by K. A. Tucker
I don’t doubt that China has strong feelings for Cain. I mean, how can she not? She’s known him for years. I’ve known him for six weeks—half of that intimately—and I already can’t manage life without him.
For all that I hate about what I’ve done, there’s one thing I can’t regret.
It led me to him.
I don’t know if things are moving too fast. I’m too ensconced in this Cain high to appreciate basic rules and he seems uninterested in slowing down. He’s filling his kitchen with Frosted Flakes and every other kind of food I might like, talking about me moving in, giving me a key to his condo, practically demanding that I go on the pill.
Everything about him screams “future.”
And I haven’t heard a peep from Sam. Though I still keep my eyes open, always aware of my surroundings, it’s not with the same level of trepidation as before. It’s more out of habit than anything else.
“Bartender!” I hear Kacey holler, slapping her hands against the bar as if in a drum roll. Behind her, Trent towers, his hands around her waist, those deep dimples on full display as he winks at Ginger.
“Charlie.” Storm strolls over, looking fresh and beautiful, even though it’s the middle of the night and she should be sleeping. She doesn’t hesitate to offer me a hug. “How’s it going? How is being Cain’s manager working out?”
“Less exposing,” I answer truthfully and then can’t help but smirk, because that’s not really true. I’m just less exposed to the general population. Cain’s “no sex in the workplace” rule has fallen by the wayside. Daily.
“Where is the jackass?” Kacey’s eyes roam the club as Ginger lines up a row of tequila shots.
“Right here!” Ben hollers, seconds before he swoops in to lift Kacey’s frame from behind into a big hug. Dropping her on the ground, he slaps Trent’s shoulder in greeting and grabs a shot from the bar just as the overhead lights shut off and the stage lights flash on once again.
“Let’s get this party started!” Terry’s voice spills out over the speaker system, followed by “Lady Marmalade.” A parade of dancers strut out from behind the curtain wearing an array of brightly colored burlesque costumes. Ben’s face lights up like a kid at an ice-cream shop. Ginger told me they were planning something extra-special for their favorite bouncer’s send-off. Though nothing is choreographed, it’s quite the spectacle all the same.
“To Lawyer Boy. God help us all!” Kacey shouts and we all—including Cain—grab a shot and down it, the burn scorching my throat. Nate and a few of the other bouncers drag Ben, completely willingly, over to pervert row to enjoy the performance.
“All right, Dee!” Gingers exclaims, clapping her hands together. “We’re gonna make Ben puke tonight. Trust me, he’ll deserve it. Cain . . .” She bows. “Will you do the honor of the first drink?”
I watch with surprise as Cain pulls away from me to round the corner. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him behind the bar, but I’d imagine years of owning one would give him plenty of opportunity to practice. He moves easily, not even reading labels before he’s got four bottles lined up in front of him. He smiles to himself as he begins deftly measuring and pouring the gold tequila into three separate mixers.
Next goes the Jim Beam and the bourbon. By the time I see him tipping back the scotch, I’m pretty sure I’d rather light my tongue on fire than drink what he’s making. Glancing over at Ben, lying shirtless on the stage with his arms nestled under his head, a dreamy grin on his face and both Hannah and Mercy dancing provocatively over him, I wonder if he should be drinking it either.
“It’s going to be a shit show in here, really soon,” I hear Cain mutter under his breath as he comes back around to take the seat next to me, pulling me into him once again.
“You do realize your strict rules are going out the window, tonight, right?” Storm says to him with a giggle.
“Yeah.” Cain’s hands slide through his hair, sending it into sexy disarray. “I’ve already shut off all of the cameras. This is a private party, anyway.”
Both Storm and Kacey turn to stare at me in unison. Leaning in to my ear, Storm says out the side of her mouth, “Whatever you’re doing to Cain, keep doing it.”
Ginger is relentless with her concoctions. Cain doesn’t even bat an eye as his premium liquor supply dwindles. Storm confiscates everyone’s keys, just in case any partygoers get confused as to how drunk they truly are.
