Текст книги "Four Seconds to Lose"

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

I have the bikini top on in seconds and yet I feel the need to curl my arms around myself, to hug my own body. And I wish Ginger were here, because I sure could use her friendly comfort again right now.

By the looks of the black-haired woman in an electric-blue leather outfit glaring at me with a crooked smirk, I’m not going to get it from her. “You’ve never been on a stage before, have you?” Her eyes skim my body as I quickly do up the snaps on my vest.

I take a deep breath to steady the wobble in my voice and appear confident. “Not in Miami. Why?”

Raising one eyebrow at me, she mutters, “No reason.”

A rare sting bites my eyes. I wasn’t good. I was bad. I was up there, on the stage, thinking that I might be doing okay but I wasn’t. I reeked of amateurism. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to burst out in mortified tears before I can control it.

I will not cry in front of her, or anyone else.

“Next up is . . . China!” Terry’s voice calls out over the system as the first notes of “Like a Prayer” comes on. With a smirk, the woman—who I assume is China—brushes past me to take to the stage. I fight the urge to stick my foot out and trip her.

I’m fully dressed again, running down the steps, and making my way out into the bar area, when I realize that I didn’t pick up a single bill off the tip rail. “Shit!” I curse, tears now scorching my eyeballs. I just stripped for free. A trip to hell . . . for nothing!

I blink several times to keep from bawling in the middle of a strip club and, when I’ve refocused, clear-eyed, I see a fistful of money, attached to a tall, attractive blond smiling bouncer, in front of me. “Here . . . You may want this.” I’m not sure if it’s because I just stripped in front of a crowd or the conversation with that bitch—who is now stalking around the stage like she owns the place—or the way this guy is smiling at me, but I just stand and stare at him, utterly speechless.

“I’m Ben.”

Ben is my knight in shining armor.

It takes me a few moments to gather my wits. Ben waits patiently while I do. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me,” I say behind red cheeks, muttering a “thanks” as I accept the wad of bills. “Wow.”

“Yeah, you did well for your first night.” He takes in my frown of confusion and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s just . . .” I cast a sidelong glare at China in time to see her dress hit the ground as she blows a kiss at a short, bald man. She doesn’t waste any time. “I didn’t think I did very well. I didn’t really interact with anyone.” I did exactly zero interaction.

Ben’s head nods in agreement. “You’d definitely make a lot more if you threw out a few winks and smiles. But Penny’s isn’t your typical club, and a lot of these guys will pay for a good show. That was a good show.”

“Thanks, Ben.” I like this guy already. Even though his attention has shifted from the stage to my chest, where it lingers with a small, knowing grin. I cross my arms over my chest and the grin only widens. I realize there’s no point covering myself. He has probably committed to memory exactly what’s beneath my clothes, as has most of the crowd. Mercifully, Ben turns and strolls toward the main bar. I trail him as he leads me to the area where Cain was standing, my head ducked slightly so as not to attract anyone’s attention.

I think I’ll collapse on the floor if someone says a single word to me.

I need a happy verdict tonight. If I’m going to do this, it has to be at Penny’s. My gut tells me so.

Now that I’m off the stage, the place doesn’t seem quite as threatening. The lights aren’t as bright, the music isn’t as distorted, and I’m no longer alone. There are girls everywhere. There must be forty girls on the floor right now. My eyes roam the club to take in the sleek, simple yet sophisticated furniture and fixtures that I didn’t notice earlier. The style, the atmosphere, all exude the bit of Cain that I’ve seen. Classy, masculine, yet with an edge of something uncertain.

Speaking of Cain . . .

I glance around, looking for him in earnest, and catch Ginger’s eye from behind the bar. She gestures at an empty glass and mouths, “Do you want a drink?”

I nod appreciatively. Charlie Rourke is twenty-two years old and legally allowed to drink, after all, so why shouldn’t I take advantage of that? Drinking underage is the least of my law-breaking problems.

“Where’s Cain?” I ask as Ben settles in next to Nate.

“He left.” A tiny smirk touches Ben’s nice lips. “I think he had something to take care of. Something about a five-knuckle shuffle.”

“Oh.” Disappointment drowns out my hopes. He didn’t even stay long enough to hire me. It’s my fault. I didn’t interact with the crowd, after all. Not like the dancer before me, who was doing downward-facing dog in a piece of floss, inches away from a guy’s face. And certainly not like China, who appears ready to peel off her . . . Yup, there goes her thong. I didn’t even take my shorts off and she’s fully nude. I don’t know how a person does that. Maybe she’s a better actress than I am.

