the leather seats in the car for a moment. The event is being held at the home of Bart Hudson, one of the most influential (and wealthy) business tycoons around. In addition to his house just outside the city, he has residences in Dubai, Ibiza, L.A. and numerous other places.

I’ve been here once before at another event, but only to do recon. The house is more of a mansion, and designed with Versailles in mind. Lots of stonework and statues and opulence. It used to make me sick, but I’ve gotten used to it. Riding in a fancy car is one thing. But having ten homes when you need only one is something else.

I arrive late on purpose to avoid the photographers that camp out to get snaps of the various politicians, heirs and heiresses, and glitterati attracted by this kind of thing.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have been let in. Now I get invitations all the time, and file them away. Once you’re in, you’re in. I give my (fake) name to the fellow at the door who’s part bouncer, part list checker. He just nods and a girl in a skintight gold dress offers me a glass of champagne. Damn, drinks at the door. If there is one thing they take seriously, it’s booze. Always flowing.

I accept a glass from her and head into the foyer. Since it’s nearly summer the doors and windows have been thrown open and sweet breezes drift in from the gardens on either side of the house.

My eyes scan the room, noting the dripping chandeliers brought in from Italy, the paintings on the walls, the Tiffany lamps and the custom marble floors. And then there are the people. I recognize many of the faces. This is the one percent, and it’s a relatively small club. Fortunately, none of my past conquests are here. I’d made sure of that. I run into them occasionally, but I have their hands tied behind their backs, so there’s nothing they can do to me. Not that they haven’t tried. They’re good, but my team is better.

I bump into a few of my colleagues from the office, as well as a few customers. I laugh and drink and talk business and golf and flirt with their wives. Internally, I roll my eyes at myself, but it’s all part of what I do. I’m on the clock.

I make a few inquiries about Mr. Beaumont, but no one seems to know if he’s attending. Moving from group to group, I get the same answer. His name is on the list, but he isn’t here. Damn.

I search for him, but I also look for a mane of red hair. I see one woman, but her color is artificial and looks cheap and fake in the light. After a futile search and too much schmoozing, I walk outside to get some air. The gardens are like a maze and I let myself get lost in the hedges and bushes for a little while as I sip another flute of champagne. A firefly flits in front of me and I remember my childhood spent trying to capture them in jars.

I have to shake myself. No, now is not the time to be thinking of the past. My past doesn’t exist. Tonight I’m Mr. Brand.

“What are you doing here?” A drunken male voice slurs at me. I whip around to find myself face-to-face with one of the men I’d taken down just recently. Shit. This isn’t good and most of the reason I move around the country so much.

“Hello, Mr. Chambers,” I say, tipping my glass at him. He isn’t looking very good and if the garden wasn’t illuminated, he might not ever have found me. Swaying on his feet, he nearly topples over into a hedge. I can abandon him here, or I’m going to have to help the poor bastard.

Fuck me.

I didn’t sign up for this.

He glares at me, his eyes having difficulty focusing.

“You fucked me over, you little fuck.” Nice choice of words. And I hadn’t fucked him over. He’d fucked himself over by paying off politicians to get around EPA regulations, among other things.

I don’t respond, but he stumbles toward me and jabs his finger in my chest.

“Fuck you, fucker.” Fuck, he likes that word. I reach for his arm to steady him, but he lunges away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Unfortunately, that throws him off-balance and he goes over, spilling the rest of his drink all over himself. He doesn’t make a sound for a moment, and I wonder if he’s knocked himself out, but a moan emerges from his mouth, so I know he’s conscious.

What to do now? I look around, but no one else is in the garden, so I head back into the house and find the master of ceremonies, Mr. Hudson, having a good laugh, his arm around a woman who’s young enough to be his daughter. She seems uninterested in the proceedings and keeps flinching whenever he laughs too loudly. You’ve made your bed, sweetheart, I wanted to say to her. Make the best of it. I’ve met the party host several times and am on friendly terms with him, so I don’t feel awkward going up to him and interrupting his conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt, but may I speak with you for a moment?” I give Mr. Hudson a significant look and he extricates himself and leans close to me.