At some point, four dancers pull Ben back to a V.I.P. room. Or maybe it was only two dancers. I’m not quite sure because Ginger keeps giving me these Pepto-Bismol-pink shooters that she promises are mild. I think she’s lying to me, because getting off my stool is proving to be a real challenge.
Hoots and hollers explode five minutes later as Ben struts out dressed in Mercy’s green bikini and the smile of the Cheshire cat. What Mercy’s wearing—or not wearing right now—is thankfully not evident because she has stayed in the V.I.P. room. The sight is both the funniest thing I’ve ever seen and the most unappealing, given his junk is hanging out the sides of the stretched-out bottoms. As attractive and well built as Ben is, no one can pull this look off.
Kacey hits the ground in laughter, half diving, half crawling for the phone in Trent’s hand to snap pictures of her inebriated friend climbing onto the stage, giving everyone a very unpleasant view of him in a thong.
He clearly doesn’t care, though.
“All right. Show’s over for me. I’m exhausted and Dan’s giving me grief about getting my pregnant butt home,” Storm announces. “You going to be okay with this mess?”
Cain chuckles. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, good.” Turning to me, she smiles sweetly. “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”
“I . . .” I hadn’t really thought about it and Cain hasn’t mentioned it. I know it’s in a few weeks. I also know it is DEA Dan who’s getting married. While I’d love to go, a part of me can’t shake the feeling that it would be too disrespectful to them. That I could taint their marriage without them even knowing it.
“Of course she’s coming.” Cain’s arm deftly snakes around my waist to pull me in close. “If she can get a night off work, that is. I heard her boss is a jerk.”
“Yeah.” I give him my best coy smile. “He’s probably going to give me a hard time.”
Cain’s hand squeezes my thigh in response.
“On that note . . .” Storm leans in to give me a hug. “Good luck in the morning, Charlie.”
“Well, that sounds like the kiss of death if I’ve ever heard one.”
With a laugh, she stretches onto her tiptoes to drop a peck on Cain’s cheek. “Happy birthday.”
My jaw drops as the shock hits me.
By the wink she gives me, the devious Storm knew that Cain hadn’t enlightened me. Judging by the scowl that flitters across his face after he catches my expression, Cain would have happily kept me in the dark.
“Today? As in, today?” I finally manage to get out.
“As in right now.” Storm blows a kiss as she walks away.
“It’s not a big deal,” he mutters. Peering down at my face in earnest, Cain finally holds his hand out, beckoning. I take it and he leads me back toward the office. The air is so much cooler in here and I welcome it, practically falling into the black leather couch. Cain’s desk lamp clicks on. It provides a nice, dim glow, much nicer than the harsh fluorescent lighting above.
“Here, drink this. It’ll help tomorrow.” Cain produced a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge. He takes a seat beside me as I chug back the entire thing.
“Is it just me or does your office spin after hours?”
With a chuckle, he gently pulls me down until my head is resting on his lap. I can’t help but inhale deeply, his cologne taking my intoxication level to where a boatload of shots could not. Fingers draw through my hair in
a soothing manner and I moan responsively.
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“Yeah,” I smile, a lazy giggle escaping me. “I really like everyone here. Especially Ben in a bikini.”
Cain’s hand stops abruptly. I accidently smack myself in the forehead as I lift my hand to hit his, urging him on. “Keep doing that.” I guess my request is coherent enough because his fingers start moving again, only now the index finger of his other hand trails up and down my cheek in an intimate manner. “Why wouldn’t you tell me it’s your birthday? I mean, we’re . . .” I leave the rest of it unsaid. In truth, he doesn’t know my real birthday. Or my real age. Or my real name. I have no right to be angry with him. And I’m not.
I’m hurt.
“It has nothing to do with not wanting to tell you, Charlie. I just don’t care about my birthday.”
