Four Seconds to Lose

by K. A. Tucker

  I will have no one.

  I will have nothing.

  “Why, Sam? Why would you do this to me?” For years, I felt nothing but gratitude and loyalty to Sam. Bu now, I feel nothing but bitter hurt.

  I have no other choice.

  I have to run.

  Now.

  Pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, I let the tears pour freely.

  ■ ■ ■

  “Ginger?”

  Her eyes flash open. “Yes?”

  “Did you get locked out of your apartment?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Well . . .” I do a cursory glance around the commons to see that no one else is outside. “Because it’s two a.m. and you’re sitting outside my apartment door, asleep.”

  Making a point of stretching her arms over her head, Ginger lithely climbs to her feet and moves away. I unlock and open my door. Without invitation, she’s trailing me in.

  “Did Cain send you here to check up on me?” I toss my keys onto the end table and turn on the only lamp in the living room.

  “Why would he do that?” she asks coyly, averting her eyes to a chipped nail. Ginger would lose her shirt in a game of poker.

  With a sigh, I flop down onto my couch, my focus on the stippled ceiling. I’m drained. Emotionally and physically drained. “Because you should still be at Penny’s and yet you left early to sit outside my apartment door.” I can’t ignore the twinge of disappointment in my stomach that it wasn’t Cain waiting for me. I know I told him to leave me alone and it’s for the best, but . . . still.

  I feel Ginger’s eyes on me, on my bloodshot eyes and the streaks of mascara I’m sure have gathered. Two hours of crying will do that. She finally settles on, “How’s your cheek?”

  “Fine.” As long as I don’t touch it or smile, or vomit on the side of the road, I barely notice it.

  With the tiniest sigh, I hear her nimble steps as she strolls over to my fridge. The clanging sound of glass tells me she’s pulled out two bottles of beer. “Here.” Handing one to me, she grabs the remote and flicks on the television, quickly scanning the channels. I instantly know what she’s searching for. We discovered early on that we share a love of Seinfeld. There doesn’t seem to be an episode on at this time of night, though, and so she lands on the tail end of Seven. “Oh, I love this part! Gives me chills,” she exclaims, exaggerating a shudder as she tucks her legs up under herself on the opposite corner of the couch. We settle into silence as we watch Brad Pitt open up a box to find Gwyneth Paltrow’s head inside.

  I can’t say that being around Ginger is completely comfortable, with this cloud hanging over us. But I’m pretty sure she’s not mad at me. If anything, I think she’s worried.

  I don’t remember what it’s like to have someone worried about me. Sam never worries, period. And my mom? Well, I remember her fussing over her fitted clothes in front of the mirror a lot. She was young and blond and beautiful. She wore a lot of makeup and a sweet-smelling perfume, and put a great deal of effort into her appearance. I remember her smoothing her clothes over and over again when we went out, even at gymnastics, while she talked to the fathers and I worked on my balance and my basic beginner moves. I remember her brow knitting tightly as she sat at the kitchen table, sorting through what I assumed were bills. I remember her worrying about not ever finding a good husband with all her “baggage.”

  But I don’t ever remember her worrying over me.

  Then, when Sam came along, I’m pretty sure all of her worries vanished.

  Ginger finally breaks the silence. “Cain seemed pretty spooked tonight.” Her gaze never leaves the television as she sips her beer.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” he had said. Do what? Have a relationship? Is that what Cain thinks is going to happen between us? It can’t! And yet when he said it, I can’t pretend I didn’t feel a burst of warmth in my chest, radiating outward to my limbs, my desire to curl into him overpowering.

  “I’ve never done this.” If that’s true, then I can’t help but wonder . . . what was Penny to him?

  “Did you ever meet her?” I ask. “Penny?”

  Ginger sighs. “Oh . . . yeah. I started working at The Bank about two months before she died.”

  “What was she like?”

