by Amy Waeschle
Quinn arrived before her, so she met him in line. He was dressed in faded chino shorts, sneakers, and a pale blue button-down, his hair was still wet from his shower, and smelling like cloves.
“Interesting turn of events,” he said as they shuffled forward in line.
She knew he was talking about the burner phones. “I just met with him.”
Quinn arched an eyebrow. “I thought maybe I might see him this morning…”
“He didn’t stay,” Cassidy said, cutting him off.
Her abrupt tone didn’t seem to faze him. “Hey, whatever, but you know it’s cool with me…”
“It’s not like that,” she said with difficulty.
They placed their order, a bagel sandwich for her and a nut-encrusted sticky bun for Quinn, then stepped to the side to wait for their coffees.
“Did something happen?” he asked. “Your forehead’s doing that thing.”
“What thing?” she huffed.
“That thing that tells me something is bothering you.”
Cassidy tried to make her forehead relax, but it was like her brain couldn’t find the right strings to pull, so instead, she tried rubbing it.
“See?” he said.
Cassidy drew her thoughts together. “He’s got a job to do, and so do I.”
Quinn nodded sagely. “Okay.” The barista called Quinn’s name. After picking up their drinks, they moved to an outside table.
He slipped his sunglasses on. “I know it’s tough,” he said with a tightness in his face that made her squirm. “And this situation is complex.”
A young couple with a baby tucked into a stroller passed by, the father leading a large black dog on a leash.
“But he cares about you.”
Cassidy felt like throwing her coffee against a wall, just to hear it splatter. “Then why is he treating me like some pawn?”
“I’m sure it’s not intentional.”
She shrugged off her doubts. “He says I have to stay in town,” she said to change the subject.
“Good,” Quinn replied, cutting off a bite of his sticky bun. “We can spend some more time together. Once you start your job in the fall, you won’t come up for air until Christmas.”
She decided not to tease him about how often he’d been out at night since her arrival. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself?
“Speaking of time together, you think he’ll invite you to meet at Drift later?” he asked.
“I haven’t heard from Bo, so I’m not sure what’s happening.” She watched him frown into his coffee. “Are you nervous?”
“Some,” he admitted. “But it’s also kind of a rush.”
She swiped a blob of cream cheese from the edge of her bagel.
“I guess it’s like what acting feels like.”
Cassidy nodded, though she had only experienced the other side of the thrill—the terror.
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you, though. I wasn’t crazy about the way he put his arm across your shoulders.”
Cassidy had the urge to shake off Bo’s imaginary arm draped across her. “I just have to string him along long enough for him to get himself in trouble.”
“I’ll do my best to make it swift.”
“But be careful,” she said. “If he thinks it’s a setup…”
“Don’t worry,” he said, though they both knew those words held no weight.
After parting ways with Quinn, Cassidy returned to his apartment and dove into work mode, making sure to keep both of her phones nearby and turned on. Which made fully engaging in her tasks difficult. She struggled to focus, but kept thinking of Quinn. He was meeting Bo in the late afternoon at Drift to bring him samples. Special Agent Harris’s team had already placed listening devices in Quinn’s office and the delivery bay. Thankfully, he wouldn’t need the body recorder this time.
The time of Quinn’s meeting approached, and Bo didn’t call. By early evening, Cassidy had managed to complete the edits on a paper that was full of holes. Likely, she had taken out her frustrations on the authors, but whatever. She had zero tolerance for lazy data analysis, so they deserved her wrath. As well, she had spent some of her startup money on several pieces of equipment that she needed for her lab, arranged for a housesitting service to move her trash bins and water her lawn until she could return, and processed several hundred emails. Meaning that when she drifted out to the patio with a glass of ice water for a breath of fresh air, she missed Bo’s text.
Playing pool tonight @Legends. Come by.
A sickly pulse of nausea washed into her stomach.
She used the burner phone to notify Bruce, then waited, her hands gripping the railing. Below her, a gray-haired man in a baggy pair of shorts and no shirt was helping a woman in a shiny blue car work her way out of a tight parking spot.
Don’t reply yet, Bruce wrote.
Cassidy returned inside, her skin itchy and her feet restless. She texted Quinn while she waited.
How’d it go?
It’s linens. It went fine.
But did anything happen?
Yes. Best I tell you later.
Sudden warmth flushed through her as she tried to read between the lines. Maybe things would move quickly, and she could finally go home.
Bo texted her again. ??
She waited for Bruce to tell her it was okay to reply, but it didn’t come. Annoyed, she typed out her reply: Yes
Eighteen
“I told you to wait,” Bruce’s voice rang in her ear.
“You also told me to play along,” Cassidy replied, fuming.
Bruce exhaled a long sigh. “I’m sorry I made you wait. But I was checking the location to make sure it’s safe.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“Yes, as far as we can tell.”
Cassidy tapped the phone’s speaker function and placed her phone on her nightstand. She flipped through her meager collection of clothing, finally settling on a soft grey V-neck t-shirt and a pair of fancy jeans Emily had insisted she buy during one of their Mission District thrift shop hunts. She took a pull from the glass of liquid courage she’d poured after her shower.