“I just wanted to let you know that Donald Chambers is in the garden. I think he’s had a few too many and should be escorted home.” I keep my voice low. Mr. Hudson nods and pats me on the shoulder.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he says before he motions to one of the servers, who’s more than just a server. Mr. Hudson lives by my rule of “you can’t ever be too careful.” I have to respect that. As far as I know, his money is all legit, some inherited from his grandparents who’d made it during the railway boom, and increased by his father and now him, who has his fingers in plenty of technology and transportation pies. His personal life aside (he’s on wife number four), he seems like a genuine person. What you see is what you get.

I don’t stick around to see if Mr. Chambers is taken care of. Clearly, she isn’t here, and her father isn’t either. I make one last sweep, avoiding the garden area, and decide it’s time to take my leave. I’ll have to catch her next time. Besides, it wasn’t a totally wasted evening. I’d scoped out some new potential targets. Gotta love new money. I send their names to Cash to start gathering intel and head outside to wait for my car.

This far outside from the city, you can actually see the stars. I gaze upward at them, wishing I had a cigarette. I quit last year, but times like this have me itching for a smoke again. I glance back at the glowing house as the polite laughter and clink of glasses flows outside and washes over me. I close my eyes and turn back around. This isn’t my world.

 

Four

 

Two weeks pass before another event pops up that Saige and her father are on the guest list for. This time it’s a charity dinner, where the plates are ten grand each. Luckily, I have the funds at my disposal.

“Do you think she’ll be there this time?” Cash says as I put on one of my other suits. It isn’t as nice as the Brioni, but it fits me well and is tinted toward a blue shade rather than black. It makes me stand out, and Track says it makes the blue flecks in my eyes pop. Whatever that means.

I adjust my tie and check my hair again. For some reason, I’m a little nervous. I feel… unprepared.

“Hopefully. If not, then I’ll have to try something else.” I have plenty of options. This is just easier and potentially less messy.

This time Track is on call and I’ve already texted him to let him know all systems are go. The event’s being held at one of the most lavish hotels in the city. I consider getting a room for the night but decide it isn’t worth the bitching I’ll get from the guys if I do.

Cash drops me off and it’s the same-old, same-old. Only it isn’t. Something keeps prickling at the back of my neck. Like I’m being watched. I always trust my instincts, so I glance around, as if I’m looking for something, or simply surveying the street. Nothing.

At least not anything I can see with my eyes.

The feeling doesn’t go away, not even when I go inside and am greeted enthusiastically by the wife of the host. She pulls me into her recently-enhanced chest and smacks a kiss on my cheek. It’s impossible to tell how old she is because her skin has been lifted so many times. She might as well be a silicone sex doll.

After making my escape, I grab a drink and weave through the crowd, saying hello and making small talk. The tables have labels on them, so I search for mine and then for Mr. Beaumont’s. They’re all the way across the room, but with a simple swap, I’m sitting right next to him.

Beaumont is elusive again. I search for a while, but then things get started, so I make my way back to my chair. The master of ceremonies takes the stage (some washed-up comedian-turned-host) and we’re all ordered to take our seats. I sink into mine, introducing myself to the lady on my left who has to be at least eighty years old, but has kindness in her smile as she shakes my hand. She and her husband hold hands on top of the table, and he keeps smiling at her. That’s pure love right there. They ask me if I have a wife and I smile back and say I haven’t met the right woman yet. That opens me up to a barrage of marriage and dating advice.

I don’t bother to tell them that the kind of love story they have isn’t for people like me. But I humor them and listen, keeping part of my attention on the still-empty seat beside me. Waiters come around and start taking drink orders. I order water, even though I want something much stronger. I need to have my mind sharp.

Finally, just as the first course is announced, Mr. Beaumont slides into his seat, sans wife and daughter. Damn. But it isn’t a total loss. I can still make something of this night.

“Mr. Beaumont, nice to see you again,” I say, holding out my hand and giving him a smile. “I didn’t know you were a fan of philanthropy.” Of course, this is a lie, but it rolls off of my tongue easily. The more you lie, the easier it gets. Trust me.

“Ah, Mr. Brand, nice to see you as well. And I could say the same. I’ve been a supporter of this organization for many years.” That’s also true, but I don’t want him to know how much I truly know about him.

“Well,” I say as the waiter comes back with my water and the rest of the drinks for the table, “I can’t say no to a worthy cause.” Tonight it’s AIDS in Africa. As worthy a cause as any and I’m more than willing to pay the money for the plate. It’s a win-win situation. If only Saige was here, it would have been a home run. But like the song says, you can’t always get what you want.

