by K. A. Tucker
Bentley didn’t create Alliance to rape innocent young women. That isn’t for the greater good.
Taking a deep breath, I let the tape keep playing.
“He get into trouble?” Ned asks.
Royce smiles, and it’s not at all pleasant. “Who’s gonna give him trouble?”
“You said this was a private company, right? Ain’t the owner worried about employees doin’ that kind of stuff?” Ned has obviously been listening—and understanding—far more than he’s let on.
“John Bentley doesn’t give a fuck what happens over there as long as the contracts keep coming in. That’s why I got paid off and told to keep quiet.”
My stomach clenches. That’s got to be the bullshit Bentley was talking about. I know Bentley well enough to know that he would care about rape.
“Don’t nobody say nothin’?”
“This is war. It’s so easy to cover that kind of shit up, and all the other shit. And people there are scared. Say the wrong thing and you may find yourself with a bullet in your head. Enemy fire, of course.”
“But you’re back home now.”
Royce pauses. “Nobody in America wants to hear about how a Medal of Honor recipient stood by and watched women get raped.”
Ivy’s uncle works away and listens, dropping a question here and there, as Royce spells out countless other horrific things he saw while working for Alliance, all the times that basic human rights were clearly violated by Mario and Ricky and other employees—not to protect American lives or interests, but for pure, sadistic enjoyment.
But what about Royce? Did he partake? Is he saying he was always just an innocent bystander?
Their conversation eventually shifts to menial things, and then nothing at all, and after four hours in the chair, Royce is passing over a wad of cash. “I’ll wanna come in next week to finish this piece up here,” he says, tapping the top of his shoulder. “Same time, same day?”
“Sounds good.”
Ivy’s uncle sits at his desk and stares at the door for a while, long after the guy has left. Processing everything Royce just admitted to, I’m sure. Clicking a key on the keyboard, he waits for his computer monitor to light up. Then he types something into Google. I can’t see what it is, but when a website comes up that I know like the back of my hand—with a black background and a picture of founder and CEO John Bentley on the left-hand side—I know that the wheels have begun to churn in Ned’s head.
He gets up to pull the metal screen across the entryway, locks the front door, and disappears down the hall, to the back where there is no surveillance.
And then the tape cuts out.
And I’m left staring at my reflection in the monitor.
Royce may have deserved to be punished for his part in all this, but he didn’t deserve a bullet to his head to shut him up.
And Ned . . . well, he was a fucking fool to get involved, but he definitely didn’t deserve to be killed over this either.
But Bentley was telling the truth about one thing: If this confession—from a Medal of Honor recipient, no less—gets into the hands of the American public, Alliance is finished.
The bigger question is: Do Bentley and Alliance deserve that end? Is this just a case of a contractor or two going rogue? How often is shit like this happening over there? How many of these guys, with God complexes, are doing inexcusable things to innocent human beings?
I’m about to hand over the only evidence that might ever spark an investigation into those questions.
Dammit.
I shouldn’t have watched the tape. I can’t simply unsee that, unknow that.
And yet Bentley’s paying me to do a job.
I need to finish it.
The sun is just cresting over the horizon when Bentley meets me at the front door of his Napa villa. I wordlessly hand the tape to him and his shoulders sag with relief, while mine hum with tension.
“Where did you find it?”
“Her tattoo kit, which she brings everywhere. Her uncle taped it to the inside, under the foam.” So obvious.
He snorts, shaking his head. “And she had no idea?”
“None.”
He heaves a sigh. “As always, you’re the most proficient man I know at getting the job done.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed you felt that way as of late.” I don’t hide the sarcasm.
He hangs his head and offers me a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry about that. It was a moment of panic, I suppose. I just finally squashed that civilian shooting issue, so having this to worry about was more than even I could handle.”
Because this will destroy everything you’ve worked hard to build.
“I’ll have the money wired to your offshore account in the next hour. You can go back to your Greek haven, and we can get back to regularly scheduled programming.” He turns to head back inside.
“What about Scalero?”
Bentley stops. “What about him?”
“Is he going to cause any more issues?”
Bentley turns slowly, his face expressionless, impossible to read. “What issues?”
“He made contact yesterday in a restroom.” I hold up his wallet as evidence. “Made some comments about her being a loose end that he needed to tie up.” I watch Bentley closely, looking for a sign that tells me he already knew about this.
He holds my gaze. “He had strict instructions not to go near you or the girl.”
“And yet he broke them.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
“Like you dealt with him before?” If Royce’s confessions to what he saw are true and Bentley knew about it, that means he brought me in here to help bury evidence that would put him and his company in the wrong, and rightfully so. Nothing about what I heard last night is what we stand for, why I do what I do. None of it is for the greater good of our country.
It’s for the greater good of Bentley’s pockets.
I’m struggling to believe that this could be true. That’s not the man I went to war with. That’s not the man whose life I fought to save.
That’s not the man I’ve trusted all these years, when I’ve trusted no one else.