“I guess you’ll just have to try to relax and be good company.”
A twinge of nerves settled in her gut. “But also, don’t let him get me alone, is that right?”
“Correct.”
She tugged on the jeans, shutting the drawer with more force than necessary, then pulled on the shirt, scooping her wavy hair free of the collar.
She sat on the bed and cradled her glass. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“We’ll be watching. If we think you’re in danger, we’ll move.”
She sipped her drink, her hand shaking. “Okay.”
During her ride, which she shared with a young woman dressed in scrubs, she looked out the window while sliding her four-leaf clover pendant side to side. Would Bo try to confide in her tonight? Or was she just some decorative addition to his entourage?
When she stepped through the entrance of the billiards club, the wide-open space glowed green from the felt on the many tables, lit from above by rectangular low-hanging fixtures. Players of various sizes and ages moved about the tables, trading shots, and the sound of the balls hitting and clunking into pockets filled the room. She scanned the groups until she located Bo’s in the corner to her right, farthest from the bar, a television above them broadcasting what looked like a track and field meet. Two Asian men wearing jeans and t-shirts played a game of pool at one table, and Bo and another man played at the neighboring one. Bo’s partner, a Caucasian who wore his ball cap backwards, along with a wife-beater t-shirt and a pair of long, forest green cutoff shorts, returned to his perch next to a woman whose shiny black hair was secured in a twist with red chopsticks.
Cassidy stood debating—get a drink first or approach Bo first—when Bo met her gaze. He leaned over the table to line up a shot. His stick smacked the ball forcefully, sending what she assumed was the appropriate one into the opp
osite side pocket. He stood, a smug look in his eyes. He moved to take his next shot while his partner spoke close to the woman’s ear. The woman crossed her legs and tapped two red straws into her drink.
Cassidy made her way to Bo’s table, the sound of smacking billiard balls and conversation mixing with the buzz of rock music playing from overhead speakers.
“You play?” Bo asked, meeting her at the corner of the table while his partner lined up his shot.
“Not for a while,” she said, wishing she had gone to the bar first. She sensed the Asian woman on the stool watching her and felt her hackles bristle.
“I’m about ready to finish Jones off,” Bo boasted, scooping up his drink from the narrow shelf against the wall.
“The fuck you are,” Jones called out, standing up from his shot, which landed like a kiss in the corner pocket. She noticed the black geometric tattoo rising up the side of his neck and the black gauges in his ears.
Bo spun. “You made that?”
Jones sauntered over to his perch and picked up his drink.
“Cassidy,” Bo said, nodding in her direction, as if this passed for an introduction. “This is Jones, Gwen.”
Gwen wiggled her fingers in one of those baby waves while Jones gave her a chin lift. Then they both refocused on each other, Gwen giving a low giggle to something Jones said in her ear.
“Grab a drink and add it to my tab. Then we’ll play.”
Cassidy stood a moment longer, trying to get her feet to travel in the direction of the bar and not the door. Bo turned his back to make his next shot and finally, Cassidy was able to move.
Though beer was safer, she had already started with scotch, and Bo’s group were drinking cocktails, so she ordered the special, a Jack and Coke, but did not put it on Bo’s tab. All the way back to him, she worried that this would somehow tip him off that she was working for the FBI.
Stop, she told herself, sipping at her drink. In the back of her brain, a little alarm was starting to flare because while the drink didn’t exactly taste good, it felt powerful in her hands—steadying, even—and dangerously comforting. Drink it slowly and I’ll be okay.
Bo was racking up the balls for their game when she arrived. Gwen and Jones had moved to a table behind the neighboring pool table where they sat side by side, his hand on her thigh while she giggled demurely into her drink.
“You wanna break?” Bo asked, snapping her attention back to him.
Cassidy tried her best to remember the rules and the technique, though she’d never been very good. Most of her experience had been from the bar in Dillon, Montana, where the University of Washington held their field camp every summer and where she had been an instructor for three years during her PhD program. Those evenings where she had escaped from her duties to relax with fellow graduate students and professors hardly counted as training for this night. Bo wasted no time creaming her to a pulp.
“Let me help you this time,” he asked, racking the balls for another game.
She picked up her drink to steady herself but realized her drink was down to melted ice. I’ve got to slow down.
“Maybe,” she said.
He gave her a scoffing look. “That seems to be your MO.”
“What is?” she asked, planning her escape to order another drink.
“You’re always saying ‘maybe,’” he said. “You think too much.”
Cassidy shrugged, but her shoulders were so tight the motion took effort. “I was supposed to be leaving today,” she said as an excuse.
“Aw, did you stay for me?” he asked, moving closer to her.
Her thoughts locked up for an agonizing moment. Just try to relax and have a good time, Bruce had said. “I thought I might stay for that northwest swell,” she finally said.
He nodded, but his eyes had narrowed, as if detecting her lie.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and forced her feet to move slowly toward the bar. When she returned, Bo broke. When it was Cassidy’s turn, he moved swiftly to her side of the table, eyeing the options.
“Okay, now see that six?” he said, pointing his stick at the green six ball which to her, had no clear shot at getting into any pocket. “Hit that from here,” he continued, moving sideways down the table, “and it’ll hit the four into there.” He pointed at the opposite side pocket.