  “I didn’t know her well. She was gorgeous. Blond, brown eyes, like you. So many customers came in just for her. She seemed nice. Not catty, like some of the other girls.” With a chuckle, she admits, “She was a pole dancer as well. You remind me of her. Your style, I mean. You’re classy and kind of artistic, if you can use the word artistic to describe that sort of thing.”

  “And her fiancé? You said he killed her?”

  She takes a long sip of her drink as her head bobs up and down. “Yeah . . . their relationship was all a little bit fast and strange. I think Penny had really low self-esteem and was just looking for a nice guy who’d want her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who ever took school seriously or had a lot of ambition. More the type to pop out a baseball team and bake pies for the rest of her life.” A quick hand goes up. “No judgment here! That many babies is ambitious. And I plan on baking pies too. Only I’ll be doing it for customers at my high-end wine country inn. But . . .” She pauses. “The guy was a customer. A quiet, balding man. Nothing special. But one private dance from her and he was sunk.”

  I wonder if that’s why Cain won’t let me do private dances.

  Ginger nods slowly. “He came in to visit almost every night. Took her out to dinner and sent her flowers a lot. We weren’t too surprised when she showed up at work with a rock on her hand after only a few months. He didn’t want her dancing anymore, and I remember her saying that no one other than her husband could tell her what to do, so . . .” Ginger’s shoulders lift and drop.

  “What else do you remember about her?”

  Ginger’s mouth twists in thought. “She was a bit flighty. One week she was gushing over the beach wedding they were going to have, the next week it was going to be a big church wedding in her hometown. Then, all of a sudden, she was leaving the next day for Vegas.”

  Nodding slowly, I ask, “And Cain? How did he take it?”

  Ginger’s shoulders bob. “He shook the guy’s hand, said congratulations. I don’t know . . . Cain is Cain. If something was going on between them, they hid it well. He never came out to drool over her onstage every night . . .” I feel Ginger’s sidelong glance at me, but I keep my eyes trained on the television. “I don’t know that Penny was the type to hold a secret like sleeping with the boss, though.”

  “What happened after she died?”

  Ginger puffs out her cheeks and releases a lung’s worth of air. “It was messy. Roger was convicted and he went to jail. The Bank never reopened after that night. Cain sold it as soon as the cops were done with their investigation. Apparently he disappeared for a month to do God knows what. The only person he’d talk to was Nate, who lived with him at the time.

  “And then suddenly he showed up at my apartment one day a few months later, telling me he was opening up a new club in Penny’s name and asking me if I wanted a job.”

  We fall into silence then as I mull over her words. Is that why he has taken to me as he has? Because I remind him of someone he clearly cared deeply for? Possibly loved? Am I just a living memory?

  I’ll never get a chance to find out. I’ve accepted that I have to leave.

  Tomorrow.

  I can’t risk going to another drop after what happened with Bob. And I’ve likely inspired some doubt on Sam’s part now, with my questions. For all I know, Sam could be on a plane, heading down here to interrogate me.

  But am I ready for this?

  Can I just pick up and walk away from this little apartment I’ve unintentionally started thinking of as home? Can I say good night to Ginger tonight when really I mean goodbye?

&
nbsp; Can I just walk away from Cain? Forget what might have been?

  Into the quiet, dimmed apartment, I hear myself say, “Ginger, you’re a really good friend.”

  There’s a long pause, and I imagine she’s wondering if there’s something else I’m not saying. Finally she just sighs. “I know I am, Charlie.”

  ■ ■ ■

  I may be a tad paranoid.

  Still, I hold my gun close to my thigh as I peer through the blinds at the unfamiliar man outside my window, a slight tremble to my grip. In his dark khaki pants and white golf shirt, with an electronic signature machine and a large white box in his hands, he definitely looks like a delivery guy. But what is he delivering? And how did he get in here? I didn’t buzz him in.