“If he comes near Ivy again, I’ll assume it’s to hurt her.” I give him a knowing look. I shouldn’t have to spell out what’ll happen. I’ve never killed an American soldier before, but the more I learn about Mario Scalero and his partner in crime, the more I believe they need to be put down. And, for once, I don’t feel the need to be ordered to make that happen.
Bentley raises an eyebrow. “Ivy?”
“She’s not a threat.”
“She’s a witness.”
“Who didn’t witness enough to be a threat to them.”
He presses his lips together and offers me a curt nod. “As long as it stays that way . . .” He holds out his hand. “Peace offering?”
I toss the wallet into it. I don’t need it anymore. I’ve already memorized Scalero’s driver’s license info. I know exactly where he lives.
“How soon will you be on a plane?”
“Not sure yet.” I pause, wondering if he’s going to keep tabs on me. Wondering why he cares. “I may stay for a while. Visit my parents.” The thought flickered briefly through my mind, but I haven’t committed to the idea.
Sympathy passes over Bentley’s face, but I see the distrust lurking there. He doesn’t believe me. “Good, Sebastian. I think that’s a great idea. You need to hold on to the people who are important, who keep you grounded. Let me know what you decide. And don’t worry about Scalero. I’m sending them overseas again soon, on another contract that’s about to come in, so they won’t even be around to cause any issues for you, or for her. Now get some sleep; you look like shit. You know what to do.”
Drop my piece into the bay and leave the car in a long-term parking lot for pickup. Yeah. I know the drill.
Just like that, my official purpose for being in San Francisco is over. I’m free to slip back into anonymity, to find a little slice of
peaceful paradise and detach myself from human connection. To live simply and without feeling.
Normally, I rush to get the earliest flight out.
But for the first time, I don’t feel the same urge to run.
TWENTY-FIVE
IVY
“How does it feel this morning?”
Dakota struts into the greenhouse in a gauzy tank top and turns her shoulder toward me, the fresh ink boldly displayed on her arm. “Perfect, as expected from my talented friend.”
“Everyone’s my friend when they want some ink,” I mutter. I have tattooed almost every last one of my closest friends, and if I haven’t inked them, then I’ve designed their work. Jesse Welles was the first person to ever take my design and actually put it on his body, back in my sophomore year of high school. I inked Dakota’s design on Alex’s shoulder. I’ve done six of Dakota’s seven tattoos, which she designed herself, and I embellished because it’s a compulsion. I even did Amber’s Irish fling’s tattoo—for free—just to keep him occupied one night last year, while I was in Dublin. The only good friend who won’t let me near her skin is Amber.
“So you said it was four hundred an hour?”
I shoot her a flat look from my curled-up perch in the wicker chair, my oversize coffee mug in hand. “For the freeloading leech, yes. But you are not paying me a dime. If anyone owes anyone anything, I owe you.”
She waves it off with a laugh. “People like that make life interesting, don’t they? And you know me, the more the merrier. That room is yours for as long as you want it.”
I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I could get used to rooming with Dakota, despite her questionable choice in dinner guests. And I know the offer will still stand even if she figures out that, while she was smoking a joint with her homeless friend, my bare ass was on her bathroom sink, next to her toothbrush, last night, when I was getting nailed by Sebastian. God, he was something else. Spending hours working on—and admiring—his body the day before did not prepare me for the nerves I would feel when he pulled those doors shut.
And then he took off, like a convict on the run.
“What are you and your Navy SEAL doing today?” Dakota asks, pushing the spout of a watering can into one of her plants. She must spend hours every day tending to her plants.
“I am going to start bagging all the trash in the house.” I climb out of the chair. “And I’m sure that last night was the last time I’ll ever see him.” Saying that out loud gives me a small twinge of disappointment, but I’m no idiot. He got what he wanted, and it was off-the-charts amazing. Let’s be honest—I got what I wanted last night, too.
The problem is, now I want more of it. I can’t remember the last time I actually missed a man after he left. Jesse, maybe, but that was completely different. Jesse was a high school junior, I was a gangly sophomore, and that little fling of ours lasted only a couple of weeks before he broke it off for no good reason. And we never slept together during that time. Sometimes I think my hurt feelings were more about my own ego than my feelings for him, even though they were strong.
But Sebastian . . . I already crave the feel of his hands peeling away my clothes. I crave the way he so confidently took my body. I crave the sensation of his all-consuming presence.
For the short time that we were within the walls of that bathroom I didn’t care about anything else. I focused on nothing but him.
And then he ran.
I’m not stupid enough to believe that he’s going to ring this doorbell at ten a.m. today. In fact, I’m going to leave early.
“Hmm . . .” She frowns deeply, her eyes glued to the lemon tree.
“Hmm . . . what?”
She doesn’t respond. That’s not surprising, though. Dakota can be spacey at the best of times.
“Dakota!”
“He’s very guarded, isn’t he?”
“Understatement of the millennium.” I grab a blueberry-and-God-knows-what-else muffin from the plate she brought out. Given that she bakes almost every day, I’m going to put on weight living here. That’s probably a good thing, though.
