Текст книги "Four Seconds to Lose"

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

chapter ten

■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

“You drive a brand-new Sorento and you live in the slums?” Ginger’s pretty face twists up in bewilderment from my passenger side. She climbed in the second I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, behind Cain. Her hair is styled poker-straight and smooth today, reaching all the way to her chin in multicolored stripes.

“I inherited it.” The lie slides off my tongue so easily. It’s the same lie I gave to Cain when he helped load my belongings into the back. I could tell by the blank stare that he might not buy it, but he didn’t call me out.

Thank God Sam didn’t send me here with another Volvo—this whole charade would be that much harder to sell. Then again, I imagine a Volvo wouldn’t have lasted one night in the other apartment’s building’s parking lot. The truth is I almost sold my SUV to bank the money. But that could get back to Sam through Jimmy, and it would raise questions. I figure I can get about twenty grand on its sale the second I’m ready to leave.

My eyes roll over the white-stucco apartment building in front of us. Despite the bars on the bottom-floor windows, it looks nice enough and well maintained. Nothing fancy, but hopefully not a place where I have to worry about getting shot, standing in the middle of my studio.

I think I did a pretty good job of hiding my emotions from Cain today. But, considering I carry a constant feeling of threat on my shoulders nowadays, I don’t think this was as shocking for me as it would be for someone else. Either way, I didn’t want to appear vulnerable in front of my new boss, so I did my best to focus on making light of the situation while I iced the bump on his head.

“So, you live here?”

“A bunch of us do. Me, Mercy, Hannah, China.”

“China?” I repeat, tossing a sidelong glance at Ginger. “The China?” The viper who almost made me cry last night?

She snorts. “Yeah, the one and only. Bad news is she’s a bitch. Good news is she’s fine if you get on her good side.” That’s Ginger. She’s blunt and snarky, but she always tries to keep things positive.

“Does Cain live here, too?”

“Cain?” Ginger snorts. “No way. He lives somewhere downtown. But he owns the building. Bought it two years ago.”

“He owns this building,” I repeat, my tone flat. “And four of his strip club employees live here.”

“Five, now,” Ginger corrects with a grin.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I’ll be stripping for him and living under his “roof”? If I don’t get fired for providing false references, that is. What the hell? In my haste to get away from my domineering drug-dealing stepfather, have I allowed myself to be acquired by a pimp?

Ginger seems oblivious. “I know it’s a little strange. Cain is a little strange. But you’ll be my neighbor now!” She lets out an excited squeal. “We can have coffees in the mornings with Mercy and go to the gym together. You can be my guinea pig for test recipes.” Ginger is taking culinary classes but refuses to eat anything she makes, for fear of turning into a portly chef, she says. “We can drive to work together, too! I hear you’ll be working with me every night.” With a raised brow, she adds, “That’s a lot of Ginger time for you. I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

Oh, man. Laying low is hard to do when you have people watching your every move . . . Shit . . . I can’t have anyone seeing me heading to a drop, in disguise. That’s how questions begin. I can’t have people asking questions.

None of them can ever know what I’m into.

I should have kept my roach-infested apartment, but Cain made it clear that wasn’t an option. He walked me to the superintendent and, after watching them have a heated conversation about bullet holes and appalling conditions, followed by threats about having the place condemned—I don’t know if Cain can make that happen, but he sure as hell sounded convincing—I handed in my keys and the landlord handed me back my security deposit.

I watch as Cain’s lean body slides out of his driver’s seat, with his phone to his ear. I don’t know whether to be thankful or angry with the way things played out today.

Or worried.

Sure, the fact that I might get a night’s sleep without having to leave the lights on is more than enticing. But . . . why is he doing all this? I now have a job and what I assume will be a better place to live. What will he want in return? Everyone wants something.

Sam sure does.

And Cain is doing it all despite not knowing anything about me. Except that I have a gun, which he didn’t even say a word about.

“He sure likes to get involved with his employees’ lives,” I say out loud.

