WANTED: A Bad Boy Crime Romance

by Samantha Cade

  Eva leans over the table. “Yeah, but you’ve got to have something. Come on, show me this mysterious Pete.”

  Amber pauses for a moment to reason through this. Jack looks completely different than he used to, and Eva’s never mentioned the case. She’s probably not aware of it. And if she keeps refusing this request, Eva will only get suspicious.

  “Okay,” Amber says slowly, then flips open the phone. She has a couple pictures of Jack that she snapped in the apartment. She pulls one up and hands it carefully to Eva. “That’s him,” she says.

  Eva’s smile is bright as she studies the screen, but her complexion quickly turns the color of ash. Amber freezes in her seat, fearing she’s made a fatal mistake. Does Eva recognize him as Jack Larsen? Eva’s hand shoots out and grabs Amber’s wrist. Eva’s fingers are ice cold, her eyes are wide, her breath is caught in her throat.

  “That’s him,” Eva says in a fierce whisper.

  Amber’s skin is clammy. She feels like she could vomit. What should she do? Run away? Tell Jack they have to leave because she’s fucked everything up? While Amber’s trying to decide her next move, Eva continues.

  “That’s one of the men who raped me.”

  The statement is so unexpected, Amber has the irrational urge to laugh. Thankfully, she doesn’t.

  “What do you mean?” Amber’s mind grapples to understand.

  Eva turns back to the picture. “I’ll never forget his eyes. That’s him, the one who watched so coldly. I begged him to help me. He did nothing.”

  Amber’s blood goes ice cold. She feels light, heady, like she could float up to the ceiling. She blinks, shaking her head.

  “That’s impossible. Eva, are you sure?”

  Eva stares straight into the phone. “I’m sure. And his name’s not Pete. It’s Jack. I heard the others calling him that.”

  Amber’s feet act of their own accord. She stands up quickly, spilling her latte on the ground in the process. She makes a half-hearted attempt to clean it up with some napkins, muttering apologies to no one in particular. She jumps when Eva lays her hand on her shoulder.

  “Amber,” Eva says intensely. “He’s not who you think he is. You have to get away from him.”

  Amber looks down at the milky coffee and the pile of wet napkins. She wishes she could sink into herself, wake up from this awful dream. She can’t bear to believe what she’s hearing. But she can’t ignore it. How did Eva know his name?

  Amber stands up quickly, leaving the mess. She grabs her phone from Eva’s hand and rushes out of the coffee shop, ignoring Eva’s calls behind her.

  Amber takes off in a jog down the street. She doesn’t know where she's going, and she doesn’t care. She just has to keep moving. Her arms swing by her side as her legs propel her forward. Her heart rate increases, and her breathing comes heavy.

  That’s it, keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t think.

  *

  When Jack hears the knock on the door, his first thought is that it’s Detective Simon. Jack waits a few moments before answering, taking the time to talk himself out of strangling that weasel. Behind the peephole, he doesn’t see the wiry white hair. It’s Joel, his cherub face looking more flustered than ever.

  “Open up, Jack,” Joel says, pounding on the door. “I have something you need to see.”

  Jack fights down his instinct to trust Joel. He knows how shrewd his friend is with his lawyerly super powers. He’s able to talk his way out of anything. Is that what Joel’s doing now? What’s he got up his sleeve?

  Jack unlocks the door and walks away, allowing Joel to let himself in. There’s a heavy silence between them that lasts longer than is comfortable. Jack walks to the window and looks out on the street below. Amber has been gone over an hour. She should be back any minute.

  Joel slides his trench coat off, and drapes it over a chair. “How are you holding up?” Joel asks, quietly.

  Jack presses his palms against the window pane, and leans against them. “It’s a comfortable prison, but still a prison.”

  “Hopefully, I can help,” Joel says.

  Jack whirls around. “I thought you were helping, right? Working the case, making sure I could one day come out of hiding.”

  “I was, Jack, honest. These things take time.” Joel holds one hand up, and slowly reaches into his pocket, like he’s a criminal negotiating with a cop, and doesn’t want to make any sudden movements. “I have something.”