A sharp twinge of pain strikes in my chest again, deepening the relentless throb that has only been growing these last few weeks. I’d like to think it’s a bad case of heartburn, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. What am I going to do if I don’t get this job? As much as I hated being up there, as icky as I still feel, I need a new identity like the one that Sam arranged for me—the kind that lets you start completely over, legitimately.

Without that, I’ll be forced to look for under-the-table work. I won’t be able to drive legally, or open a bank account, or rent an apartment, or register for college. Or travel. Without a legitimate card with a name and my face on it, I won’t be able to start fresh and lead a good, normal life. People don’t realize how vital something like a piece of ID is.

If Cain doesn’t hire me, I guess I’ll have to go back to Sin City with my tail between my legs. Just the memory of that hairy, sweaty guy with his pants around his thighs makes my legs clamp shut.

“Here you go, my darling!” Ginger croons, handing me a glass of something. I drain it in one large gulp. “You did great out there!”

“I’m not so sure,” I mutter, pleading with her pretty eyes—heavily lined with smoky blue kohl tonight—to convince me otherwise. “China didn’t seem to think so.”

Ginger’s face scrunches up. “Ignore her. She’s just giving you the gears. She’s a bitch and she doesn’t like new competition.”

I heave a reluctant sigh. Okay, hearing that helps a bit. Ginger’s always doing and saying things to try and make me feel better. I wonder if that means she’s a real friend. I don’t really know. I’ve only ever had superficial friends and casual acquaintances. The ones where people talked to me because I’m pretty and rich. I’ve never had a best friend before, one I could truly talk to about anything. Sam preferred it that way. I guess it all worked out for the best, as there was no one to miss me when I left Long Island. “Do you think Cain will give me the job?”

She shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” Leaning in, she strikes Nate in his rib cage. “Where’s boss man?”

“Out.”

She rolls her eyes. “For . . .”

“For the night.”

“Thanks for elaborating, Nate.” With an exasperated sigh, she offers me a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get an answer tomorrow and I’m sure it will be a positive one.” With a wink, she adds, “You’ll be working the bar with me.”

“Hey.” Ben squeezes in between us, throwing a heavy, muscular arm over each of our shoulders. “You bring her in, Ginger?”

She looks at him warily. “Yeah. Why?”

A curious smile passes over his face. “How do you two know each other?”

He buckles when Ginger’s fist rams into his side. “We’re friends, Ben,” she snarls as she stalks back toward the bar. Ben’s mischievous grin follows her, not disguising his brief appreciation of her ass, quite visible in a tight red dress.

Turning that broad smile back to peer down at me, his arm still around my shoulder, Ben murmurs, “So, Charlie . . .”

This guy is piece of work. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s a player, but that easygoing boyish charm of his somehow makes it kind of cute. And dimples. Deep dimples that pull a temporary shroud over my worry and make me feel like all is right in the world. I wonder if he’s always this flirtatious.

I’m not overly experienced in the flirting department. As abnormal as my life is, my relationship experience probably matches that of the average high school girl. Except where other high school girls were busy crying over unanswered texts and catfighting with empty threats, I just moved on, more focused on theater.

So maybe I’m not average in any regard.

Given my naturally reserved demeanor and how I was raised, I’m usually the one to listen rather than speak. I’ve never pursued a guy. I had a couple of boyfriends in high school. We went out in groups a lot. The times that I was alone with a guy, there wasn’t much need for flirting—or talking, in general.

I lost my virginity to Ryan Fleming—the lead in the high school play—during my junior year. We weren’t even dating when it happened, but we had known each other for months and I knew he liked me. A lot of guys in high school seemed to like me. Ryan said it was because I was “mysterious” and “not annoying.” A lot of girls in high school hated me and I think it’s because of the attention I got from boys. And because I was marked a “snob” on account of my reserve.

Ryan was the first and only guy that I felt anything for. He was sweet and understanding. Very well-mannered. I knew he was a future Ivy Leaguer. We had been dating for two months when he asked me to his senior prom. I happily accepted, already mapping out in my mind how we might make a long-distance relationship work the following year.

