Текст книги "Four Seconds to Lose"
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
Charlie Rourke.
Back to taunt me, hours later.
Vicki’s hands move to the waist of my track pants. I help her by lifting my body up so she can tug them off. “It’s been a while. I’m glad to see you’ve missed me,” she teases seductively, her hand wrapping around my length as she begins to stroke.
“I’ve been busy.” It has been a while. To be completely honest, I’ve been getting bored with these nights. There’s nothing wrong with the women. This all just feels so . . . vapid.
Either way, Vicki isn’t the one eliciting this response, but if she wants to lay claim, so be it. It’ll make us both happy. I tip my head back and close my eyes, a deep groan escaping my lips. And I recall the visual of the brown-eyed beauty in my office today. I let the memory consume me, figuring this is the best way to get Charlie Rourke out of my system before I have to watch her dance tomorrow.
I’ll have to watch her dance tomorrow.
My eyes stay closed—the image of Charlie without her dress firmly in my mind’s eye—as Vicki sheaths me, climbs onto my lap, and guides me into her.
We burn through her supply of condoms.
chapter four
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
“Little mouse, you’re perfect for this job,” he says with a large hand squeezing my shoulder. “No one will suspect you.”
“Are you sure?”
His warm smile speaks his promise. “Of course. We make the perfect team, you and I.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Things are good? You’re enjoying Miami?”
I pick at a loose thread on my bedding. It’s early, it’s sunny, and I barely slept last night. I have yet to decide if I’m more worried about the act of pole-dancing topless on a stage in twelve hours or what will happen if I’m not any good at it.
I need this job. Sin City gave me a taste of what straight-out prostitution would be like and I can’t bring myself to do it. So, this is it. And working at Penny’s feels as right as it possibly could, under the circumstances.
“Yeah. Things are great.” I keep my voice airy. Non-suspicious. Right now, I have his trust. I need to keep that.
“Spending a lot of time on the beach?”
“Yup. That and the gym.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying life. Any theater groups down there for you to join?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Theater group . . . doesn’t quite live up to Tisch School of the Arts, where I was supposed to be enrolled this fall. After what happened, my stepdad made me defer for a year and shipped me off to Miami to “be safe.”
The reality is I’ll never get to go, and that burns me with disappointment. “Good, good.” There’s a long pause. “Obviously, you’ve received the package.”
“Yup.” Like clockwork. Every Monday morning at nine o’clock a small parcel arrives at the extended-stay hotel where I’m supposed to be living. Kyle—the cute twenty-six-year-old security guy who has a thing for me—holds onto it in exchange for a coffee and a fifteen-minute flirt session.
Each package has a new phone with a new number. A new phone each week means no legal wiretaps, which means no incriminating evidence.
And Sam is all about no incriminating evidence.
Of course, my explanation to Kyle doesn’t involve burner phones or why I might need them. Instead, I fabricated a lovely modern fairy tale—that my mom likes to send me care packages each week but they have to continue arriving at that address or my father, whom I’m now staying with, will go into a blind rage.
I had a hard time getting that lie out with ease. If Kyle’s attention were on my face and not my breasts, he might have caught on. Mom can’t send me care packages because she died ten years ago, due to rare complications during childbirth, along with my unborn half-brother. It’s a sad story, really. As a high school dropout and mother by fifteen, Vegas stripper by eighteen, Jamie Miller was sure her luck had turned when she caught the eye of the much older, wealthy New York businessman Sam Arnoni.
Or, as some know him, Big Sam.
I was six when they got married—after a whirlwind three-month affair. We moved out of our two-bedroom Vegas apartment and into his sprawling Long Island house. The day we moved, my mom sat me down and told me to listen to Sam. That if I was a good little girl for him, he’d give us a good life.
I was eight when she died, leaving me alone with my stepdad. He’s all I’ve had ever since. In truth, he didn’t have to keep me. No one would have faulted him for hunting down my real father—who didn’t want me—and dropping me off on his doorstep. I mean, why burden yourself? But he didn’t. As long as I was an obedient little mouse, Sam told me that we’d be together.
So I was. And, in return, he gave me everything I could possibly ever want.
Knowing what I know now, I would have preferred my estranged father’s doorstep.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. I’ll top up your account tomorrow.”
“Great.” As much as I’ve begun to detest taking money from him, the more money he sends, the faster I can save.
The sooner my plan can come to fruition.