  I flip the safety switch off but then quickly flip it back on as memories of my old neighbor shooting himself in the foot flash through my mind. I shouldn’t even be holding a gun right now, as tired as I am after tossing and turning all night, my stomach roiling, unable to shut my mind off as it tried to convince me to stay. At about six a.m,, I finally gave up and crawled out of bed to pack.

  The only thing I’ve been certain of since is that I have to watch my back. Be wary of strange things. Like deliverymen outside my door. For all I know, Sam knows exactly where I moved and is sending me another warning, because last night’s warning wasn’t quite clear enough.

  Maybe it’s a severed head.

  With a shudder, I stay frozen behind the curtain, thankful that he can’t see me, watching quietly as the stranger knocks again, louder this time. He waits another minute and then turns to leave, muttering under his breath something unintelligible.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Threat abandoned.

  That is, until I see Tanner lumbering through the common area in his requisite plaid shorts and too-tight T-shirt. The guy quickly intercepts him, holding the package out. Tanner’s hand reaches out for the electronic signature machine.

  Shit.

  What if Tanner is nosy? What if he takes the box inside his apartment and opens it up? There’s no reasonable explanation for why a person would send me a human head.

  I quickly set my gun on the floor and then dart out my apartment door and run toward them, just as the delivery guy is handing the box over to Tanner. “Hello!” I yell in a rush. “I think that’s for me!” Both of them turn to stare at me.

  I yank the box out of Tanner’s hands before he has a chance to object. “Sorry, I just missed the door,” I offer to the middle-aged delivery guy, whose jaw is hanging open. With a glance down, I realize that I’m still in the white tank top—sans bra—and thong that I slept in.

  Stripper or not, I should be embarrassed to be caught like this outside of work, but I’m too on edge right now. With my heart pounding inside my chest, I turn and hustle back into my apartment—fully aware of the view the deliveryman and Tanner are getting—before I slam the door shut behind me and hug the box to my chest.

  My skin prickles. The box is cold. Like it’s been in refrigeration.

  Severed heads need refrigeration.

  “Damn Ginger and that fucking movie!” I know it’s insane and highly improbable, and yet I can’t dislodge the thought now, as I walk with a sinking stomach and wobbly knees toward my dining table to set the parcel down. With my fingers balled up into tight fists, I stare at the simple, tall white box, adorned with a purple ribbon but displaying no other identifiable markings.

  A head would fit nicely in there.

  Maybe the real Charlie Rourke’s head?

  Holding my breath, I rip open the top of the box and pull back the tissue paper.

  And exhale noisily.

  Flowers?

  Someone sent me flowers?

  My curiosity peaked and my heart saved from explosion, I reach inside and pull out a stunning bouquet in a plain glass vase. All kinds of flowers—at least a dozen different varieties. But they all have one thing in common: their color.

  They’re all violet.

  The exact bluish-purple hue of my eyes.

  Few people know about my natural eye color. Only one person in Miami knows. Flutters stir inside my chest as I pull out the small card tucked within. The words are simple, the request clear:

  Your secrets are safe with me. Please give me a chance—Cain

  I had wondered if Cain noticed that my eyes were not truly brown that day at my old apartment. It would be hard not to, but then again, he is a guy and most guys don’t notice basic details like eye color. Cain obviously had, but he never uttered a word.

  Please give me a chance . . . “I wish I could,” I whisper, that painful lump forming in my throat again as I let my fingers rub the velvety petals.

  ■ ■ ■

  If I wait any longer, Ginger will be at my door for coffee.

  I have to leave now.

  I shut the door of my apartment for the last time and drop the key in through the mailbox slot. Tanner will find it when they figure out that I’m gone. Quickly and quietly wheeling my suitcase down the path, I make my way out the gate and to my SUV, which I’ll be selling at a dealership fifteen minutes away after I pull all my money from the bank.