“No way am I going to make that,” Cassidy said, noticing the soft buzz that had invaded her mind. This is my last drink.
Bo beckoned her with his finger, his left eyebrow cocked.
As if being pulled by a magnet, Cassidy floated over and lined up her shot, closing her left eye.
“Nah,” Bo said.
Cassidy turned to look at him.
“Found your problem,” he said, moving to her side.
She let him widen her fingers on the stick.
“Not so tight,” he said, then tapped her shoulder. “The power comes from here.”
She tried again, focusing on incorporating his advice, when she felt his presence directly behind her, trapping her against the table. Cold terror seized her frame.
“Like this,” he said in her ear, tucking her elbow tighter against her side. “More stable.”
He stepped back to let her take the shot, but her breathing wouldn’t settle. She forced her mind to refocus, but her shot missed.
“Thinking too much again,” Bo scolded. “Am I right?”
Standing, the room swayed a little. “Guilty,” she said, the craving to run so powerful she forced her toes to curl into her sandals.
He took a shot and made it, his movements precise and purposeful. “Your brother runs a good business,” Bo said, not looking at her. “How’d he get started?”
“He was a bartender all through college,” Cassidy said. “He’s always been good with people.”
“He’s also stubborn,” Bo said, taking his next shot.
“It’s a family trait,” she said, sipping her drink.
Bo sauntered to her side of the table, his eyes steely. “I noticed,” he said. “It’s a hell of a turn on coming from you, but in your brother, it’s downright infuriating.”
A prickly flush rose up her neck.
Bo’s smile widened into a predatory look, but then it was gone. “That new hike in labor costs is gonna be painful. Quinn may not make it on his own.”
“He will,” she said, then regretted it. I’m supposed to be helping here, not putting up more roadblocks. “Why do you want to help him so much?”
Bo shrugged. “It’s a great place. I’d hate to see it go under.”
“Are you in the restaurant business?”
“My family runs several of them, so I know the challenges,” he said. “But I’d never own one myself. Too much fucking work, man. You end up married to it, and if things go south, you’re the one in debt.”
“So how would you help?” she asked, focusing on her drink while her pulse thudded painfully into her temples.
“He could do me a favor from time to time, and I’d pay him for the hassle,” Bo said, his eyes neutral.
What kinds of favors? she wanted to ask. “What’s the catch?”
Bo’s left eyebrow shot up. “That’s the beauty of it.” He glanced up from his next shot. “There isn’t one, unless he’s too stupid to recognize it.”
Cassidy watched the seven ball bounce off the edge of the corner pocket. “Quinn’s not stupid,” she said as her mind blared alarm bells. This is it, she thought, he wants me to convince Quinn to take the deal.
“The offer’s there when he’s ready,” Bo said. “Same goes for you.”
The comment made it through her foggy brain a half-second too late for her to react. Realizing it was her shot, she lined one up, her fingers clammy on the stick. She hit the ball, which bounced feebly off the opposite wall, getting nowhere near her target. She wanted to crumple against the table in frustration.
Bo took over, promptly cleaning up the table.
She realized that it was time for her to
go. Something had shifted in his energy, and she couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t her fault.
“Let’s go back to my place,” he said, taking her stick from her shaking fingers.
“Oh, I…uh,” she stammered while her swimmy brain tried to find the right words.
Bo shook his head, his gaze narrowing. “You’re thinking again.” He was so close to her now, dangerously close.
“Not tonight,” she said, trying to keep her panic in check. “But thank you for the drinks, and the lesson,” she added.
He grabbed hold of her hip. “There’s a lot more where that came from,” he said in a low voice. “You sure you’re ready to call it a night?”
She faked a smile. Surely, he could feel her trembling. “I’m afraid so.”
He released her but the haughty look didn’t fade.
Cassidy turned for the door, forcing her legs to move at an even pace.
Outside, she fumbled for her phone to call a ride, her breaths high and fast in her throat. A black Prius glided to the curb. For a moment, she was confused—her ride couldn’t be here already—but the passenger window rolled down two inches to reveal Bruce behind the wheel. He jerked his chin toward the backseat.
Cassidy jumped inside. She buckled her seatbelt and closed her eyes as Bruce pulled away from the club.
“No more,” she said as her pulse continued to slam into her temples. “I can’t do something like that again.”
Bruce’s sharp gaze diverted from the road to the rearview mirror. “What happened?”
Cassidy swallowed the dryness in her throat, wishing she had a glass of water, though putting anything in her stomach right now might not be such a good idea. “It went okay at first. We just talked, played pool. He asked about Quinn.”
“Did he tell you more about his plan?”
Cassidy closed her eyes again, but her head whirled. She lowered her window, squinting at the blast of cool air. “Sort of. He eluded to an investment plan. I questioned him about it, but he seemed totally confident. I think he’s using me to get to Quinn. He mentioned how stubborn he was being.”
“He wasn’t stupid enough to share anything illegal though, was he?”
“He dropped a strong hint.” Cassidy shook her head, but again, her head didn’t respond well.