  Jack’s eyes flit down to the phone in Joel’s hand. His chest burns with hope. Maybe it’s evidence that doesn’t implicate any of his friends.

  “Show it to me. Now.”

  Joel stands beside Jack and swipes open the phone. Jack squints at the screen. The picture is dark and grainy. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking at. The burning hope drains to his stomach. Joel better not be trying to pull something.

  “I got the street surveillance from that night from my contact. This is a still from that video.” Joel’s fingers hovers over a blurry object. “That’s you.” He shifts his finger to the right. “That’s the person that filmed you.”

  Jack squints, cocking his head to side. He feels like he’s looking at one of those photos that allegedly captured a ghost. He never sees anything until it’s circled, and even then, it’s a stretch. Joel expands his fingers over the screen, zooming in on the “face.”

  “It’s better quality on my computer,” Joel grumbles. He presses a few buttons, playing with the display and shadows of the photo. “That’s the best I can do. What do you think? Do you recognize that person?”

  Jack takes the phone and holds it close to his face. He concentrates, waiting for the pixels to merge together and reveal a face. Finally, the lips spring forth, pale and pouty. It strikes something in Jack’s brain. He flashes back to that night, the parts he can remember. He remembers those lips, the way they parted with moans. They’re Chloe’s, the waitress.

  “I know her,” Jack says.

  Joel’s spine jerks straight up. “You do?”

  Jack nods. “That’s Chloe.”

  “The waitress.” Joel’s eyes dart back and forth as he processes this.

  Jack shoves the phone into Joel’s chest, pushing him back. “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Joel swallows hard. “I shouldn’t speculate. We need more evidence.”

  “Speculate,” Jack says, the word coming from somewhere deep and dark inside of him.

  “She could be working for someone.”

  “For who? Someone like Golding and Holderman?” Jack asks.

  Jack squares his body towards Joel, his biceps flexed. Jack’s been looking forward this, this confrontation with his old friend. He’s imagined it many times before, each time, a slightly different version. Sometimes, Jack issues a swift and effective punch to the jaw before forgiving Joel. Other times, it doesn’t turn out quite so well for the young lawyer.

  Joel raises both hands protectively in front of himself. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Joel shakes his head, his eyes soft with innocence. He’s lying. To me. Jack senses the boundaries of his conscious mind eroding. Any rational thought is being replace by primal, immovable instinct.

  “I’ve seen the files,” Jack says, the words oozing between his teeth. “The ones compiled by the FBI.”

  Joel’s brows knit and confusion. “How?”

  The blaze burns brighter inside of Jack. “Suddenly, you know what I’m talking about.” He steps towards Joel slowly, tauntingly.

  “Whatever you’ve heard, we didn’t have anything to do with your father’s murder. I didn’t have anything to do with your father’s murder. Someone else sent Chloe. You saw the evidence.”

  Don’t listen to this snake, Jack thinks.

  “That shitty picture doesn’t prove anything,” Jack says. “We walked together from the bar. I was going to get the keys to my father’s yacht.”

  “But why would sh
e film you?”

  “People film everything these days,” Jack says. He turns his eyes on Joel. “I always knew you were a good liar, Joel. I see what you’re doing here. You’re trying to confuse me so you can save your ass.”

  Jack steps forward, backing Joel up against the wall.

  “I’m trying to help you.” Joel keeps his arms out in front of himself, even though they’re starting to shake. “That’s all.”

  Jack swats his arms away, and grabs him by the collar. “You think I was set up, then, by who?”

  “It could be your uncle, or Henry,” Joel says, struggling to stay calm.

  Jack presses his lips together, nodding. “So I can’t trust them, why should I trust you? Tell the truth, Joel. What about the boy who died in Bangladesh. Your law firm cleaned it up for the company nice and tidy.”

  Joel breathes deeply, finding his voice. “Take your hands off of me.”

  “Did my father threaten to talk?”