Ryan never came to pick me up that night, though. He didn’t answer his phone or my texts to him, either. When I called his house, his mother seemed surprised that I was expecting him. She stammered a little, confused, finally admitting that she thought we had broken up.

I sat on that spiral staircase of our foyer for hours, my shoulders hunched, my mind confused, my heart in dejected pieces.

When Sam arrived home, his face was a mask of calm. He gave nothing away—certainly no worry, no sympathy. Taking a seat next to me, he explained how this was for the best, how I was young and I shouldn’t be tying myself down. I said nothing, simply looking up at him. And then he trained narrowed gray eyes on me as he said, in an even tone, that he wasn’t pleased with the idea of me getting serious with anyone. That he kept his end of the deal by giving me everything I could ever want, by protecting me, by not leaving me alone in this world.

I’ve always had a visceral need to please Sam.

I heard through the grapevine that Ryan did end up at his prom, arriving solo, and leaving with my childhood nemesis, Becky Taylor. When I saw him in the hallway on Monday, he walked past me as if he didn’t even know me, but I couldn’t help notice that his back was rigid, his pace was quick, and his face was a shade of pale I wasn’t used to seeing on him. As if he were terrified by the sight of me.

There was a flicker of a thought back then—that Sam could be involved with this strange twist in Ryan’s behavior—but I quickly dismissed it. I mean, Sam would never allow me to be hurt so much.

Now, though, I can’t help but wonder if Sam was the reason I sat on those steps in a violet dress until midnight, my phone in my hands, miserable.

It took me a while to get over Ryan, but I did, and there were other boys. All short-lived, all fumbling-in-the-dark notches in my senior-year belt. All guys that I dumped the second I felt any hint of emotion. And after what happened with Sal, I haven’t had much interest in anyone.

Now this attractive blond man is ogling me like he wants to teach me all that a teenage boy can’t, and then some.

“Ben! Back off.” Nate’s booming voice pulls Ben’s attention away from my face with a small scowl.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters, sliding his arm off me. But he shoots a wink at me immediately after. Nate doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy listening to something in his earpiece. Something funny, apparently, because a broad smile splits that intimidating face in two. “Hey, Ginger! Your ‘client’ is here.”

I look back in time to see Ginger’s face twist with displeasure. She slams back a shot of something and then slaps a rag down onto the counter as she comes out from behind the bar. Marching past Ben, who’s doubled over with laughter, she points her fingers at the two amused bouncers and says, “You just remember this sacrifice when you’re sucking back a cold Heineken later tonight.” With a pause and a wink, she adds, “Maybe next time you guys can take one for the team.”

That cuts Ben’s laughter off cold. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head fervently. “I only play for one team, and King Kong and that fucking third leg of his are not allowed to join in my game.”

“Feeling inadequate?” Nate responds with a grin and a slap over Ben’s shoulder before his tone once again turns serious. “You better follow her back there for this.”

Casting a lazy salute in my direction, Ben trails Ginger as she grabs her brown-haired dancer friend by the elbow and heads toward the V.I.P. rooms.

There’s no need for me to get comfortable here, not knowing if I’ll be allowed back, so I decide to go home. I prefer being alone, anyway. I take a long, scalding-hot shower so that perhaps I can rid myself of this vile feeling before I get up on that stage and strip again tomorrow.

And the next night.

And the next night.

I hope.

chapter seven

■ ■ ■

CAIN

I grip my steering wheel with white-knuckled force. If I don’t slow down, I’m going to get pulled over or wrap my truck around the guardrail. Acknowledging this, my foot still doesn’t ease off the gas pedal.

She dances just like Penny did.

The style, the grace, the class.

With a mournful smile and her eyes closed. Like she has a secret. Like her mind has disappeared off somewhere, like she’s imagining herself anywhere but on that stage.

It’s a thing of rare beauty, the way her body smoothly swung and dipped and contorted, teasing the men without the need to lie spread-eagled or with her ass in the air like an everyday stripper.

I was hard the second she stepped onto the stage. I was thinking of ways to get her in a private room when her top finally came off.

I’m no better than Rick Cassidy or any of those other vultures.

Finally releasing the breath I’m holding, I lift my foot off the gas pedal, slowing my Navigator to the legal limit. Deep down, I know that’s not true. I don’t condone the girls getting high to loosen themselves up for lap dances and private shows. I don’t take the girls for a test drive when I hire them, and I sure as hell don’t demand late-afternoon blow jobs. The dancers don’t even turn me on anymore. All I see are girls who need a second chance. Girls who need someone to protect them because no one ever has.

