Interest piqued, Cutter cautiously eyed her movements but was hesitant to ask the question looming in his mind. Instead, he remained deathly silent. Storming back into the house, she slammed the front door and without a word to him, returned to her room.
In the past he had always waited for her to come to him with her problems, but this unexpected display of bitterness required his immediate intervention. After pouring her a tall glass of wine, he tapped on her bedroom door. "Ang, can I come in?"
"I'd rather be left alone," came her testy reply.
Testing the knob and finding it unlocked, he slowly pushed the door open and made his way in. The sight of her curled in the fetal position with a pillow clutched to her mid-section set him back a second, but he was determined to do for her what he had failed to do in their past. He would be there for her, regardless of the problem.
With determined fortitude, he placed one foot in front of the other as he made his way to her bed. Positioning himself on the edge, he held out the glass of wine he had poured and lovingly looked down at her. "This won't fix whatever is wrong, but it can't possibly make it worse."
The last person she wanted to talk to right now was Cutter, but she couldn't refuse his compassionate offer. Sitting up, she accepted his offering, chugged down the liquid and handing back the glass. "Thanks." Turning her back to him, she resumed her position and waited for him to leave. Admitting that her lover had betrayed her was difficult enough. Admitting to Cutter that he had been right about Dean was more than she cared to swallow just yet.
"Angie, talk to me," he begged.
Without permission, the tears that had been leaking from her eyes in spurts began to fall freely.
"I know what you need."
"I need to be left alone," she whimpered.
Undaunted by the statement, Cutter left the room with her empty glass, scurried to the kitchen and returned moments later with a tray.
"What are you doing?" she asked as he walked back in.
"I'm doing what I should have done a long time ago."
Irritated by his constant interference with her solo pity party, she concentrated her anger at Dean toward him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm being a friend."
The simple statement and thoughtful attempt was enough to make her sit up. "Two bottles of wine and two glasses?" she asked eyeing the tray. "You don't drink wine."
"I do tonight," he smiled. Placing the tray on the night stand opposite from where she sat, he kicked off his shoes, crawled up on the bed and poured them both a glass of liquid abandonment. Even in her state of sadness, she couldn't help but smile as he handed her the glass and sat the plate of snacks between them. After tossing a chunk of cheese in his mouth, she watched him lift his pinky finger from the stem of the glass and sip. The sight of Cutter putting on airs caused her to snicker.
"That's not how you do it," she teased. "It goes like this." Tilting her nose upward, she extended her neck, puckered her lips with haughty intent, stuck out her pinky and snobbishly lifted the glass for a sip. Keeping her lips tight, she swallowed. Using her best southern belle accent she said, "Pray tell, dear sir, what delicious sin are you serving me?"
A fit of hysteria seized him by the funny bone, causing uncontrollable laughter to temporarily incapacitate him. She had always been the life of any party and apparently her time in the city hadn't dulled her wit.
Finally gaining control of his fit, he wiped tearful joys from the corners of his eyes. Lifting his glass in a toast, they clinked glasses and enjoyed a few quiet sips.
"If you would rather drink beer, it won't hurt my feelings."
"If you want the wine all to yourself, just say so," he deadpanned.
It was her turn to laugh. "I really do."
"Thank God. Do you know how difficult it is for a beer loving, country boy to keep a straight face while sipping this crap? I prefer to swallow and chug, not sip."
With a smile on her face, she suggested they take the wine and snacks to the living room. Even if they were only enjoying a friendly chat, seeing Cutter kicked back in the spot on her bed that Dean had occupied just that morning was a tad bit uncomfortable.
She cozied down on the couch while he made himself at home on the opposite end. As they drank, joked and avoided the real reason behind her recent bout of upset, she was reminded of why the two of them had once gelled as a couple. He truly understood her background and there was no need for pretense.
As the idle talk wound down and the effects of the wine settled in, she admitted the truth. "You were right about him, you know."
"About Dean?"
"Yes." Staring at an invisible place on the far wall she sighed. "He was the one who set fire to the club."
"Are you serious?" he sneered. "How did you find out? Do the cops know?"
"I'm dead serious. The fire marshal reviewed the club's security tapes. The entire event was immortalized on video."
Placing a hand on her ankle, he gently squeezed. "I'm so sorry, Ang. I know how much you wanted to believe in him."
"I was an idiot for not listening to you. I'm sorry. I know I wasn't exactly nice to you, but I've spent my time in Dallas trying to get over you. When you showed up and immediately began to question Dean's motives, I assumed it was because of jealousy. I shouldn't have been so quick to mistrust you."
"I'm not going to lie to you. I was jealous. I wanted to be the man sitting behind your bedroom door, comforting you while you fought to pull things together for Bare Assets. I came to Dallas with the sole intent of making you fall in love with me again and taking you home. Once I got here, I realized that the life you've created here isn't as terrifying as your brother and I thought, excluding of course, what Dean did. That bastard deserves to rot in jail for what he did to you."