“Because you’re getting old?”
He snorts. “No, smart-ass. Because I never grew up celebrating them.”
I frown, reaching up to loop my fingers within his. Never celebrating your own birthday? Even Sam—a ruthless, murdering drug dealer—always made sure each birthday of mine was special. We’d spend the whole day together and I got to pick the activities. It didn’t matter what it was. He’d do it.
“What are you giggling about?” Cain suddenly asks.
I hadn’t realized that I was. “Oh, just picturing the year I made my dad toboggan down a steep hill with me for my birthday.” I snort as a visual hits me. “Sam fell off halfway down the hill and did cartwheels the rest of the way. I thought he was mad at me, but . . .” I remember that look on his face as he finally stopped tumbling. I was only ten but, for a split second, I was terrified he’d be angry with me for making him come out. “. . . he just laughed. He ended up doing three more runs before he complained that his old body couldn’t handle it.”
I sense Cain’s muscles tensing under me. “Well, I guess you’re lucky.”
Now I feel like a complete jackass. I try to make amends by unfastening several of his shirt buttons and snaking my hand beneath to touch his bare skin. Cain seems to respond very well to physical affection. I’m thinking he didn’t get a lot of it growing up. Then again, after my mother died, neither did I. My mom gave big squish-me hugs. But Sam was more about buying gifts and saying nice things than doling out daily embraces.
Maybe that’s why Cain and I can’t seem to keep our hands off each other. “I’m sorry, Cain. I don’t know what kind of parents don’t celebrate their children’s birthdays,” I offer softly. “I thought that was just a mandatory thing.”
Cain’s mirthless chuckle fills the darkness. “She celebrated one.” There’s a long pause, so long I turn to make sure he hasn’t passed out. He’s awake, his eyes intently on the side of the desk, his mind obviously far away. “On my fourteenth birthday, my mom introduced me to this girl named Kara. Said she was the daughter of a friend from out of town and asked me to take her out. The girl was hot and older and I had no plans, so I figured, why not?
“She picked me up in a van that night. We drove around for a bit, talked about nothing important, and then she pulled into an empty, dark parking lot. We started making out. Fuck, I wasn’t going to complain. I was still a virgin and she seemed nice and into me. Things got heavy and before I knew it we were in the backseat, she was naked and pulling a condom onto me.”
“Sounds like a fourteen-year-old’s birthday dream come true,” I blurt out, followed by a “sorry.” Those are the kinds of thoughts I’m supposed to keep inside my head.
Cain snorts. “It was . . . until she dropped me off at home and I saw the tears running down her cheeks. I couldn’t figure it out. She seemed so into it. When I got home, the first thing my mom asked was, ‘Was she any good?’” I hear Cain’s teeth grind together. “I had no clue what my mom was involved in at that time. A year later, a few buddies and me broke into the house where my mom ran her bookkeeping business—my grandmother’s old house. I hadn’t been in it in years. It was the middle of the night, we were drunk, and we just wanted a place to hang. Turns out that the bookkeeping business was more of a hobby, and a front for what was really going on inside that house. I found Kara in a room there with some old married guy. After I chased him out, she admitted that my mother had set everything up, that night we were together. She wanted to make sure Kara could go through with paid sex.
“That’s how I lost my virginity. At fourteen, to a prostitute, arranged for me by my mother.” Cain’s head falls back against the couch. “Kara ended up ODing a few years later,” he offers vacantly.
“Oh my God, Cain.” My chest tightens. So many of Cain’s childhood memories seems to end with sex, drugs, death, or a devastating combination.
Turning, I move to prop myself up on my elbow, intent on distracting him from his dark thoughts. But he quickly shifts out from beneath me, muttering, “I’d better go check on things out there.” Without another look back, he leaves.
A prickly lump settles in my throat. Is this about his birthday? Or is Cain upset with me for something? I can’t bear that thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have prodded. I never prod. I shouldn’t start now, slurring and dizzy from those stupid drinks. When he comes back, I’ll shut up, wrap my arms around him, and hold him tight.