Beaumont and I chat and the couple next to me joins the conversation. It’s all polite and surface information. I’m looking for an opening to see if I can ask about the daughter.

Midway through the third course of lobster bisque, he takes out his phone and frowns at it before putting it away and not answering.

“Something wrong?” I say, trying not to look too interested.

“Nothing. Just my daughter being herself. I know I should be more firm with her, but she’s my only daughter.” He heaves a heavy sigh and I mentally curse. If she’s texting him, then that probably means she isn’t going to be here tonight. Swing and a miss. Again.

“How old is she?” I ask, even though I know. Down to her birthdate.

“Twenty. But she doesn’t always act it.” He shakes his head like a long-suffering father and the fellow across the way commiserates with him. Apparently he and his wife have four daughters (all grown, obviously). I sit and listen, waiting my turn. The comedian on stage is still going, but not many people are actually listening to him.

“Do you have any children, Mr. Brand?” Beaumont says. I shake my head.

“No, I don’t.” I don’t elaborate. “So what’s the issue with yours?” I’m not above brown-nosing to get the information I want. I’m also not above doing anything to get what I want, actually.

“Typical rebellion. I thought she’d gotten it out of her system in her teenage years, but it seems that was just the beginning.” He turns his eyes to the ceiling, as if begging God. Or cursing him.

“Well, I can’t offer any advice on that front. But I’m sure she’ll come around,” I say, finishing my soup. I’m eating damn good tonight. There are twelve courses, but they are all microscopic, which was why you need so many to have a full meal. I will never understand wealthy people eating such tiny portions. You’d think it would be the opposite.

“Is it too late to send her to military school?” he says with a chuckle. It’s the first time I’ve heard him make any sort of a joke.

“Is she in college, or working?” I ask. Yet another bit of information I already know.

“She wants to do a lot of things, but she can never seem to make up her mind. One minute she wants to be a fashion designer and the next she wants to be a social worker. Right now she’s in school for art history and restoration.” He shakes his head as if she might as well be in school for professional pole dancing. For most parents, art history might not be that bad, but for this fellow, it’s a disgrace.

“And what would you want her to do?” The fourth course of lemon garlic scallops arrives. Three fucking scallops. That’s it.

I had to practice my table manners for a long time before I started attending events like this. I know which fork is the salad fork, what course comes when and how to order nearly any kind of drink. It’s all part of the job. I have to give the appearance that I’ve been doing this my whole life, instead of for just a few years. I have to make it look effortless.

Beaumont chuckles and spears a scallop with his fork, cutting it in half and then bringing it to his mouth.

“Oh, I’m not sure. She’s smart, and that’s part of the problem. It would be much easier if she wasn’t sharp and I could just push her into a mid-level position in my company. Give her an office and some things to do and that would be it. But alas, my offspring wants more.” He laughs and I eat one of my scallops as delicately as I can. They’re delicious and I want to inhale them. I should have eaten more before I came.

“I’m sure she’ll settle down. She’s still young.” That makes Beaumont laugh again.

“And so are you,” he says. I don’t feel young. I’ve never felt young. I remember watching other children play and envying them. But life often deals shitty hands and I got a pretty bad one. Still, it had made me who I am today and for that I’m almost grateful.

Beaumont chats more with me about his daughter and his wife and his yacht. I’ve had a hundred conversations like this, so I’m able to tune most of it out and scan the rest of the room. I’m always careful, always waiting for an ambush, or for someone to pick up on something. So far, I’ve been able to get away with everything I’ve done, but that luck can only hold out so long. I’m not delusional enough to think that I can outfox everyone. Granted, I have a team behind me, but sooner or later, my luck is going to run out.

I’ve drifted off too far and Beaumont has asked me a question.

“I’m sorry, I got distracted for a moment,” I say.

“See something you like?” he asks with a wink, pointing toward a woman coming back to her table from the restroom. I hadn’t been looking at her, but I play along. She’s perhaps a few years older than I am and adorned with so much jewelry she might sink if she fell in the fountain.

“I can introduce you if you like,” he says. I don’t want him thinking I’m too interested in this woman. I am going to need his approval if I’m going to move forward with Saige.

“Thank you, but no. My interests lie elsewhere.” He raises an eyebrow and I realize I’ve made a mistake. Now he thinks I’m gay. I definitely don’t want him thinking that.