Ginger’s gaze locks on her boss. Now, our boss. “Yeah, he tends to.” She pauses. “But not in a bad way. He’s a good guy,” she assures me. “A little different, sometimes. Reclusive. Charming, occasionally. And he can be moody, but who wouldn’t, with all the shit he deals with.”

I have to agree with her. I caught rare glimpses of a joking, playful Cain earlier today, with his soft chuckles. They were few and far between but when he loosened up, I couldn’t deny there was a magnetic pull. Most of the time, though, he seems stressed—his back rigid, his keen eyes boring into me as if scouring for answers.

I watch him now as he begins to pace, one hand deftly adjusting the collar of his new shirt while he talks. By the deep wrinkles in his forehead, he doesn’t look impressed with the conversation. Maybe it’s my background check.

Not good.

When I came back from grabbing that shirt from his Navigator—a spotless, well-maintained vehicle that smelled fresh and clean, like him—I found him standing next to my bed and I immediately panicked. I thought he had discovered the wigs I’d hidden. But then I was distracted by the fact that my sheets were in his hand. The 1200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that I had to buy because cheap sheets make my skin itch and keep me up half the night, paranoid that bugs are scurrying all over me.

And he was shirtless.

And his other hand was on his groin.

That was a super-awkward moment.

Awkward because I didn’t know what he was doing, and awkward because I instantly wanted him to offer me the same ultimatum that Rick had. At that very moment, I would have submitted.

“And he’s intense,” Ginger says, cutting into my thoughts. She pauses. “And principled. Cain marches to a different beat. I mean, I’ve heard the kinds of things that some of these girls try on him, and he never takes the bait.”

“Never?” I feel my face tightening with doubt as I gaze out at the tall, dark form again, still on the phone. “Bullshit.” I don’t believe it. It doesn’t matter, because he can do whatever—or whoever—he wants.

“No . . .” Ginger’s soft chuckle fills my truck. “Ben jokes that Cain must have a malformed, Hobbit-sized penis, because there’s no way any man can own a strip club and have the pick of the litter—Ben’s words, not mine—and not take advantage.”

“That’d be unfortunate,” I mumble. The very idea of Cain with a malformed, Hobbit-sized penis leaves my insides heavy with disappointment. I feel Ginger’s curious green eyes on me as I ask, “Has anyone ever seen him with a woman?”

“Nope. Well, maybe Nate, but good luck getting any dirt out of him. That guy is like Cain’s own private Chinese wall.”

I could see Cain preferring a sophisticated, suit-wearing woman with a pinched nose and a snotty attitude, who only ever has sex in a bed with the lights off. Who he would never bring around to a strip club. But, then, why would he own one in the first place? And why would she be okay with him owning it? Unless she doesn’t know that he owns a club.

And may or may not be a pimp.

All these conflicting thoughts swirl around my head, none of them fitting the man I see before me. Unless . . . An even more disheartening thought pops into my head. “Do you think Cain’s gay?”

Ginger’s derisive snort and confident head shake tells me she doesn’t think so, and a sigh of relief escapes me before I can help myself. “He may not ever touch the girls, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t caught him adjusting himself when one of them walks by and accidently,” she uses air quotes, “brushes her ass into his groin.” She pauses. “He doesn’t fire them for it, though some of them deserve to be tossed out. I’ve actually never seen him fire a dancer, not once. Oh,” she scowls. “I lied. There was one. But that girl was dealing drugs out of Penny’s. Cain has a huge issue with drugs. I think it’s one of the reasons he hates Rick Cassidy so much. We don’t know if Rick’s the one supplying the girls with drugs or if he’s got some slimeball dealer working with him, but all the girls that go in to Sin City seem to come out addicts.”

Heat crawls up my neck and ears and I feel a light sheen form on my forehead.

Ginger continues, though, unaware of my rising discomfort. “There was this girl—Mindy—who worked at Penny’s a few years back. She was super nice, and she worked hard. But then she started dating this local pot dealer. Complete douchebag. Cain wouldn’t even let him in the parking lot to pick her up. Sure as hell wasn’t allowed inside Penny’s. For weeks, Cain and Nate were driving Mindy home at night because she didn’t have her license and Cain didn’t like the idea of her riding the bus at that hour.”