The way I should have protected my sister.

And Penny.

But here’s a woman who I want. The second Ben started joking about how her breasts were too flawless to be natural and how he’d be finding out for himself later tonight, I told him he was fired, and I wasn’t kidding. He and Nate exchanged a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-him look and then I guess Ben clued in, because he asked what was going on between Charlie and me. I decided that I needed to leave before I made more of an ass of myself.

So I bolted.

I don’t know if I can handle knowing she’s doing that in my club daily. A temptation that I might not be able to ignore indefinitely because, dammit, this feeling is as addictive as a heroin high.

Hiring her would be a bad idea.

I acknowledge this even as I glance at the stack of papers sitting on my passenger seat. Charlie’s application, her identification, everything I need to forward to my investigator. Just looking at it, at the photocopy of her face, reminds me of my present discomfort. I adjust myself. It’s a little after eleven o’clock. Even with my normal four hours of sleep and a two-hour workout, tonight will be a fucking long night.

I hit the dial button located on my steering wheel.

■ ■ ■

“It’s been a while,” Rebecka purrs, sauntering through my front door. The woman’s voice has a crispness to it that borders on snotty. Until she’s screaming, anyway.

“I’ve been busy,” I manage to get out around a mouthful of cognac.

“I’m glad you called.” Flipping her hands through her jet-black hair, she adds, “Even though it’s late.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“And you will too, soon.” Blood rushes to my cock with her promise. Sharp blue eyes roam my cabinetry as she steps into the kitchen. “Property value has gone up. I could make you a ton of money if you sold now.” It was her real estate agency that sold this condo to me in the first place. Sometimes I think she keeps coming back as much for the business opportunity as the sex. I think she might just be that kind of woman.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her in a dry tone as I watch her turn and stalk toward me slowly, a teasing smile on those red-painted lips of hers.

Her fingers go right for my pants, deftly undoing the button and zipper. “You do that.”

That will be the extent of our conversation for the night.

In seconds, Rebecka is on her knees with those lips wrapped around me, taking my entire length in. With a groan, I set my glass down. Grabbing the back of her head with a hand, I pull her against me. Normally I would never do that to a woman, but Rebecka likes it.

She asks me to do a lot of things other women might not like.

Things that should give me a few hours of distraction before I have to decide what to do about Charlie.

chapter eight

■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

“Charlie Rourke. Twenty-two . . .” Insipid brown eyes slide down my body as he does a slow circle around me. I’m down to nothing but my white thong underwear. He made me undress before any conversation began.

Now, it’s all I can do to pace my breathing and not coil my arms around myself.

With that swollen belly protruding beneath an ill-fitted green-and-white striped golf tee, Rick Cassidy looks like he could be suffering from the impossible: male pregnancy. But it’s not his belly that makes him so unappealing. It’s not even the tuft of hair climbing out the back of his shirt, or his disproportionately skinny legs, or the comb-over, or his misshapen nose, or his porn star mustache.

It’s that phony smile—empty of authenticity, full of bad intentions—that makes my skin want to crawl into my bones. He’s everything I pictured a strip club owner would be. “You’re what . . .” Coming back around to face me, he reaches up to cup my left breast, giving it a rough squeeze. His breath reeks of stale coffee and cigarettes. “A C-cup?”

I swallow my revulsion. Outside of female retail specialists at Victoria’s Secret, I’ve never had to answer that question. And they certainly never groped me while they asked. So long as he focuses his grabby attention above my waist, I can stomach it. “Yes, that’s right.”

“And,” he says as his hand slides down to graze my abdomen with his knuckles, “I’d say maybe a twenty-two-inch waist.” He snorts. “Like your age.”

Fighting the urge to shrink back from him, I distract myself by scanning the cramped office. There’s a small desk off in one corner, covered in folded newspapers and cans of Diet Coke. Most of the space is taken up by a worn brown sectional leather couch. One that looks well used. There’s no way I’m ever sitting on that. In the opposite corner, I find a camera pointing toward us, the red light flashing tells me that it’s recording this “interview.”

Ugh.