  The color returns to Joel’s face momentarily. He opens his mouth and laughs, right in Jack’s face. Wrong move, Jack thinks, just before something snaps.

  Jack feels like it’s someone else’s hands tightening around Joel’s throat. He hears the tendons crunching, and the strained gasps coming from Joel’s mouth. When Joel’s eyes start to bug out, Jack comes to his senses. He quickly releases his hands, stepping back. Joel is doubled over, gasping, rubbing the red mark around his neck. He looks up at Jack, his eyes red and watering.

  “You fucking psycho,” Joel spits. “I knew it, I knew it from the beginning.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Joel’s eyes narrow. “You. You did it. You killed your father.” He struggles to stand up straight. “That’s why I told you to run. I knew you were guilty. That’s what a real friend does, isn’t it?”

  “Friend,” Jack growls, letting it vibrate in his throat. “You should leave Joel, before I kill you.”

  Joel stares at him in defiance, but only for a brief moment. He scrambles past Jack and skirts out of the door.

  Jack doesn’t move for a long time. He keeps staring at his hands, these phantom hands that act on their own, attacking people. He imagines those hands holding a gun, pointing it at his father, and pulling the trigger. He can almost feel the blood splash across his face.

  Jack tears into the bedroom, swinging the door open so hard the hinges groan. He rips the mattress off of the bed and retrieves the packet of cocaine. This time, he doesn’t try to talk himself of it. He rips the plastic wrap open, then buries his nose in the white powder, breathing in deeply. Fire burns through his nostrils and down his throat. He holds his breath, waiting for the euphoria to overtake him.

  *

  “I’m a fucking idiot,” Simon mumbles to himself. He lowers the binoculars from his eyes, then punches the steering wheel. The horn squeaks. He’s parked outside of the apartment in Queens, and just witnessed Jack nearly kill a man. Simon grabs his hair, pulling it away from his scalp. “The one time you want to go dirty, you make an impossible deal.”

  Jack’s innocence. That’s what getting the rest of his money depends on. He’d been bluffing when he threatened to turn Jack in. If he did that, it wouldn’t be long before they found the money in Simon’s account.

  Amber wants to believe Jack’s innocent. Jack can’t remember half the shit he’s done. Simon’s dealing with delusional people. And how delusional is Simon himself, to get in bed with them?

  Joel stumbles out of the building. His face is peaked, and he keeps rubbing his neck. Simon slides down in his seat a little so he’s not seen. But Joel doesn’t so much as glance his way. He’s too focused on getting far from Jack Larsen, and Simon can’t blame him.

  Simon thinks about kidnapping Amber, holding her hostage and demanding the rest of his money. That’s how desperate he is. The only solutions he can come up with are outlandish ones, ones that could get him deeper into trouble, or killed.

  The detective is mulling this over when he sees Jack’s large, foreboding figure moving down the front stairs. He goes to his car parked on the street, gets in, and starts the engine. Simon doesn’t know what else to do besides follow him.

  They drive over the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan, to a posh neighborhood enclave in Midtown. Jack parks, and walks into a building. Detective Simon recognizes the address. Dr. Sheila Wainwright lives here. Jack’s going to see his therapist.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dr. Sheila’s apartment building is ridiculously easy to get into. There’s no doorman, so Jack’s able to breeze right in. He looks around the simple lobby. He thought Dr. Sheila could afford much better than this. Maybe the crazy business isn’t as booming as he thought it was, though the need is definitely there. More CEO’s needed to get their heads checked out.

  There’s a barred door separating the stairs leading up to the apartments. It’s locked. Jack waits around for a few moments, making sure to stay out of view of the cameras that he can clearly identify in the corners of the ceiling. His opportunity comes when a petite older woman makes her way down the stairs with her cane. She opens the door, struggling under the weight.

  “Let me help you,” Jack says, opening the door wider for her.

  “Thank you, young man,” she says, then cuts through the lobby out of the front door.

  Jack holds his smile until she’s gone, then bounds up the stairs. His head is still swimming from the cocaine. It gives him a jacked up feeling of invincibility. Jack missed feeling like this, like nothing could touch him, and he could get away with anything.