The sooner I can run from him.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work.” Conversations with Sam never last more than a few minutes anymore. He’s a busy guy. “Check your email, will you?”
Those are the magic words. “Okay.” I know that my voice sounds strained and so I clear my throat to shake it loose. There’s no sounding doubtful with Sam. He needs to think that I’m fully onboard with this.
“Love you, little mouse.”
I swallow a painful knot. Maybe he does . . . in his own way. “Love you too.” No real names. No reference to Dad or Sam. That’s another rule, even with burner phones. Sam’s a paranoid guy. With good reason.
Closing my eyes as I hang up, I heave a deep breath. I knew it was coming. It’s been three weeks since the last one of these calls. With icy dread creeping through my body, I reach over and flip open my laptop.
Logging in to the Gmail account—the one I share with Sam—I click on the drafts to find the unsent message. That’s how Sam gives me his directives. No transmitted emails means no intercepting them. I stare at the message, containing the name and address of a café off Ocean Drive, along with a meet-up time for me and Jimmy, a hotel name, and a picture of the buyers—“Bob” and “Eddie.”
My mouth instantly dries as the wave of nausea hits me.
■ ■ ■
“Hey, Uncle Jimmy!” I force the fake smile wider as I wrap my arms around the burly man in his mid-fifties.
“Hello, my dear. It’s so good to see you,” he chuckles softly, crushing my body against his round belly. To any innocent bystander, Uncle Jimmy could pass for a vacationing Santa Claus. Sure, his hair is more gray than white and I have a hard time picturing Santa in a yellow Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks at any time of year, but he’s got that twinkle in his eyes and that easy, quiet laugh that puts you at ease.
Appearances can be deceptive.
Like me. Here I am, smiling and casually accepting an iced latte at a Miami café from a man who isn’t really my uncle. My naturally straight blond hair is now chestnut brown and wavy—thanks to a wig. My eyes are olive-green and adorned with heavy brown kohl eyeliner, hidden behind dark sunglasses. A tight sports bra disguises my well-endowed chest beneath a casual T-shirt, topping off my spandex capri pants and sneakers. An effective illusion of a young woman meeting up with her loving uncle for a coffee on a Thursday morning, during errands.
We participate in idle chitchat for fifteen minutes—he asks me about the college English program I’m not enrolled in and I tell him how fantastic it is. I ask him about Aunt Beth, who doesn’t exist, and he tells me that she’s loving her new white Honda Accord. Man, he’s good. So smooth. He and Sam have been “in business” for years. He lives in Manhattan but has a construction company down here, so he travels regularly. It’s a “kill two birds with one stone” scenario. Aside from Sam’s best friend, Dominic, Jimmy is the first “business” friend of Sam’s that I’ve met. Sam keeps me on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t need to know anything else besides what I’m doing for him. I don’t know if that is to protect me or minimize his own vulnerability, should I ever betray him. That I’m now working directly with Jimmy speaks volumes. He obviously trusts Jimmy as much as he trusts me. Sam has never been to Miami and when he kissed me goodbye, he said he’d see me in a year. I’m not allowed to fly home and he won’t be caught down here.
With a noisy slurp of my drink—I really did need that caffeine—I stand, give Uncle Jimmy a quick hug, grab the set of car keys lying next to mine on the table, and head off down the street, looking for the white Honda rental.
■ ■ ■
I may die of heatstroke before I get through this day. Even with the cold air of this rental car blasting on my face, several beads of sweat still trickle down my forehead. Though that could be due more to nerves than to the hundred-degree temperature. Either way, this wig certainly isn’t helping matters.
Pulling up to the front of the hotel, I throw the car in park and hit the trunk release. And then I pretend to read something on my phone. Really, I’m taking a moment to collect myself while the valet unloads my bag.
This is my life, for now. I must do this. And in an hour, I can package the memory into a tiny ball, stuff it into a box, and pretend that it never really happened.
Until the next time.
When I climb out of the driver’s seat with my empty camera bag, I’m nothing but another smiling tourist. Every fiber in my body wants to grab the handle of that suitcase—which is much bigger than the last drop—but I don’t. I simply show the valet and bellhops my pearly whites as my fist holds a death grip on the piece of paper with the number 1754 scribbled on it.
That’s the hotel room I need to visit.
“I’m just going to drop my things off and then I’ll be back to do some sightseeing. Fifteen minutes, tops. Should we park the car or can I leave it here?” I ask casually.