Before either of them could say more, the doorbell rang. "Are you expecting anyone?" he asked with furrowed brow.
"No."
"Could it be Dean?" The thought of that son of a bitch showing up at her house sent him into a fury. Jumping up from the couch, he slammed his beer bottle on the coffee table and stalked to the door. "If that son of a bitch had the audacity to come here, I swear to God, Ang," he said before pulling open the door with clenched teeth and fisted hands.
"Can I help you?" Unknotting the hammers of justice at the end of his arms, he relaxed when he laid eyes on the unfamiliar face, but only a little.
"Is Ms. Fletcher home?" asked the gray haired man on the other side of the door.
"Who is asking?"
"The Dallas Fire Marshal," he replied stonily.
"Oh, sure. Please, come in. I'm Cutter. A close friend of Angie's," he said extending his hand in greeting. The marshal's shake was firm, which Cutter knew to be a sign of a strong, confident individual.
Leading the man who had helped solve the mystery behind the fire into the living room, he couldn't help but thank him for the thorough investigation. The older man simply nodded.
"Oh," Angie said, not bothering to stand. She was too far gone to trust herself to stand. Instead, she waved him toward the chair closest to her and invited him to sit.
"Thank you for offering, but I can't stay. I've come to tell you that Mr. Murray was arrested this evening and we have now launched a new investigation. Though he refuses to accuse his employer, we have reason to believe that Mr. Benson may have had prior knowledge or been an accessory to the crime after the fact."
"What?" Propping herself further up, she shook her head. "I don't understand. Are you saying that Dean and Mr. Benson were in cahoots?"
"I'm saying that Dan Murray was Mr. Benson's club manager. As you and your staff reported, Mr. Benson has been making avid attempts to purchase your club. We think he may have used this as a scare tactic to force you to sell."
"His name is Dean, not Dan she corrected."
"You may have known him as Dean, but his legal name is Daniel. He goes by Dan."
"Wait a minute!" The drunken ambience of early wa
s gone. She jumped up, disappeared to her room and returned with a fireproof safe. Opening it, she pulled out a document, unfolded it and scanned the pages. After reading it several times, she handed it to Cutter.
"What name is on that contract?" she asked hurriedly.
Not sure what she was up to, Cutter glanced over the pages and reported his findings. "Dean Murray. This also lists his social security number, driver's license number and physical address. Why?"
Taking the document from Cutter, she waved them at the two men in the room. "This is the contract he signed when he invested in Bare Assets. If his legal name is Dan Murray and this contract says Dean Murray, then he's not legally a partner at all. This contract is forfeit."
"May I see?" the marshal asked, holding out his hand.
Angie gladly passed it to him and anxiously watched as he slowly read the form.
"The address on this contract is not the address we picked him up at, but it wouldn't surprise me to know he had more than one property. If the residence we arrested him at is any indication, the man lived well above his job description."
"The house he took me to while we dated wasn't grand on any scale, though it was cozy enough," she said. "He lived there with his wife before she died."
"I can't be sure, but I don't believe the man we arrested was ever married, Ms. Fletcher. He's only twenty-three."
"Dean's twenty-nine," she corrected before catching her mistake. "Or at least that's what he told me."
"Con artists have a way of saying and doing whatever they feel they need to do in order to make their cons work. It's possible that he created a wife that never actually existed and came up with an age that was suitable for you to find dating appropriate."
"He took me to her grave," she whispered painfully.
Handing the document back to its owner, the marshal added another bit of information. "I'm not an attorney, but I would be sure to contact one and inquire as to whether or not you are legally bound by the fraudulent nature of this one."
"You can bet your sweet ass I will," she stated. "It's hard to fathom that someone can weave such a believable tale. He even cried when he told me about the deceased wife. He hadn't dated anyone since her death and honestly, I was more attracted to him because of his loyalty to that fictitious spouse."
"As I said, con artists know what to say and how to say it. Because a homemade bomb was used in the act, homeland security has been notified. He won't be released on bail because of the nature of the crime. My office will notify you when we receive the arraignment date."
"Thank goodness," Cutter breathed. "That son of a bitch should never get to see the outside of a jail cell again."
"We'll leave that to the judge and jury," the marshal said as he shook Angela's hand and then turned to shake her male friend's hand as well.
"I'll show you out," Cutter offered.
As the tall, handsome fire marshal left the living room, she sank back onto the couch, reached for her wine glass and with her empty hand, pushed her jaw shut. These types of things only happened on crime television shows to the elderly or unsuspecting. They didn't happen to alert, cautious, bull-headed women like her. Well, apparently it did because she had been bull-dozed by Dean and never would have imagined him to be the monster that Cutter had warned her against.
If she doubted before, she knew now it was true. Monsters were real. They lurked in the shadows of drug infested streets, strip clubs and the upper set of society. They dressed in leather, Sunday finery and denim. They flashed toothless smiles and heart stopping ones. They came in every color, shape and size. They didn't come with a warning label or a tattoo with which to identify them and they could take on whatever form and personality they chose.