  The coke hasn’t entirely gotten rid of the voices in his head like Jack had hoped. It only made them louder, more demanding. Not knowing who to trust is slowly driving him insane. He’s well aware of that. The only person that can give him the answers he needs is himself. To access the memories locked away in his mind, he needs Dr. Sheila.

  Jack’s never been to Dr. Sheila’s apartment before. He’s memorized the address from the self-help books she used to send him all the time. He stops in front of her apartment door, trying to decide what he should say. Should he claim to be a delivery man? No, then she would just look out of the peephole and see that he’s not.

  He could be up front, announce that he’s Jack Larsen, and that he’s having an emergency. He’s her patient, she’ll have to open up.

  Or, she’ll call the cops right away.

  Jack could kick the door down. In his drug addled mind, it sounds like a good idea. Without giving it much more thought, he lifts his leg, and hurls his foot into the door. The latch rips away from the frame, and the door swings open. Jack realizes it wasn’t locked to begin with.

  He walks in and sees Dr. Sheila fumbling through her purse, a look of pure terror on her face. Finally, she locates her pepper spray, and drops the purse to her feet. She holds the tiny vial in front of her, trembling.

  “Hello, doctor,” Jack says, cockily.

  Dr. Sheila lowers the pepper spray so she can study him more closely. “Jack?” She breathes out sharply through her nose, her fear replaced by annoyance. “I would’ve let you in. You didn’t have to kick my door in.”

  Jack closes the door behind him, taking a moment to make it flush with the frame. No one’s in the hallway, which is good.

  “You would’ve let me in?” Jack eyes the pepper spray she’s still gripping. “You’re not just saying that now that I’m already in?”

  She gives him a half-cocked smile, the one she gives when she’s had enough of his shit. “No, Jack. I’m glad you came to me. You’re my patient. Your well-being is my number one priority.” She makes a big show of picking up her purse, and stowing the pepper spray inside. She gestures to the chic living room clad in white and dark purple, just like her office. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Jack says, cringing at the absurdity of this exchange. This is not the time to be talking about oolong.

  “Where have
you been?” Sheila asks.

  “I don’t want to get into all that,” Jack says. “We need to move fast.”

  “You’re using.” She squints at him, studying his face. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  Jack jerks his gaze away. “I need it to level out. Now’s not the time, doctor. I need coke to think.”

  “That’s rationalization.”

  “This isn’t a session.” Jack hardens his face at her. His hand goes to the knife he carries in his pocket. He hopes he doesn’t have to use it. “I need something very specific from you. I need to know what happened the night my father died.”

  Dr. Sheila places a compassionate hand on his knee. “That’s what everyone’s trying to figure out. If you cooperate with the police-“

  “No. I need to know what I saw, what I witnessed. What I did.”

  Dr. Sheila curtly shakes her head. “I know what you’re asking, Jack. I told you, I’m not doing memory work again.”

  “You will.” Jack’s voice is so gruff and low, he barely recognizes it.

  Dr. Sheila purses her lips with resolve. “It’s too dangerous. You go away, far away. It’s not like with my other clients. You turn into someone else. I won’t subject myself to that.”

  “If I don’t find out the truth, I’ll die,” Jack says. “I can’t take this anymore.” He leans into her, she cowers back. “Do it.”

  “I can help you.” Dr. Sheila backs away slowly. “Let me call someone who can help you.”

  “No.” Panic explodes in Jack’s stomach, causing his hand to thrust out and grab her wrist. He holds her tightly in place while he takes the knife out of his pocket. He holds the blade up for her to see. Dr. Sheila begins to tremble, and her skin becomes clammy. It’s strange to see the usually confident doctor in this state of emotion. Usually, she gives very little indication that she’s human. “You’ll do it,” Jack growls. “Or I kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I’m on the edge here, doctor, looking over the side. Don’t think I’m bluffing. That would be a fatal mistake.” He brings the knife closer to her face, twisting the blade to mime what he’d do to her.