There’s a long pause, during which Ginger says nothing while studying her green fingernail polish, and I finally have to prod her. “So what happened?”

I get a dismissive flip of her hand. “Oh, Cain finally got through to her and she dumped the guy. It was around the same time that he ended up busted by the cops.” She grins. “All those dirtbags tend to get what’s coming to them when Cain is involved.” Ginger’s perfectly shaped eyebrows pull together. “My point is, don’t worry. Short of breaking the law, your job is safe.”

Oh, Ginger . . . if you only knew. Would Cain spend weeks trying to talk me out of my crooked life? Doubtful. Would he fire my ass in a second? Likely. Would he go as far as to make sure that I end up behind bars, where I belong?

Being around someone like Cain is sounding more dangerous to my future by the second.

“Anyways, Penny’s is his life. He practically lives there. He makes a point of not watching the dancers perform and he doesn’t sleep with the staff. He stays in his office when the club is open. He’s a quiet, private guy who doesn’t say a lot, but you can tell he has a lot to say.” Her little nose scrunches up. “You know what I mean?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah, I know.” I could tell by the way his eyes stayed glued to my face that those wheels were constantly turning. Even now, as Cain seems to be engrossed in conversation, his hand continues rubbing his neck, over that tattoo. “Who’s Penny?”

“Oh . . .” Ginger’s face falls. “A dancer who worked for him. She was killed by her fiancé in his first club.”

“Jeez,” I mutter. I knew there was a story behind that. A man doesn’t name a bar after a woman and tattoo her name on his neck for no reason. “Did Cain have a thing with her?”

“No one really knows what happened.” I can feel Ginger’s eyes drilling into the side of my face as I continue to watch Cain. “Look at me, Charlie.” I do, and I find that she’s turned in her seat to face me square on. Her mouth opens to say something, but she frowns suddenly. “You’re impossible to read, do you know that?” There’s a mixture of awe and annoyance in her tone that makes me smile. I know I am. I like that I am. Sam has always said that I have an incredible poker face. Now, I merely give Ginger a “can’t help it” shrug.

Rolling her eyes, she switches back to the topic at hand. “Listen, I know Cain is very appealing and the attention he gives you can make you feel really good about yourself. And confused about him and his intentions. I’ve seen a lot of women come through Penny’s and start thinking that there’s something there. They start hoping that there’s something there.” Ginger’s voice takes on this calm, authoritative tone. “There isn’t, Charlie. He’s just a really kind man who goes out of his way to help his employees. It’s that simple.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not about to throw myself at him.” I’m leaving in a few months anyway. There’s no point complicating my life with a guy that I’ll have to lie to daily and walk away from eventually. Still, as strange as he is, and as wary as I am of his intentions, there’s an unexpected blip of disappointment in my belly at her warning.

“Good girl.” Ginger snorts, as if remembering something. “And ignore whatever you hear around Penny’s. Those girls talk shit all the time. They’re worse than guys, I swear. Apparently I get to make the schedule because I give Cain blow jobs every night before my shift.” She rolls her eyes but then laughs.

“And . . .”

Her cat eyes narrow. “And what?”

“And you’ve never wanted anything to happen with him?”

“He’s not my type.” Her brow furrows and she looks at me oddly, hesitating for a moment before adding, “A little bit too much penis for me.”

Of all the answers I had expected from Ginger, I hadn’t expected that one. But it makes complete sense. I feel my mouth shift into an “O” shape as I search for a response. She has never mentioned her preferences. Not at the gym, not at lunch, not out shopping, when I swapped clothes in front of her . . . Uh-oh. Was she checking me out?

I don’t know what to say now. It doesn’t matter to me—I just don’t know how to respond. Finally, all I can come up with is, “I’ve never had a gay friend before.”

By the way her face splits into a wide grin, she’s okay with that reaction. “And now, when you feel the need to defend your pro–gay rights stance with some lame statement like, ‘I have a gay friend,’ you won’t be lying anymore.” She winks as she swings the car door open and slides out. “And, by the way, I was never checking you out in the change room . . .” She rolls her eyes. “All you straight chicks think the same thing.”