“Which ever you prefer, miss. We can even hold your luggage at the front desk until you check in later, if you’d like.” He’s a grandfatherly-looking man with white hair and a kind smile. He probably has lovely grandchildren, whom he plays with and hugs.
I haven’t seen or heard from my grandparents since I was three. All I know anymore is Sam.
“Oh, thank you so much. My boyfriend has already checked in, though. I’m just going to freshen up and then head back out while he’s working.” I fake a yawn, my quick thinking surprising even me sometimes. “Long flight and all.”
“Of course.”
We’re walking into the main lobby when I hand him a ten-dollar bill and stealthily maneuver my hand around the handle of my suitcase. “I’ll take it from here.”
He begins to object but I flash him a grin. “It’s okay. It’s just one bag and it has wheels. Besides, I like the exercise.” And you don’t want to be anywhere near this suitcase, grandpa.
With a delayed nod of thanks, the kind man heads back outside.
And I release the smallest breath of relief. That was the easy part.
If I let myself think about it for one second, what I’m walking into is downright terrifying. So I don’t think about it. I blank my mind and pretend I’m about to go onstage as I wheel the bag into the elevator and hit the seventeenth-floor button. In a way, I am. I’m certainly playing a role.
Leaning against the cool wall, I watch the buttons light up, sure to keep my face angled down, away from the security cameras. And I wonder, for the thousandth time, how I got myself into this mess. How could I have done things differently? What is it about me that made this arrangement a wise bet for Sam? Was this what I was always meant to be? Or was it meant to be my mother? Some people might wonder what drew a smart, wealthy New York businessman to a twenty-one-year-old stripper with a child. Aside from her stunning beauty, of course. But, had she not died, would she be standing in this elevator right now, instead of me? Am I merely a delayed substitute?
And did she know what kind of world she was bringing her daughter into?
Twelve years ago, I stepped into a fairy tale. My new stepdad had taken my tiny hand and led me into a room doused in purple and brimming with toys, books, and clothes. Everything needed to win a six-year-old’s love and devotion. And win it, he did. Sam showered me with more affection, more gifts, and more attention than I could ever possibly imagine. Everything I could want and things I could never dream of.
Like the day Becky Taylor said her daddy loved her more than mine loved me because he bought her a pony. The fact that I never even met my real dad made that sting so much more than it should have. I’m not the type of kid to cry, but that day I came home crying.
A few weeks later, for my ninth birthday, I found a black stallion with a yellow bow around his neck tied to a tree in our backyard. It was the best birthday present I’d ever received, and it solidified how much more Sam loved me because he didn’t buy me a measly pony. He bought me a racehorse.
I named him Black Jack. Not very original as far as racehorse names go, but Sam said it was perfect. On the day that Black Jack won at the Belmont, Sam was the one hoisting me up onto the horse’s back. A photo of that still sits framed on Sam’s desk at home, making him appear the proud, doting father.
An illusion. For outsiders, for me. Maybe even for himself.
I didn’t notice for a long time that Sam might be “different.” I mean, he was my dad and the only person I had. And besides, I was “different” too. Exceptionally intelligent, according to all of the aptitude tests. But with those results came reports that I was unusually inexpressive. “Morose,” some jackass teacher called me in a parent-teacher interview, because I didn’t gallop around, hooting and hollering and giggling, like every other kid around me. “Weird,” I heard some kids whisper not so discreetly behind my back.
Sam said they were a bunch of idiots and I was perfect the way I was. But he also decided I should learn how to hoot and holler and giggle. So he signed me up for acting classes. He told me that sometimes you need to pretend to be something you’re not. Turns out I’m a terrific actress. When I’m concentrating, I can mold myself into just about anything.
Maybe that’s why Sam thought this would be a good fit.
I was ten the first time I witnessed something one might call “shady.” Sam and I took a father-daughter trip down to Nicoll Bay one evening. On the way, we played a fun game of do-you-see-any-strange-cars-following-us, where I watched out the back window for any vehicle that kept making the same turns as we did. When we arrived, it was dark and quiet down by the water. We went for a walk, and he held my hand as I devoured a strawberry ice-cream cone. I remember us stopping at one point, him reaching into his coat pocket. A second later, he swung his arm back and launched something into the deep waters.
He took my hand again, winked at me, and we continued walking.
I didn’t ask what he had thrown in. In fact, I didn’t say a word. I just squeezed his hand and we continued walking.