Until then, I’ll just rest my eyes for a while. It feels so good to close my . . .
chapter thirty-one
■ ■ ■
CAIN
The place is a fucking disaster—empty glasses and bottles everywhere. Nate is sitting on the stage with his back against the dancer pole, hunched over. Focusing in on him a little more closely, I see that his eyes are closed.
Giggles from the V.I.P. room tell me that Mercy and others—likely Ben included—are still there, defiling the space. Aside from them, the place is empty. I hit the lights and grab some more water, then check the doors to ensure they’re locked and security is set.
Charlie’s snoring quietly when I return. I pull a blanket over her body and spend a long moment watching the woman I’ve come to care so deeply about.
And then I pull her file from my cabinet. I check the birth date to confirm that it’s September 23. I’ve never been to Indianapolis, but I have a hard time believing they have enough snow to toboggan on in September. That’s my first question. Maybe there’s an explanation, though. Maybe they celebrated a few months late. Maybe they went to the North Pole for her birthday.
More important, though . . . who the fuck is Sam?
■ ■ ■
I know she’s awake before she makes a sound or moves a muscle. I sense it in her body, the way it goes rigid against mine. I managed to slide in beneath her comatose frame last night and grab a few hours of sleep with her in my arms. “Do you know what time it is?” she asks in a croaky voice and I feel her swallow several times.
Reaching back to grab my phone that I placed on the side table last night, I flip it open to check. “Eleven.”
She lets out a cute little groan. “God, I drank a lot last night. I’ve never drunk that much before.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I may still be drunk.”
I chuckle and then wince, the first sign of my own hangover making its appearance. I feel her swallow again and I reach back for a bottle of water. “Here, drink this.”
She moans appreciatively, shifting into my groin. “Seriously, Cain?” She shakes her head.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s the morning and you’re lying on me.”
“Hmm . . .” I watch as she eases herself up into a sitting position. I haven’t forgotten what she said last night. I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. I know I told her that I don’t care about her past. And I don’t. But we’ve been together for weeks now. I’d like to know who the fuck Sam is and why she’s referring to him as her father, when her father’s name is George Rourke.
Or is it?
Standing, she wobbles a bit, using the wall for support as she heads toward the bathroom. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk,” she announces, pawing at the light inside before closing the door.
If I weren’t me, I might not worry so much about this. But I am me and she still hasn’t divulged a damn thing about herself, even after I laid my history out for her to judge. I lay awake beneath her for hours, trying to rationalize it, to tell myself that it doesn’t matter to me. Still, I feel a sense of bitterness seeping in. A touch of betrayal that this woman doesn’t trust me, or my word that I would never hold her past against her.
At the same time that the toilet flush sounds inside, her phone begins ringing. Normally, I wouldn’t think to go through her things. Now, though . . . I don’t hesitate. I unzip her purse. I pull her phone out.
And I answer it.
“Hello?”
There’s a second or two of dead air and then, “Who is this?”
“This is Cain. You looking for Charlie?”
Another pause. “Yes. How do you know her?”
I don’t like the calm, even tone of his voice. It sounds manipulative. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” The number is marked “unknown,” so that doesn’t help me.
A soft, condescending chuckle answers me. “That’s because I didn’t give a name.”
This must be the same guy that Ginger spoke to. I don’t have patience for this. “Well, then I guess you can go fuck yourself.”
A sharp hiss fills my ear. “You don’t sound like the kind of man I want my daughter with.”
“Pardon me?” I did not expect that. And Charlie’s father is in Pendleton, so it can’t be true. “Who is this?” Wait . . . “Is this Sam?”
The line goes dead.
The phone is still in my hand when Charlie emerges with a freshly washed face. She freezes, her now violet eyes skittering from the phone in my hand, to her opened purse, to what I assume is a stony expression on my face.