  With my hands gripping the steering wheel, I take a few minutes to stare at the white stucco of the building for the last time, recalling Cain’s gorgeous form pacing around this very parking lot only three weeks ago. Glancing down at the flowers on my passenger side, which I can’t bear to abandon, I feel the hot tears begin streaming down my cheeks.

  I know leaving is the right decision. I do.

  And yet each step is taking every ounce of willpower that I have.

  chapter twenty-one

  ■ ■ ■

  CAIN

  “Ronald Sullivan. Forty-two. No wife, no kids. Assault charge back in ’95 that was dropped. Suspected of selling narcotics but hasn’t been nailed with anything. I’ll fax through his picture so you can validate it. I have his address, too, if you want it. He lives in an apartment off Twenty-third.”

  Oh, Charlie. What did you get yourself into? “As always, you’re invaluable, John.”

  “And you are single-handedly funding my retirement villa in Tahiti. Just don’t tell the witches of Eastwick.” I have to pull my phone from my ear as John’s boisterous laugh blasts through.

  “I have no reason to talk to your ex-wives, John. Unless it’s about how big of a shmuck you are.”

  Another round of laughter sounds as my ribbing rolls off John’s sturdy back. “Is this all about the girl?”

  With a sigh, I mutter, “Everything is about the girl, these days.” After Ginger filled me in on what happened on Monday—the call from a “father” on Charlie’s second phone, who I know couldn’t be her father because her father is in jail and only making collect calls these days—I sent her home early to check up on Charlie. Then I reviewed the surveillance video of V.I.P. room two.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that Charlie knew who that guy was. The way she strolled into the room, arm-in-arm with him, the covert way she warned him about the camera. Everything about the interaction screamed familiarity. When I watched his hand reach up under her skirt, my jaw cracked from the tension in my face. When I saw him backhand her, I had to pause and take a deep, calming breath.

  As usual, I could count on Nate to handle the situation. After delivering a blow to the guy’s gut in a quiet corner of the parking lot outside—I watched that surveillance tape too, with a big fucking grin on my face—Nate dragged him to the black Camry he pointed out as his and left him writhing in pain on the ground while he searched his wallet and car, taking down as much information as he could. Once Nate had confiscated the loaded gun that he found beneath the seat, he tossed the guy into the driver’s side as if he were a chew toy. Next to Nate, everyone looks like a chew toy.

  Nate made it clear that if anything ever happened to Ch
arlie, that surveillance tape would go to the police along with all of Ronald’s info, and then it would be a race to see who got to him first, me or the cops.

  And Ronald would want it to be the cops.

  As a parting gift, Nate dropped one last brutal punch to the douchebag’s nose and left him there, cupping his face against the rush of blood. I imagine Ronald Sullivan spent the night in a lot of pain and, possibly in the ER.

  Nate and I know we’ll have to watch our backs for a while. But if I see the guy here again, I won’t hesitate to put him down.

  “And her father’s still locked up, right?”

  “Yes, sir. He won’t be getting out for a long time.”

  “Thanks for the quick turnaround, John,” I offer before I hang up, looking at the clock as I take a long draw of my drink. It’s four thirty. Charlie was supposed to be here at four for that administrative work and she’s never late. I shouldn’t be surprised that she hasn’t shown up. After last night, I’ll be surprised if she comes at all.

  She hasn’t answered my calls, though the florist confirmed that she received my flowers this morning. I’ve never sent a woman flowers. I hope it wasn’t too much. I hope she didn’t think it was tacky. I’m still at a loss for what to say, what to do, how much time and space I should give her.

  What if she won’t want me once she knows what I’m all about?

  My hands find their way behind my neck, where they clasp tightly. How is this going to go? Will she see me as another Ronald Sullivan? Or someone as violent as her father? Or some other guy who’s probably taken advantage of her in the past, who may still be doing so?

  Maybe she will see me as any or all of them. Maybe I’ll spill my guts to her and she’ll run away from me and into the arms of a normal guy with normal parents and a normal career. Maybe that would be for the best.