“Here,” I say, steadying my hand as I hold out a copy of my résumé. It seems ridiculous, offering him my information now, but I may as well since I’ve gone to all the trouble of making it up. “I worked in Vegas, at—”

“Don’t care,” Rick dismisses with a wave of his hand as he saunters over to the couch. “As long as you can give a good lap dance, you’re hired.” When he turns to face me—revealing a wide grin and a set of crooked front teeth—his fat fingers already have his belt undone and his zipper down.

It only takes another second for those department store khakis to slide down to his knees. His black boxers follow next with the help of his hands, and my wide eyes automatically drop to see the veiny repulsion sticking out. Now I do wince. I can’t help it. Letting himself fall back into the couch with a smile of anticipation, he says, “Come show me how much you want a job at Sin City . . . and lose the panties.”

It’s still dark when I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, struggling for air, shaking with disgust. That’s the second time I’ve had that nightmare.

No, not nightmare. Memory. Because it happened.

Exactly. Like. That.

Thank God it had ended with me throwing on my dress—skipping the bra—and running out the door. But, if Cain doesn’t hire me for this job, the nightmare may very well have a new ending soon. I need this job. It has to be Penny’s.

■ ■ ■

“You’re a skeevy bastard!”

At least I have some entertainment from my neighbors.

If I can piece together the last five days at this place, it sounds like the guy has issues keeping his pants on with any and all willing females and the couple is trying to work their marital problems out with verbal abuse and flying objects. They usually make up by noon. Then I get to listen to them have wild monkey makeup sex. Today sounds more hostile, though, so I think she caught him in another compromising position last night.

I moved to this small studio apartment two weeks ago. With its sunny-colored stucco walls and red tile roof, the building looked approachable. Cozy, even. It was the low rent that won me over, though. The extended-stay hotel was costing thousands per month and, though Sam ensured I had more than enough to cover it, I decided that the whole I-need-enough-money-to-disappear-off-the-face-of-the-earth plan required extreme changes to my lifestyle. So, I quietly moved here. As far as Sam knows, I’m still at the extended stay.

Right now, I really wish I were.

Maybe I went a little too extreme.

Something loud hits the wall next to my bed. I’m picturing a skillet. I’m hoping it’s not a head. I’d call the cops and report it, but I don’t need them on my doorstep asking me any questions or taking my name. So I wait, crossing my fingers that someone else makes the call.

As I do, I check for any responses to my many chat-room inquiries. I know that I need a new identity. I just don’t know the first thing about getting one. The internet seems like the best place to start my research. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Not even a little nudge in the right direction. Aside from one guy telling me that my problems can’t be that bad and another one offering to send me pictures of his penis, I’ve had no response.

And today . . . nothing.

But I have time to figure things out, I tell myself. It’s not as if I have the money right now, anyway.

Dragging myself out of bed to the tune of “you and your filthy dick can go straight to hell!” I stagger to the fridge to pour myself a glass of orange juice, keeping an eye on the liquid as it pours. I learned the hard way that roaches are common in low-rental apartment buildings, that they can get into a poorly maintained fridge, and that you should stick to screw-top jugs versus cartons or you may find brown corpses floating inside.

The day I learned that hard lesson, I also had a mini-meltdown before coming to terms with my situation. I’d rather deal with roaches here than roaches in a federal penitentiary for the next twenty-five to life.

This is a means to an end.

I’m savoring the cold liquid, rejoicing in the small miracle that I feel less vile about last night after some sleep, when a sudden hard rapping sounds against my door. It startles me and I freeze, my mouth full of juice.

No one visits me. No one knows where I live. This must be a mistake.

But what if it isn’t? What if Sam found out that I moved? I don’t think he’ll be happy. He’s always saying how important it is for us to tell each other the truth. Ironic, given that we speak in code and never truly admit to anything. What will Sam do when he finds out? The prospect makes my heart begin racing. On tiptoes, I scurry to the door and peer through the tiny peephole to find a dark-haired man with sunglasses on.

Holy shit.

It’s Cain.

What is he doing here? Crap . . . my application. I gave him this address. I didn’t think he’d use it.

I jump back as his fist rattles the door with another knock, followed quickly by, “Hi, Charlie.” There’s no inflection at the end, so he knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. He must have seen me move past the peephole.

“Uh . . . just a minute!” I call out, my eyes frantically scouring the apartment, my heart—already racing—ready to explode. I catch my reflection in the closet-door mirror.

“Shit!”