I chuckle as I climb out of my car.

In the back of my truck are two suitcases, a box with canned food, and a garbage bag with my nice towels and 1200-thread-count sheets. That’s all I have in Miami. I made Cain leave my apartment to get me a fresh coffee while I quickly packed everything up. I didn’t want him seeing all those stupid wigs. They’re hard to explain.

“Let me take that.” Cain sneaks up on me from behind, one hand resting over my shoulder as he reaches in to pull the box out. It’s a platonic gesture, and I’m still in knots with confusion over my new boss, but I feel the chill course through me. He carries it toward the gated entrance as I trail behind, studying his arms as they strain beautifully against the weight.

Ginger opens the gate and leads us through, where a middle-aged balding man in plaid shorts and a faded T-shirt that stretches over a protruding belly meets us. Cain steps in and places the box on the ground so he can clasp hands with the man.

“Well, well.” The man’s face shifts from Cain to me and back to Cain. “Good seeing you again.”

Cain’s lips curl up into a charming smile. “You as well, Tanner.”

“Yeah . . .” Tanner pauses for only a second before saying, “And who do we have here?” He settles his lopsided eyes on me. “You’re the one looking for a place?”

A quick flash to Cain tells me he’s watching me keenly. “I suppose I am.”

“Well.” Tanner’s feet start shuffling along the concrete path. I guess that’s our cue to follow him as he passes the hibachi, the smell of cooking meat reminding me that it’s early afternoon and I haven’t eaten yet. “It’s a good thing Cain called when he did,” Tanner calls over his shoulder. “I was just about to offer this place to someone else.”

“Looks good out here, Tanner,” Cain calls out, his eyes drifting over the small courtyard where it’s clear someone has been working hard to maintain some semblance of a garden, despite the oppressive heat and drought.

Tanner stops for a moment, his hand lifting to scratch his belly absently as he takes the space in. “Yeah, Livie comes here once a week to kick my butt into gear,” he grumbles, but it’s followed by a crooked smile, so I know he’s not really annoyed by this Livie person. “I don’t know what’ll happen when she leaves for college at the end of summer.”

“She’s hired me as the replacement butt-kicker,” a sweet female voice calls out. We all turn to see a pretty blond woman in a white eyelet sundress slowly taking a set of steps from the second floor, one hand on the railing, the other resting on the small bump on her belly. It’s hardly noticeable but, by the way she’s cradling it, I’m guessing she’s pregnant.

Cain doesn’t hesitate, walking swiftly to the bottom of the steps to meet her, his arms held wide. She throws her arms around his neck and practically leaps into a hug. It’s obvious they’re close. How close, I have to wonder.

I don’t have to wonder whether this woman danced at Penny’s. Based on her ridiculously huge fake breasts, it’s a safe bet to assume she did.

I also don’t have to wonder if Cain and I will ever be this close, because I know that I won’t be here long enough to develop that kind of friendship.

“That’s Storm,” Ginger confirms. “She used to live here. We tended bar together a lot.” She steps forward to give the woman a hug. When she peels back, Ginger’s hands instantly move to the woman’s belly. “You’re starting to show!”

Storm’s ponytail wags as she dips her head in a giggle. “I know! Much earlier than I did with Mia. I’m going to be a whale by my third trimester.”

“You look as beautiful as always, sweetheart,” Cain says. The beaming grin hasn’t left his face. “What are you doing here?”

The happy smile is transformed into one of sadness as sorrow enters her tone. “Dropping off some soup for Mrs. Potterage.” Storm sighs. “She’s not doing well. The cancer has spread. I just figured that I’d help however I can, after how much she helped me with Mia.” There’s a pause and then Storm sticks her hand out in my direction, introducing herself formally. “Hi, I’m Nora. But everyone still calls me Storm.”

I accept it with a polite nod. “Charlie.”