I was twelve the time that I passed by the cellar in the middle of the night—on my way to grab a new box of bagel bites from the basement freezer—and heard the angry voices. I had to press my ear to the door. Sam and Dominic were in there arguing, something about the police and fingerprints and Dominic wanting “out” and Sam telling him there is no “out,” that they were in this together. In a harsh tone that Sam never used on me, he accused his best friend of being fucking sloppy. Sam never swore. The stairs creaked loudly as I scurried back to the kitchen, where I pretended to heat up a glass of milk.
That’s where Sam found me.
“What did you hear?” he had asked in that cool, even tone of his, his gray eyes severe. I never lied to Sam and my instincts told me not to start then. “You and Dominic talking about the police and fingerprints.”
With a deep inhale, his hand lifted to his mouth to cover it with a rub, smothering a curse. “Sometimes you might hear things that you shouldn’t hear.”
I nodded slowly.
“It’s important that you never repeat those things. Ever. Or everything that we have here—you, me, this house, your life—it’s gone. You’ll be taken away. You’ll live in an orphanage, where people won’t appreciate you for who you are. You’ll have no one to love you. You won’t be in gymnastics or acting. Do you want that?”
Pursing my lips tightly, I shook my head.
“Never talk about things you may hear or think, okay?” Sam warned.
I nodded again. “Just like that night at Nicoll Bay.”
I remember his eyes widening, as if startled. As if he was surprised I noticed or remembered, or both. “Yes. Just like that. People will use information to hurt us. You don’t want that, do you?”
“No.” I leaned in to wrap my arms around him in a hug. Sam was the only dad I knew. He loved me, even though I didn’t see him very much on account of his busy schedule. But he made sure to attend every gymnastics competition and every school play. He always sat in the front row and he was always the first one on his feet—his arms loaded with flowers—to tell me what an incredible little actor I was going to be. The idea of losing him pained me. I would do anything not to lose him.
When Dominic’s wife came to our door a week later in hysterics, looking for her husband who’d been missing for days, I stood beside Sam and watched quietly as he hugged her and wiped her tears, as he shook his head, his face full of concern, telling her that we hadn’t seen him since the Fourth of July party, three weeks earlier. When she hazarded a glance at me, I bobbed my head up and down in concurrence.
That was the first flat-out lie I’d ever told for Sam.
After she left, Sam patted me on the back and whispered, “That’s my little mouse. Quiet as can be.”
I beamed. Making Sam proud always made me feel warm inside back then.
A hiker found Dominic’s body at a national park in Maine, months later. His gun lay next to him. The news report cited a suicide. All Sam said was, “It’s a shame.” No shock in his eyes, no tears down his cheeks. Not until the funeral, that is. That’s where he let loose. Apparently, Sam has his own acting abilities.
Me? I said absolutely nothing.
And now I’m here.
The elevator dings as it reaches the seventeenth floor, and I need to clench my muscles to stop from peeing as I roll the suitcase out. You can do this. The last time was fine.
Yet something about this delivery feels different. The guys I delivered to before were different. That hotel wasn’t as classy. And this bag is just too damn big. If it’s completely full, then . . .
I try not to think about it, zoning in on the door numbers and the exit signs and camera at the end of the hall. By the time I reach 1754, my pep talk has lost all it’s worth and I’m back to clenching my muscles.
Two quick knocks followed by a long pause and a third knock, per Sam’s directions. My stomach leaps into my throat as I see something pass behind the peephole. I’d had to take my sunglasses off in the lobby because walking through a hotel with them on is just plain suspicious. Thankfully, with heavy makeup and the hair, most people wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on the street.
The door opens to a tall, balding man in a tan golf shirt who matches the picture I found in the draft email. He goes by Bob. A very basic, very fake name. He doesn’t even bother to conceal the Beretta strapped to his hip.
This is where I leverage the acting skills that got me into Tisch in the first place.
With a friendly smile, I offer, “It’s so good to see you again!” That’s the scripted line, and I’d made sure I memorized it to a tee. Big Sam relies on various forms of safeguards. That’s why, even with burner phones, we never talk openly. That’s why even his draft emails, never transmitted, are worded carefully. That’s why there are several very specific stages to these exchanges.
That’s why he continues doing what he does, smoothly defying the law.