I don’t have a stitch of makeup on and my hair is a straight, matted mess after my shower last night. He’ll see exactly what I look like, with the added bonus of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t want him to see the real me. He needs to see Charlie. Confident, well-put-together twenty-two-year-old pole-dancing diva Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. But I also can’t leave him standing out there for half an hour while I hide myself behind a mask of smooth curls and heavy kohl liner.

I can at least get dressed, I note, taking in my thong and tiny white tank top. Not that he hasn’t seen me in less. Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a more presentable tank top, I take a second to hide the assortment of wigs I use for drops under my sheets. With one last cringe at the state of my apartment, I finally open the door.

Damn. Cain looks different. Not that he didn’t look good before, but he looks younger today—more relaxed—dressed in dark blue tailored jeans and a white golf shirt, untucked, made of that thin material that hangs so nicely off curves and muscles. And Cain has a lot of nice curves and muscles. His hair is combed back but a little messier, with wispy ends circling out around his neck.

I can’t peg his age. He’s one of those guys who could be twenty-five . . . or thirty-five. There’s a hardness in his jaw and sharpness in his gaze that you don’t get with youth. Plus, he’s a successful businessman who runs a popular strip club. He has to be in his mid-thirties.

Whatever age he is, Cain is hot.

Sam was twenty-five years older than my mom when she married him. He didn’t look anything like Cain does, but she certainly found something extremely appealing in him. Hopefully something aside from his money. I have only faint memories of my mother, but I do remember her smiling a lot after Sam came into our lives. I wonder if she’d still be smiling. I wonder if I’d even be in this situation, had she not died.

I’ve never been attracted to an older man before, but I think Cain is the kind of “older guy” I could be with. Dating Cain is not on the table, though. Right now, I don’t know if having Cain as my boss is even on the table.

I am certainly not on the table, given my need to stay under the radar until I can vanish in a few months.

I need to stop thinking about Cain and tables.

I can feel his stare at me from behind those sunglasses. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now. I know I look completely different. Younger. I hope he doesn’t start questioning my identity . . .

Shit!

My eyes. I forgot to put in my contacts.

I exhale ever so slowly. It’s too late to do anything about it now. Maybe he won’t notice. He is a guy, after all.

Cain slides his sunglasses off and settles those coffee-colored eyes on me, offering a warm smile. The first one I’ve seen from him. “I hope you don’t mind me swinging by.” Lifting the Starbucks tray he’s carrying, he adds, “Cold and hot options. Ginger said you were a caffeine junkie?”

He’s certainly much less intense than he was the first night I met him. His voice is softer, too. And it’s sweet of him to ask Ginger about my preferences. I can’t help but be suspicious that this coffee buffet is his way of lessening the blow that I suck as a stripper and don’t have a job. That I’ll be heading back to Sin City or some other seedy club to perform lewd acts for management. Ginger confirmed that Rick’s not the exception in the sex trade industry. Maybe Cain would still let me bartend, at the least.

Regardless, I can’t keep him standing here while I play mute. My tongue—temporarily frozen—starts working again. “Yes. I am. Please,” I clear my throat and step back. “Come in.”

He edges past me through the door and I catch that fresh woodsy scent that I first inhaled in his office. It’s pleasant. More pleasant than mine, probably, given that I just spent the night in bed, perspiring. “I’m sorry. The air-conditioning unit broke down and the landlord hasn’t fixed it yet. It’s kind of hot in here.” “Kind of hot” isn’t the right description. It’s stifling.

Cain’s eyes roam over my space as if taking inventory. There’s not much to catalogue. I rented it furnished, which entails a simple two-person folding table, a puke-orange love seat made of a weird vinyl-like material, and a bed that’s called a double but is more like a twin. I’m not the neatest person in the world but, aside from a few shirts strewn over a chair and a hamper of washed but unfolded laundry, everything’s put away. My kitchen is spotless. Not a crumb. That’s more a necessity of survival than tidy habits. It’s me against the roaches, and one open bag of bread will secure their victory. I’ve even strategically placed a can of Raid on my counter as a warning to them.

It’s not really working.

Cain’s focus settles on my hastily made bed for a moment and a thought hits me. Is this where he gives me the “if you want the job . . .” ultimatum that the dirtbag from Sin City did? Maybe that’s his M.O.—in the privacy of my own apartment instead of his place of business? Maybe he lives by that “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy.