Man in Queue

by Shandi Boyes

  I shouldn’t nod, but I do. You can’t see what I’m seeing. Even through the haze, his massively dilated pupils, and the low hang of his lids, his eyes aren’t the ones of a liar. He’s either telling the truth, or I’m a complete fucking idiot. I really hope it isn’t the latter.

  “Okay. Go to sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  I tickle his beard in a soothing manner, hoping the gentleness of my touch will lull him to sleep. This isn’t a conversation I want to have in general, much less with a drunk man.

  “Promise me you’ll be here in the morning, Rae.” His words are slower, more relaxed. “I want to wake with your hair fanned across my chest like I have the last four days.”

  I run my thumb along his little scar hidden from view before nodding. “I’ll be here.”

  “Promise me.”

  My chest rises and falls three times before I stammer out, “I promise.”

  My pledge gives him the comfort he needs to fall asleep. It also eases my heartache a little. He let me leave without injury that night at Substanz. He didn’t have to. He didn’t know me, so he had no reason to believe me when I said I wasn’t a prostitute, yet he still did. He gave me his faith even though I didn’t deserve it, so shouldn’t I do the same for him?

  Perhaps he doesn’t know I’m Rae from Substanz?

  Maybe he’ll be as blindsided by our bizarre connection as me when I expose it to him?

  I don’t believe in miracles, but I never thought I would be capable of falling in love either.

  24

  I wake up a little after 5 AM. That’s not unusual. Before Alex, I pounded the pavement for two hours before the sun even rose. I feel like running now; I’m just not sure if it is to burn off excess energy or confusion. It’s probably a bit of both.

  Alex groans when I roll him over so he is lying on his back. He barely budged an inch all night. I guess when you consider the alternative, I was extremely lucky. Last night could have ended a whole lot worse than it did.

  While rubbing a kink in my neck, I head into Alex’s tiny kitchen to hunt down some pain medication. Two tablets for me to ease my aching head, and three for Alex’s thumping head he’s yet to become aware of.

  I find a bottle of pain medication rather quickly sitting on the top of his fridge. Now all I need is a glass to fill with water. Since Alex’s kitchen is one tenth the size of mine, that doesn’t take long to discover either. It is in the bottom cupboard on my left, just to the right of a stack of open shelves. He has the usual items: old bills, dated magazines, and two frosting canisters.

  I shouldn’t pry, but as they say, curiosity killed the cat.

  The first tin of frosting has the same fake IDs I found in the pantry at The Manor.

  I wish the second was just as innocent.

  I’ve never paid much attention to how large frosting cans are. You wouldn’t think by looking at them that they’re capable of hiding a cell phone. Not just any cell phone either, a highly recognizable one, one I last saw when it slipped from my grasp and fell down a grate an hour before I bumped heads with a stranger in an elevator.

  Here it comes again. The steamroll of idiocy is smacking into me once more.

  While leaning my back on the kitchen counter to take in some deep breaths, my eyes float around Alex’s kitchen. They don’t travel far, only to a sleek-looking laptop hiding beneath a stack of papers.

  My heart rate that hasn’t settled since yesterday morning bangs out a new tune when I recall Alex telling me his laptop was at the shop. Although he could have had it returned by now, I don’t know when. Excluding today, he’s rarely left my side. I’m not overly friendly with computers, but Bosco, the only IT shop owner in town, is a sleaze I’ll never forget. Even though I agreed to be his fake date at the annual cook off his family holds in Miami each year, it still meant my laptop was returned a week later. Alex doesn’t have boobs and ass on his side, so he will be required to wait the general six to eight weeks every male resident of Ravenshoe waits.

  After a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure I’m still alone, I pull Alex’s laptop out of its hidey hole. No passcode, no lock code, and no fucking chance in hell Alex can pretend he didn’t know me before he knocked me out. There are photos—dozens of them. Most are of me running, but there are the occasional ones of me out of my active gear. I’m either staring into space or wiping away the tears I pretend don’t fall at the same time every night.

  My hand rattles when I run my finger over the touch pad to open up his emails. He’s smarter than me. He doesn’t leave an obvious paper trail. Other than a few emails about Danielle, his inbox is empty.

  I curse into the brisk morning air when an email lands in his inbox out of nowhere. Its loud whoosh sounds like a siren roaring through Alex’s apartment since not a single noise can be heard—not even Alex’s faint snores from earlier.

  Clutching at my chest to ensure my heart remains in place, I return my eyes to the screen of the laptop. The cause of my near heart failure is an email from someone named BJ. The subject requests for them to have an urgent meeting, and it was sent only thirty seconds ago.

  Confident I can make the email look unread with one quick click of a mouse button, I open it.

  Alex,

  We need to meet. Preferably outside of the office. It’s in regards to the information we obtained about Theresa this morning. Please delete this message once you’ve read it. I also sent additional details to your phone.

  BJ

  After reminding myself time and time again that there are plenty of women in the world named Theresa, I assess BJ’s email more diligently. What information is BJ referring to? Alex couldn’t have helped him this morning, as he was with me all morning. He never left my side. . . except when he consigned me all the hot water so I could wash my hair. I found my open laptop on the bed following this.

  You son of a bitch!

  After tossing his laptop back in its rightful spot, I charge into Alex’s room. I’m not planning to wake the ass-peddling, lying son of a bitch. I want proof.

  Proof he’s a liar.

  Proof he’s a user.

  Proof I’m the biggest fucking idiot in the world for ever believing a single word he said.

  I find what I’m hunting for a few seconds later. His brand new cell has only been in his possession a few hours, but since I overheard the customer service representative showing him how to activate his phone using iCloud connectivity, I’m hoping it will hold the clues I’m seeking.

  I hit a snag when my swipe of the screen requests a lock code. I try every combination I can think of before the iPhone locks me out of his device for five minutes. Five minutes might not seem like a long time in a standard, everyday life, but when you’re seeking answers while only two seconds from losing your shit, it feels more like a death sentence.

  “He broke your trust first,” I assure myself as I call a frequently dialed number on my cell.

  Even with the early hour, Hunter answers in a timely manner.

  “I need your help,” I demand, rudely not offering a greeting.

  I hear Hunter scrub the thick beard on his jaw before he replies, “Anything.”

  He knows he owes me, so this will make us even.

  Over the next ten minutes, Hunter walks me through the process of hacking into Alex’s phone. At the start, he was hesitant as to why I couldn’t ask Alex his details, but a quick mumble about Alex being an adulterer changed Hunter’s prospective.

  Hunter hates cheaters, so much so, he offered to drain Alex’s bank account of the scarce funds he has before guaranteeing to fleece any family money he has coming his way in the distant future.

  I thanked him for the offer but said it was unnecessary. I wish I wasn’t so quick to refuse when the evidence in Alex’s phone turns damning.

  Although his iCloud account has yet to sync with his photos, the handful in his album take care of the last thread binding my heart together. Add them to the messages BJ sent every hour on
the hour the past eight hours, and I can only reach one conclusion: he used me. Not to get to Isaac. Not to have me face charges over half a decade old. He used me to advance in his position at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  That boss he spoke of, the one he appears to hate, she’s the same woman my boss loathes. Their reasons for dislike are vastly contradicting though. Isaac can’t stand Theresa Veneto because she’s dragged him through three years of legal battles in an attempt to pin an illegitimate child on him. Alex hates her because she’s higher-ranked than him.

  Well, was.

  From BJ’s messages, it’s obvious she was removed from her position last night. Either Alex didn’t get BJ’s messages strongly urging him against using the information he discovered this morning, or he didn’t care about his advice because each message received reveals BJ’s growing agitation.

  3:45 PM – We need to talk. It’s urgent.

  3:55 PM – Is this the right number? Why aren’t you replying?

  4:10 PM – I know you think you’ve struck gold, but don’t use the information you unearthed about Theresa.

  I didn’t think you could feel someone’s frustration via a text, but BJ’s next one proves me wrong.

  4:15 PM – Alex, fuck! Call me before you do something you’ll regret.

  That’s around the time Alex dropped me off at my apartment.

  4:35 PM – You did it, didn’t you? You used the information. What the fuck were you thinking? Having her removed from her position won’t help.

  5:35 PM – This won’t end well. No matter how well you spin it, this won’t end well.

  6:35 PM – I thought you were about the department, not the glory?

  7:35 PM – I tried, man. I really tried.

  Clearly, Alex isn’t the only one who hit the bottle tonight. BJ’s next message is riddled with spelling errors.

  8:35 PM – I should hadn in my badge now, save htem coming to serach for it. You should tell her, Alxe. She deserves to know.

  Even heavily intoxicated, Brandon can tell right from wrong.

  It’s a pity Alex can’t.

  25

  “Rae?”

  You have no idea how hard that was to say. The burn in my throat is so horrific, even a three letter name is too much for me to handle. What the fuck is wrong with my throat? Did I swallow razor blades last night? And my head, it’s thumping even more now than it did when I was knocked unconscious.

  My legs feel like dead weights when I swing them over the bed. I scan my bedroom, aware of where I am, but having no recollection of how I got here. The last I remember is entering Regan’s apartment. My god, our kiss. It was the best we’ve ever had. It tied me to my woman even more, ensuring the decision I made last night was a step in the right direction.

  I shuffle across the wooden floorboards of my apartment like an old man who can’t bend his knees. I don’t know why I’m searching for Regan. A woman with an aura as strong as hers can’t hide in a crowd, much less a dingy, cramped apartment. I can still smell her scent lingering in the air, though, so she must have left some time in the last hour.

  A groan rolls up my chest when I spot my phone sitting on the dining nook in my kitchen. It’s barely 6 AM.

  Upon spotting no unread messages or emails, I log into my contacts and fire off a message to Regan.

  Me: I’m sorry about last night. Must have eaten something bad. I’m going to go die in bed for a few more hours. If you don’t hear from me by lunch, call in the coroner.

  I laugh before hitting send. It is an apologetic but fun message, kind of similar to how I’m feeling.