Based on their appearances, these guys are the type to take precautions as well. I hold my head up as the man leads me through the spacious suite, past two little boys distracted with a boxing game on their Wii, and into a bedroom where a blond man in his mid-thirties lays on his king-sized bed, one arm resting behind his head while he surfs the channels.
Unremarkable green eyes finally peel themselves from the screen to take my face in and roll over my body. I want to shudder, but I smile instead and say, “Hello, Eddie.” That’s the name that went with the other picture. Not his real name either, of course.
“Hello, Jane. You a cop?” he asks.
“Isn’t that a made-for-television line?” I shoot back smoothly. It’s kind of disturbing, how easily I can fall into this role when I’m finally in it. I think it’s my strength with improvisation-style acting, coupled with an instinctive need for self-preservation. Whatever it is, I come off as confident and experienced. The two things Sam said I must exude. The two things I am most definitely not. “But if it makes you feel any better . . . no, I’m not a cop. You know who my boss is, Eddie.” Well, he knows who my boss is, but he doesn’t know that my boss is also my stepdad. Under no circumstances does that kind of information ever get revealed, a rule Sam drilled into my head long ago.
Without preamble, Bob seizes my purse and begins his search, flipping through my wallet, past the cheap, dummy driver’s license with the name, “Jane,” that I use for these occasions. A third identity. Another safeguard à la Sam. He doesn’t bother reading the information because he knows as well as I do that it’s a fake. Once done with my wallet, he empties the few other contents within my bag—a pack of gum, a pen, the Glock that Uncle Jimmy armed me with. Just for show. It’s expected, he told me. All the same, Eddie’s brow arches as Bob lays that on a side table. “You know how to use that?”
“What do you think?” Yes, I know how to use a gun. I’ve known since I was sixteen, when Sam casually suggested bringing me with him to the shooting range. As an avid hunter, he likes to keep up with his target practice and he goes every Saturday. I jumped at the chance to spend more time with him, likening it to a father-daughter bonding moment.
I’m an okay shot.
Sam is a killer shot.
Eddie doesn’t answer me. Instead, he offers with a lazy smile, “If it makes you feel any better, we aren’t cops either.”
“Good. I’m glad we’ve settled that,” I mutter dryly. “I hope you’re enjoying your family vacation. It’s quite lovely here. Hot though, this time of year.”
A family vacation. I guess that’s part of the big ruse. Take your family on a vacation. Send the innocent young woman in to deliver the goods. No one pays any attention.
That’s Sam for you. Clever.
I’m wondering how many hotel rooms these poor kids see.
A crooked smirk curls Eddie’s lip. “Yes, the wife is out spending my hard-earned money.”
Satisfied that my purse isn’t bugged, Bob now steps toward me and demands, “Arms up,” in a firm voice. I comply swiftly, my stomach tightening in knots. I focus on a painting that hangs over the bed’s headboard, on the woman dancing in the rain with a red umbrella lying on the sidewalk next to her. Thinking about how much nicer my life would be if I could be dancing in the rain right now.
That thought reminds me that only seven hours from now, I’ll be using my pole-dancing lessons for the greater good of Miami horn dogs.
And for that strange club owner.
I wonder if that will churn my stomach worse than this.
I welcome the distraction that comes with those thoughts as Bob’s hands take their time, working their way up and down my legs, making me take my shoes off. When his fingers start prodding my crotch area, I clench my teeth together tightly, wishing I were allowed to wear jeans. If I had, though, they’d make me take them right off.
I breathe.
Deep, long breaths.
I breathe through the rising discomfort, the panic, the nausea.
The harsh memory.
Sam promised me that that these buyers aren’t lowlifes. They’re smart businessmen—just like him. Interested in nothing more than making money.
That nothing like that would ever happen again.
“Come on, hurry it up,” Eddie barks. Bob’s rough hands squeeze my ass on their way up to my shirt, then under my shirt, where they linger.
Deep breaths.
I am not really here.
This will be over soon.
Though I don’t enjoy this any more than the attention to my lower region, it doesn’t jog the same horrific memories. Still, when a fingertip digs under my bra and starts sliding back and forth over my nipple—the lascivious flicker of a smile touching Bob’s lips—I decide I’ve had enough.
“Sal Pal liked doing that too,” I say in a low, calm voice, fighting the shiver that name still elicits as I level Bob with a meaningful stare.