“What I mean to say is that my interests are in a very particular kind of woman and I don’t see her in this room tonight,” I say and he relaxes. I find it a little funny that he’d almost been threatened by the notion I might be gay. If only he knew how many of his comrades played for that team then he might not be so quick to judge.

“Interesting,” he says slowly and a smile starts to form. “And would you perhaps be willing to share what kind of woman you would be interested in?” I don’t want to take this too far right now, so I decide to back off.

“Maybe another time,” I say, and then excuse myself to visit the restroom. I’m not going to use it, but I need to check in with Cash. Usually I text him periodic updates, but I’ve been busy in conversation with Beaumont, building groundwork. My next step is to somehow meet the girl. Charm her. Seduce her. Make her fall in love with me and then use her to get the information I need. I hope she’s a challenge. I could use one.

I head into the stall and send Cash a quick message that everything is good and going just the way I need it to. It’s a shame Saige isn’t here, but based on what Beaumont told me at dinner I can guess she tries to avoid events like this for the most part.

Dessert arrives in the form of tiny little cakes that are no more than a mouthful. I finish as quickly as I can and say goodnight to Beaumont.

“See you next Thursday,” he says, reminding me of our next meeting. I shake his hand and say goodnight, sending Cash a text that I’m on my way out.

I walk up and down the line of cars with drivers waiting and find mine. He hurries to open the door for me and I slide into the backseat, the leather squeaking a little as I move.

The driver gets in and I tell him to take me back to the hotel.

“So she wasn’t there, huh?” Cash asks when he picks me up at the hotel. I sigh as I loosen my tie and unbutton the top of my shirt. I’m overheated for some reason.

“No. I think I’m going to have to try something different. You think you can hack her phone and track it?” This is pretty much a rhetorical question. Cash snorts at me.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Why don’t you give me a challenge?” We’re already tracking Beaumont’s phone, but I wasn’t planning to start with the daughter until I’d made first contact.

“In fact, maybe I already started tracking it,” he says, holding up his phone and then handing it to me. There is a little green dot not that far from us.

“You want to check it out?” he asks. I should… but not tonight. All I want to do is get out of this suit and wash away the night.

“You okay there?” Cash asks, sensing there is a reason I’m silent.

“Yeah. Fine. Just tired for some reason.”

“You want to come over and crash?” I shake my head. I just want to go home to Leo and have a few beers to wash the taste of expensive champagne out of my mouth before I go to bed.

“Suit yourself,” he says.

A few blocks away from my house Cash stops so I can get in the back and change my clothes. It isn’t easy to change out of a suit in the backseat of a car, but I manage.

Once I have my regular clothes on and my hood up, I feel… myself. Like shedding a costume. I’m an actor, playing a part. Too bad I’ll never get one of those golden statues for my work.

“You good?” Cash asks as I fold up the suit on the backseat.

“Yeah.”

“Okay then. See you on Tuesday?” I nod again and get out. I still have a ways to walk, but that’s more than fine. With every step I become more Sylas Carter and less Quinn Brand.

I’ll never admit how much this job fucks with my head. I try not to let it get to me, but it does. I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk and keep my head down. Most people are inside their houses, either in bed or basking in the glow of their televisions.

“Hey, Leo,” I say when I unlock the door. He puts both his paws on my legs and meows like I haven’t fed him in days. I check his bowl and it’s still mostly full, but I put a few more bits of kibble on top to satisfy him.

“Greedy little bastard,” I say as he sticks his head in the bowl and crunches loudly.

The first thing I do is go to the fridge and grab a beer. What I really want is a cheeseburger, but that would require me to walk to get it and I don’t want to leave the house again. So I reach for something I can throw in the microwave and hope it will fill me up where the fancy dinner hadn’t.

The microwave beeps and I go to open it, but my phone buzzes and I change direction to fetch it. Probably Cash giving me an update on Saige’s whereabouts.

I look at the screen and frown. It’s a text message, but it’s not from Cash. It’s not from any of my boys. The number is blocked.

Have a good time?

I can’t help the trickle of cold unease that drips down my spine. I am conditioned to be suspicious of everyone and everything.

But then the more-rational part of my brain kicks in and I figure it’s just a wrong number. There are plenty of people with blocked numbers for whatever reason. And since the numbers of the burner phones change constantly, that’s probably the case.