“The aura that surrounds him is”—her face pinches up; here we go—“dark and troubled. He’s not at peace with himself.”
I’d love to dismiss what she says, but at the same time, I like getting someone else’s take on this odd bodyguard who strolled into my shop and insinuated himself into my life. “He was a soldier. He saw terrible things that he probably can’t forget.” Just like I saw a terrible thing that I can’t forget. “He served two tours in Afghanistan, and he’s got some nasty scars. So I’m not surprised if you think his aura is troubled.” I hear enough in the news about PTSD and other challenges for these soldiers who return. In fact, the common message seems to be that they never come back the same person they were when they left.
There’s this ginger-haired guy, Ross, who hangs out a lot on the corner near Pasquale’s sometimes. He was in the army. I don’t know what he was like before the Iraq War, but I’m guessing he wasn’t the angry drunk Fez occasionally gives free slices to now.
Sebastian’s much more put together than Ross, though. Aloof, yes. Closed off, yes.
But he also seems to be operating with principle, and purpose.
Right now, that purpose is me. At least it was, until last night when I let him fuck me.
Am I regretting it? No, that’s not what this is.
I’m just dreading the inevitable swift end.
“He carries a heavy burden on his shoulders,” Dakota adds. “I think you’ll be good for him. I can already see that he’s been good for you.”
I laugh. “Good for him? Dakota, we barely know each other. It’s already over. Done.”
“You’ll give him the space he needs in order to open up to you,” she says, as if I hadn’t just spoken, “and he will, eventually. He just needs to know that he can trust you with his darkness.” The heavy frown vanishes with a sudden, excited look. “Oh! And you should tell him how you feel about him. He’ll want to hear that.”
“Hi. Have we met?” I don’t tell guys how I feel about them. I don’t tell anyone how I feel about them.
She smiles. “Don’t be so afraid, Ivy.”
I need to get out of here. “Well, while he’s deciding what to do with his darkness, I’m going to be cleaning up glass and couch stuffing so I can sell Ned’s house before the bank forecloses. Actually, first”—I pull out Bobby’s business card, my anger flaring—“I’ve got a bone to pick with someone.”
“Have fun! I’ll see you and Sebastian here for dinner around six?”
I roll my eyes but don’t bother to deny Dakota her delusion, grabbing my purse and keys and heading out.
I’m guessing the two guys flanking Bobby are the brothers in Bobby and Brothers Towing and Automotive. Both are even bigger than he is.
I make a point of slamming my car door as I march toward the open garage doors.
“Ivy.” Bobby saunters over, the chain hanging off his stained work pants clattering with each step. “What are you doin’ here? Comin’ to check on your ink?” He holds out his arm to show me the brilliant colors that I filled in. It’s scabbing over nicely. “I drove by Black Rabbit yesterday.” His face scrunches up. “Man, why white? Ned would lose his shit if he saw that. It looks—”
“You lied to me,” I snap, cutting him off before he sends me into a panic over what’s happening at the shop. Given the auto shop behind me—in a run-down area of Daly City, where trees are sparse and litter plenty—is a grimy mix of cobalt blue and construction orange, I shouldn’t let his opinion sway me too much.
“Look at you, with your hands on your little hips.” He chuckles, giving me a once-over, like I’m some cute little kid.
I have the urge to punch him in the face, but I restrain myself.
Pulling a rag out from his back pocket, he casually wipes the oil from his hands. “So, what’re you goin’ on about now?”
“When I asked you if Ned owed one of your
guys money and you said no, you were lying right to my face, weren’t you?”
A frown takes over his jovial expression as he glances over his shoulder at the other guys. “What have you heard?”
“That Ned had a sizable gambling debt with one of your guys.”
His boots drag over the gravel as he gets closer. “And who told you that?” His eyes aren’t nearly as soft, his face not nearly as friendly as it was a moment ago.
Maybe I shouldn’t have charged in here like this. I straighten my back. “The cops.”
He laughs. “Bullshit.” I guess the idea that the cops know about Iron’s internal affairs is crazy.
I hold his gaze until he realizes I’m not lying, and his grin falls off his face.
“Who told them?”
“You’ll have to ask Detective Fields that.”
He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Ned didn’t owe us nothin’. Tell your detective he has a shitty source.”
The meaning behind his words, his inflection, isn’t lost on me. “Who did he owe, then?”
Bobby heaves a sigh, muttering something unintelligible to himself. “Ned was into it with a guy named Sullivan. He’s not Iron. He’s . . . an associate of ours, who sometimes joins our game nights.”
“What kind of ‘associate’?”
“A business one,” he answers vaguely.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Guns?”
“No.”
“Hookers?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
He falters. “No.”
My stomach turns. So Ned owed money to a drug dealer. Hell, that’s worse than owing one of these bikers. “How much?”
Bobby sighs. “Two hundred and fifty g’s, originally. He paid up a hundred of that, but couldn’t get any more from the bank.”
My mouth drops open. “How the hell did Ned end up owing someone a quarter of a million dollars?”