I see the spark of recognition that comes with it and he pulls his hands away with haste and a sneer. Not surprising. Most people in this business have heard that name. How could they not? The gruesome discovery of Sal’s body made the national news. Reports say that he was still alive when his hands and other vital extremities were cut off.
When Sal did what he did to me that day months ago, he had no idea who I was to Sam. I mean, how could he? He probably figured I was a hooker, looking to make some extra cash. No one in Sam’s position would send his own stepdaughter—a girl he raised and supposedly loved to no end—into a drug transaction.
No one but a crazy man.
Sal certainly had no idea what kind of man Sam really is.
Neither did I. But we both found out rather quickly. That night was the second time I’ve ever run home crying to my stepdad. He remained calm while I, between ragged sobs that I couldn’t control, explained in great detail how Sal felt the need to explore any and all possible—and highly improbable—places for a hidden wire.
Sam gritted his teeth and smoothed his hand over my hair, telling me that I did well, that I’d held up, that completing the drop and then coming to him was the right thing to do. He handed me sleeping pills and waited by my side until I passed out.
A week later, while forcing down a cold piece of pizza in the kitchen in a semi-catatonic state, I watched vacantly as Sal’s ugly face streaked the news station with the taglines “drug-related” and “sending a clear message” making the headlines. The killers didn’t even attempt to hide his remains. They left them strewn along the side of a major highway, with the word respect painted over his chest in his own blood.
Sam wrapped his arms around me and whispered into my ear, as if afraid of being overheard, “I caught him for you, little mouse. He tried to run. But you can’t run from me.” He kissed my forehead then, adding, “No one disrespects me like that. And no one will ever touch you again.”
I remember sitting there, shaking within his arms, inhaling the scent of his Brut cologne—once comforting to me—and noting a few things: his reference to respect for himself, when I was the one who had been violated, and the word again. What “again”? I didn’t want an again. I wanted no more! Like Dominic, his best friend and business partner.
Dominic, who turned up dead.
A few things clicked that day: that I was involved in something way over my head, and that it would be impossible to disentangle myself from it until Sam allowed it. If Sam ever allowed it.
But most importantly, that was the day I realized that I should be terrified of my stepdad.
■ ■ ■
The rental car is waiting for me as I walk out of the hotel with my camera bag—the one that’s so heavy with the payoff that the strap is cutting into my shoulder—and that amazing fake smile plastered to my face.
I was right. This drop was something altogether different. Eddie must have an established network down here if he’s going to move that much heroin. Maybe that means I won’t be called again for a while. That hope makes me sag in my driver’s seat with relief.
As much as I want to race to the exchange point and get rid of all evidence, I can’t risk being pulled over by the cops with a bag full of hundred-dollar bills. So I stick to the speed limit, making the distance to the exchange point—a semi-quiet residential street—unbearably long. My phone reveals a text from Jimmy, telling me it was great seeing me today. That’s code for “the coast is clear.”
I park the car, locking the keys and the money in the trunk. There’s a public park across the road and in that park, I know I will find a Santa Claus–looking man in Birkenstocks, lounging on a bench, reading the paper. Waiting.
But I don’t search for him because that is, under no circumstances, permitted. Following strict protocol, I walk a hundred feet ahead to where my navy-blue Sorento awaits. With my extra set of keys out to unlock it, I climb in and pull away, just as my phone begins ringing.
“Hello?”
“All good?”
I open my mouth but hesitate. Should I tell Sam what happened in there? No . . . Bob is a douchebag, but that was nothing compared to Sal. Plus, I don’t want to be the reason for another brutal dismemberment and murder. I think I have Bob under control now and if he’s the worst that I have to deal with, I can manage.
“All good. Everything went as planned.”
“Good. You’ll be dealing with them a lot more going forward. Eddie has big connections. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The phone goes dead.
A lot more going forward. “How could you do this to me, Sam!” I whisper into the silence. How could he? Even I know that you don’t knowingly put people you love in danger.
It’s in the parking lot outside my apartment that I finally start to shake, my nerves reacting to the mountain of tension that my willpower managed to suppress for far too long. I stopped counting the number of drops a year ago. They were all so small, so easy. But then they started getting bigger, and the thing with Sal happened . . . and now I’m dealing with major deliveries. I know in my gut that they’ll only get harder, more risky.
There was a break from deliveries after the “incident,” during which Sam showered me with Louboutins and pretty dresses and diamond earrings. I thought that was his way of saying he was sorry, that he acknowledged that involving me in his “business” was a bad idea.