Dean Murray, or Dan Murray rather, had truly been a denim-wearing devil and he had dazzled her with his charms and then bled her emotionally dry. The woman, who swore never to allow another man to crush her heart again, felt it shrivel into a hard, solid rock of utter disrepair. Never again would anyone cut through the stone that now replaced an organ which had pumped life.
With the warmth of the wine coursing through her blood, she allowed a solitary tear to leak from her eye and silently promised herself that it would be the last tear she ever shed over a man. The few weeks she had spent with Dean had been beyond amazing. She had laughed, loved and had even begun to dream of sharing a future with her special someone. Those days were over. She was and would forever be alone and there was not a man in the world that would convince her otherwise.
After seeing the marshal out, Cutter locked the door and made his way back to the couch. As he returned to his former place at the end of the sofa, he felt the air shift. Glancing at the woman he had known for a lifetime, he studied her carefully. The stony gaze and unreadable expression on her face sent shivers down his spine and he knew that for the second time in her life, Angela Fletcher was re-inventing herself as she did each time her pain became too much to bear.
Before she could dive further into her mental shut down, Cutter butted in. "How much longer before the restorations are complete?"
"Given the amount of water damage, they gave an estimate of a week and then the interior designer will begin work."
"Is it a requirement that you oversee the restoration or is the team pulling carpeting, wall coverings, and drying out the water?"
"The second half of what you asked. Why?"
"Because I think this would be the perfect time for you to pay a visit to your brother. The fresh air will help you put things into perspective. Not only that, he would be off his rocker if you just popped in for a visit."
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe not, but Cutter's idea was the best one she'd heard in ages.
"I think that's a great idea. I'll call the restoration crew in the morning to let them know I'll be out of town. Reaching over for the bottle of wine, she refreshed her glass. Gulping it down, she looked over at her ex and smiled at his wide eyed expression. She had never been a heavy drinker.
"Don't look so surprised. I've earned a trip into wine oblivion. You're welcome to join. I hear it's a hell of a ride."
Retrieving his warm beer from the coffee table, he kicked it back before going to the fridge for more. Carrying a new bottle of wine along with several bottles of brew, he knelt down to deposit them on the table and then fell back into his spot. Once he was cozy, he held up a newly opened beer. With a face splitting grin he winked.
"I'll see you on the other side of hang-over, baby girl."
And just like that, two old friends who had lost their way were brought together by heart ache and the mind numbing effects of alcohol. They spent the rest of the evening sharing their, 'I can't believe I fell for that shit', lists concerning Dean, Becky and the six lost years which until now, had stood between them.
Chapter 18
She had never expected to see him again.
~ Angela
"Get the hell off this property!" Cutter yelled as he stormed out of Buddy's house.
Before the screen door could slam shut, Buddy was at his friend's side with a shotgun aimed at the intruder.
"You heard the man. Get back in your fancy car and head back to whatever rock you climbed out from under. My sister won't be talking to the likes of you!"
Dean held up his hands in surrender but didn't move. "Listen. There's been a huge misunderstanding. I'm not who you think I am."
"We know exactly who the hell you are," Cutter shouted. "You're the freaking con artist who tried to burn down her club. She doesn't have anything to say to you."
"Please, just let me explain," he pleaded.
"There's isn't anything to explain," Angela said as she trotted down the front steps to confront the man who had nearly cost her everything.
"Angela," Dean breathed, lowering his hands. Forgetting about the shotgun pointed at him, he took a few hurried steps past the man he assumed was her brother and stopped. The sound of a shotgun being pumped is enough to cause anyone to second guess their moti
ves. Lifting his hands back into the air, he glanced at the woman standing just yards away and said, "Just five minutes. That's all I ask."
Unmoved by his pleas, she crossed her arms and through slotted eyes she silently cursed him for the grief and deception.
"When did you get out?" she wanted to know. He had to have serious ties with the branches of government in order to con his way out of jail.
"I was never in jail. That's what I'm trying to tell you. It wasn't me who set the fire, Angela."
"I saw you! The fire marshal has the entire event on video. It's funny how a little camera can capture so much information. Don't you think? You're not going to con your way out of this, Dean. Give it up."
Carla came out of the house, stood beside her sister in law and wrapped her arms through hers in a display of protectiveness.
"Call the fire marshal if you don't believe me. He'll tell you everything."
"I talked to him two days ago. I don't need to talk to him again. How could you, Dean? I trusted you. I opened up to you and in return all I got were lies," forcing the tears to remain in check, she twisted her head to an angle to look away.
"Please. Call him."
With as much detachment as she could muster, she looked into the eyes of the man who had given her hope for the future, only to snatch it away.
"You need to leave," she said. Without further ado, she turned on her heel with sister-in-law in tow, and went back into the house. The resounding slam of the screen door announced finality to the situation. Running to her old bedroom, she plopped down on the mattress and stared at the ceiling, wishing that her life was different. How many times had she stared at that same ceiling while having those same thoughts? Each time it had been because of a man.
Bare Assets Page 16