  Although I won’t fully rest until Jay is behind bars, and Theresa is as far from Ravenshoe as possible, my eyelids aren’t giving me any other options. The instant my head hits my pillow, I crash for a solid ten hours.

  My head is still thumping when I return to the land of the living, but it has nothing on the mad beat of my heart. Regan still hasn’t made contact. I have no missed calls or text messages. We generally communicate in person, so I could excuse poor technology skills as her lack of contact, but I know how fanatical she is about returning Isaac’s messages. If she’s not messing up the sheets with me, she’s rarely seen without her cell phone in her hand.

  I scrub the sleep from my eyes as I dial Regan’s number for the fourth time today. It rings and rings and rings, but she fails to pick up. I leave a message before sending her another text. They’re similar to ones I’ve already sent.

  Me: Call me as soon as you get this. I don’t think you should be alone right now.

  My girl is strong, but she’s been through so much the past twenty-four hours, I’m sure she’s struggling to recognize herself.

  I shower, dump my sweat-riddled clothes into the washing machine, then head to the kitchen for a strong, dark brew. Another thirty minutes have passed, and there are still no calls or messages from Regan, so I do what all desperate men do. I call in back up.

  Brandon’s contact is as stifling as Regan’s. My calls go straight through to his voicemail, meaning he is either on another call or his phone is dead. I leave him a voicemail like I did on Regan’s phone, but my tone is more anxious now and slightly more panicked.

  When another thirty minutes pass with no contact, my heart thuds into my ribcage as my feet pound the concrete stairwell of my apartment building. I charge down them, my steps so frantic, I misdial a frequently called number several times during my short trip.

  I stop hailing a cab like a madman when the FBI switchboard operator answers my call two seconds later. She dispatches me through to the Ravenshoe division even faster than that.

  “I’m Alex Rogers, requesting an update on a target.” I rattle off Regan’s details to the agent who accepted my call.

  My graceful slide into the back of the cab turns into a thud when he updates me on Regan’s location.

  “Are you sure?” I double-check while pressing my phone closer to my ear, certain I heard him wrong.

  “Positive,” he replies, his tone relaying his confidence. “She hasn’t left her apartment since she entered it early this morning.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  I throw bills at the cab driver, encouraging him to floor the gas.

  We arrive at Regan’s apartment with a record-setting pace under our belts. After awarding the cabby’s tenacity to wrangle the populated streets of Ravenshoe into being his bitch with a few more bills, I enter Regan’s apartment building. I take a quick detour through the service room hidden at the back of the foyer to ensure the security wires I cut last night are still tethered.

  I’m not surprised when I notice they’ve been repaired. Isaac is as pedantic about personal safety—or should I say staff scrutiny?—as he is about concealing his criminal activities from the eyes of the law.

  After my pocket knife makes quick work of the freshly installed wires, I take the emergency stairs two at a time. I could ride the elevator, but a conversation I had with the security personnel of Regan’s building last night changed my mind. He said they were in the process of having additional security measures implemented in Hector. That usually means CTV cameras in layman’s terms.

  The situation in my stomach worsens with every stair I climb. I’m not worried Regan is injured. My girl is fierce, and I’m confident she can protect herself. It is the niggle in my gut warning me that my world is about to be upended causing my weighted steps.

  By the time I reach Regan’s floor, I’m sweating profusely and wheezing like Brandon did when he busted into the hallway to say he spotted Regan’s stalker reentering her apartment. The memory reminds me that I should give Brandon an update on Regan’s case. He probably has no clue her stalker wasn’t really a stalker, and that Jay was merely one of the many suckers Theresa snagged in her web of deception the past year.

  My bangs on Regan’s door match the mad thump of my head. I don’t know exactly what I ate to make me feel like this, but I’m never eating Chinese food again. I’ve never been so
unwell.

  “Rae?” I bang again.

  This time I only get two thumps in before the door swings open. Instantly, my woes are a thing of the past. Regan’s hair is wet and swept to the side, exposing inches of her ravishing neck. Her smell is fresh as if she’s recently showered, and her face is. . . vibrant and red.

  Hmm, that’s odd.

  “Are you okay? I’ve been calling you all day.”

  She steps away from me when I attempt to cup her jaw to kiss her hello.

  “What’s going on?” I lift my hand to my mouth and breathe out to make sure the acid scorching my chest isn’t affecting my breath. My teeth still smell minty fresh from their recent brushing.

  I drop my hand from my face. “Did I do or say something wrong last night? I’m having a hard time remembering anything.” I chuckle, hoping it will lighten the mood. It seems to have the opposite effect.

  “You need to leave.” Regan’s pitch is as sharp as her lips are furled.

  “Okay,” I reply, stunned by the severity of her tone. “I’ll leave. . . once you tell me what’s going on.”

  Her already narrowed eyes slit even more. “I don’t need to give you an explanation. I just need you to leave.”

  I shove my foot in the way when she attempts to slam her door in my face. The width of my boot means I can only see half of her, but it is open wide enough I can’t miss the agitation crossing her face.

  “What the hell is going on, Rae? We were fine last night, so what happened between now and then that’s gotten you all worked up?”