“Charlie,” she repeats, her bright blue eyes twinkling. Really, there’s nothing not beautiful about this woman. From her perfectly straight white teeth, to her glowing skin, to her wide, heartwarming smile, to the fact that she’s delivering soup to a dying woman.

“Looks like you’re moving in here?” She eyes my things, still sitting by the gate. Aside from the clothes I desperately need to dry clean—pricey designer dresses that Sam bought for me as going-away gifts—everything is running through a scalding laundry cycle before a single thread enters my new apartment.

“Into 1-D,” Tanner answers for me.

Storm’s eyes widen with excitement as she looks at the super. “Trent’s old place!”

“Yes, but vastly improved since that joker lived there,” Tanner teases.

She shakes her head and laughs. “Wait till I tell him.” By their easy banter, I can tell he must have liked having her as a tenant. That doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure Tanner doesn’t complain much about having a bunch of hot strippers living in his building.

Reaching up to squeeze Cain’s elbow, Storm murmurs, “Make sure you swing by. Soon. Everyone would love to see you.”

“I’ll be there for the wedding,” Cain confirms.

Storm’s shaking head tells me she disapproves. “Not soon enough.”

Cain’s head dips as he chuckles at her. It’s such a boyish gesture and so odd on him. I like seeing it. Storm must too, because she starts to giggle and squeezes his arm. Again. They touch each other an awful lot.

“Will you be working at Penny’s, Charlie?” Storm asks.

I nod.

“Well . . .” Her hand—again—slides up and down Cain’s arm. “I can say that you’ve lucked out. Cain’s a dream boss.”

I feel the heat crawl up my cheeks. I’d gladly replace my nightmares with dreams of Cain. But the words dream and Cain in one sentence stir nervousness in my stomach to the point where I’m afraid anything that comes out of my mouth will sound inappropriate. So I simply press my lips together and offer her a smile.

“All right already.” Cain shakes his head, with a look of sheepishness that just doesn’t fit his typical facade.

With a wink, Storm announces, “Well, I need to pick Mia up from her play date and start dinner. Enjoy the new place, Charlie.”

“I’m sure I will.” I watch her skirt and her hair swish in tandem as she strolls away, humming softly, thinking how nice she really is. That could be me, in a few years. In my new life.

With that, Tanner leads us into 1-D, jingling a large set of keys to get the door open. As I step in, I’m immediately hit with a blast of cool air and I can’t help but tip my head back and close my eyes, sighing.

Cain chuckles next to me. “A new owner bought the building two years ago and spent some money improving things, including retrofitting for central air.”

I feel myself frown without meaning to. A new owner? “I thought you own this complex?”

A sharp glare thrown Ginger’s way tells me that maybe she wasn’t supposed to mention that to me. Hmm . . . interesting. Another layer of mystery to the already puzzling Cain.

“The place was just remodeled,” Tanner cuts in, opening the oven and peering in as if expecting something inside. The apartment is pristine from what I can see—the energy-efficient labels are still on the appliances and the air smells of fresh paint and carpet fiber. I highly doubt any residents of the six-legged variety are allowed to stay.

“Jeez, when is my place being renovated?” Ginger chirps, poking her head into what looks like the bathroom, based on the tile wall beyond the door. “I think I need to swap with Charlie. You know, seniority rules.”

This place may as well be the Ritz-Carlton, compared to the dive I relegated myself to for the past month. The very idea that I don’t have to imagine a line of roaches doing the conga along my kitchen counter while I sleep lets the tension in my back slide out. But . . . “I think this place is a bit out of my price range.” A self-induced below-poverty-level one; but one, all the same.

Cain settles a sharp gaze on me. “How much was your last place?”

I hesitate. “Six fifty.”

“Huh, what a coincidence. Same here. Right, Tanner?” I almost laugh at the deadpan manner in which he says that.

“Yes, sir,” Tanner confirms too quickly, averting his attention to the light-switch panel on the wall.

That’s a load of bullshit, if I’ve ever heard one. Dear God . . . I’ve managed to get myself a pimp. Of course. I knew Ginger’s ravings about this guy were too good to be true.

Tanner holds up a key on a ring. “The place comes furnished. There’s a bed, couch, and kitchen table arriving shortly. All new. Part of the renovation.” Sure it is. “Thanks, Tanner. This is . . . perfect,” I finally offer with a gritted-tooth smile. It’s not Tanner’s fault. He works for a pimp, too.

He grunts in response and then proceeds toward the door. “Gotta get back to my burgers.” It’s a valid excuse to leave, and yet I’m getting the impression that the awkward man is more anxious for solitary time than he is about his food.

Cain turns to look at me, a pained expression on his face. “I’m sorry about earlier. I just couldn’t in good conscience leave you there. This place is cleaner. Safer.”

I bite my lip to stay quiet.

Cleaner and safer for whom? My future clientele? Could Ginger be flat-out lying to me? She doesn’t strip, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t secretly sell herself. Look what I do, secretly! At 650 bucks a month in rent, Cain’s going to want compensation somehow, and apparently it won’t be by having sex with him. Ginger could be lying about that too, though. Or just oblivious?

Something doesn’t add up. I guess I’ll have to take this day-by-day. I have a job at Penny’s and a decent apartment. For now. I’m going to make a lot of money, fast. I’ll stay, but when the first customer shows up at my door, I’m out. Until then, I have to stick to my plan.

■ ■ ■

“How about over here?” Ginger says, her hands gesturing to the long wall in my apartment. The living room is small and yet she’s managed to make the movers lift, drag, and drop the soft, gray microfiber couch to five different spots. All it has taken her are a few winks, “my-what-big-arms-you-have” touches, and a slice of her homemade peach cream pie. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she is seconds away from asking the blond guy back to her apartment to “move” her bed. I’m certain, by the way he’s dogging her around, that he’s hoping for the same thing. The woman is almost as deceptive as I am.

Ginger hasn’t left my side all afternoon. She insisted on going grocery shopping with me, doing laundry with me, waiting on furniture with me, unpacking with me. Either she’s lying and she really is hoping I swing her way or that whisper I caught from Cain to her earlier was a directive to not let me out of her sight.

I follow the movers, begrudgingly handing them a thirty-dollar tip on account of Ginger’s demands, and stay a few minutes to look out over what she told me is called the commons. Beads of sweat instantly form on my skin from this crazy Miami summer heat, and I remind myself to be thankful for the air conditioner in my apartment. It’s almost six and Tanner is out there—his plaid shorts showing off those knobby knees—spraying a flaming hibachi with a two-handed children’s water gun. He looks absolutely outrageous but quite content. The air smells of burgers again. I’m guessing Tanner is one of those bachelors with a very uncreative meal plan comprised of grilled meat.

I’m still watching him when an apartment door across the way opens and a dark-haired man strolls out.

My breath hitches.

Cain.

He doesn’t look my way, so he doesn’t see me as he strides quickly past Tanner with a half-salute, seemingly in a rush to get out of there. When I glance back to the apartment he left, I find China leaning in her doorway, in the tiniest, tightest pair of short shorts and tank top, watching his retreating back, her hair tousled, a secretive smile softening her features.

She turns to go back into her apartment but stops, her stony eyes locking on mine. A wide smirk of satisfaction spans her face and I assume she has figured out that I saw Cain leave her apartment. Stretching her arms over her head, she slowly turns and saunters back inside. I’m instantly hit with an image of a cat, gratified after devouring a can of salmon and ready to mosey over to bathe in a patch of sun.

“Never, my ass, Ginger,” I mutter. I’m pretty sure Cain was her can of salmon.

China may be unfriendly and arrogant, but she’s probably very talented. I’m not surprised and yet I can’t ignore the heaviness of disappointment, knowing that Cain would be interested in someone like her.

“Hey! Why do you have all these wigs?” I hear Ginger call out. I deny my panic from surfacing as I spin around and stalk back in, finding her prancing around with my long black wig on her head.

Bloody hell! At least she hasn’t found my gun yet. “I’m in theater. Those are props,” I answer simply.

“Huh . . . theater. You know, I have a thing for dark-haired women,” she says with an exaggerated wink.

I sigh.