The elevator doors slide open, and he takes my hand, leading me down the hall to a door on the right. He knocks, and the door opens a few seconds later to a small, curvy dark-haired girl with a scowl on her face standing on the other side. “You suck, Nicky.”
He drops my hand to give her a hug. “Nice to see you too, Lia.”
“Sorry.” Her apology is muffled by his shoulder. “Good to see you. You still suck.”
I like this girl.
She peers around him. “Hi.” Her gaze is lit with curiosity. “I’m Liana.”
“Cass.”
Nick shifts to the side and draws me to him. “She needs to borrow a scarf.”
Her eyes stop at the bandage on my throat. “I sort of forgive you.” She glances up at her brother. “You were rude. What if I was on my way to class?” She flicks a hand at him. “Never mind. Come on in.”
She closes the door, and we head deeper into the apartment. Her place makes my apartment look dingy. Large windows line one wall, bright October sunshine streaming through. Dark purple pillows covered in a nubby-looking fabric are tossed carelessly on a dark brown couch, her laptop open on one of the cushions.
Nick strides to the window and stares down at the street. He swears softly before fishing his phone out of his pocket.
Lia snags my elbow and steers me into a short hallway, then through an open doorway on the right. Her bedroom is as bright as the living room, though it’s a lot more cluttered. There’s scraps of fabric everywhere. “He’s probably going to be a minute while he growls at whomever he’s getting to take care of whatever problem’s going on.”
I doubt the problem can be solved with a single phone call. “Right.”
Nick wasn’t kidding. She has a huge collection of scarves. Two laddered hangers meant to hold pants are covered in floaty, colorful scarves. She throws them on the bed and paws through the layers, tugging a couple of them free. Frowning over her choices, she doesn’t speak as she holds them against my shirt. My brows draw together. “You’re a textile design major?”
“Yeah,” she says absently. “I like clothes, but not enough to design them. This one.” She holds up a blue and white scarf, dotted with splotches, the blue fading in and out in places. She loops it around my neck, tucks in the ends, and adjusts the fabric before pushing me toward the mirror hanging on the back of the door. “Try not to move it so much. No one should notice.”
“Thanks.” Denise will. But lying about getting a new scarf is easier than lying about a gash on my throat.
“How’d it happen, anyway?” She gives me an expectant look, and I have to remind myself she’s a mobster’s daughter. I can get away with the truth here.
“Someone tried to slit my throat. He took too long, and I got away.” Okay, not the whole truth. Just part of it. “I’ve been staying with Nick, and my best friend doesn’t know what’s going on, and I want to keep it that way. So”—I point to my neck—“the scarf.” Nick was so lying about his sister. Shy? Slow to open up? Please.
“Cassidy. Time to go.” Nick grabs my hand and tows me to the front door, Lia trailing us, protesting the whole time that he’s taking advantage of her.
“Lia, thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
We’re in the stairwell, clattering down the steps, when my brain catches up. “What’s going on?”
“Called in a distraction. Someone’s watching the building. We’ve got a slim window to get the car out of the garage.”
“Oh.”
Less than a minute later, our steps are echoing off the polished cement floor of the garage. Nick unlocks the driver’s side door of a boring navy blue four-door and hands me the keys. “Drop me outside the other garage.”
The garage entrance is in an alley, and he directs me to go left out of the alley. I zig and zag my way through the streets to the first garage, wasting precious minutes losing a tail I don’t have. Idling next to the curb, Nick wastes even more time leaning over to kiss me hard. “Do me a favor? Don’t get knifed.”
The heat of his lips weighs heavy on my mouth as he slides out of the car and jogs through the entrance to the garage. If the man has a problem with me causing the death of his cousin, he’s sure not acting like it.
Somewhere between Lia’s Chinatown apartment and Westwood, I find an alley and park. The engine ticks quietly as I call Officer Gregory.
“Ms. Turner.” Cool. Neutral. Officer Gregory must be good at his job. I’d be furious or insanely curious. Possibly both. “I’m afraid I’ll need you to come in to answer some questions.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated in a disgustingly hard plastic seat, my hands jammed between my thighs. Officer Gregory looks worn out, but that doesn’t stop him from leveling a disapproving look at me.
I force a quiver into my voice. “I’m sorry. I panicked the other day.”
“Why don’t you start with where you’ve been staying?”
My stomach falls, and I study the dirty linoleum. “With my boyfriend,” I whisper. “He’s older than me. A lot older, and my parents don’t approve of him.”
“Your roommate seems to think your mother’s received some sort of threat.”
The problem with lies is you tell too many, they get tangled in your mouth. Officer Gregory saves me from having to tell yet another one. “Your mother confirmed it. But she didn’t know where you were staying.”
Gaze on the floor, I wait for the next question. In the ensuing silence, the sounds of the station fill my ears. Copiers spewing out papers, the low murmur of voices, a distant phone ringing. Finally he sighs. “Tell me what happened.”
Relief trickles through. “I got there a little early and noticed the door was open. I figured you were already inside, so I walked in. I saw the body in my bedroom, freaked, and ran out.”
He leans back in his chair. “I can understand forgetting to call the police in a moment of shock, Ms. Turner, but frankly, your behavior in general has been suspect.”
I lift my hands, helpless to offer a plausible lie. “The last few days have really fried my brain. The break-in and now this… I haven’t even been to class.” And I wouldn’t be returning.
Officer Gregory isn’t buying what I’m selling, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. Good thing, because I don’t know what else I could say to make him believe my lies. He lets me go after another round of questions, and I get in the car and drive to campus.
After the police station, dealing with the registrar is a piece of cake. I fill out a couple forms, am promised a refund of the rest of my tuition for the semester, and then I’m outside a few minutes later calling Denise.
“Cass!” Hysterical. She sounds hysterical, and a vise clamps on to my lungs. It screws tighter at her next question. “God, where have you been? Where are you now?”
“On campus. Meet me at The Grateful Bread?”
“Ten minutes. Cass, are you all right?”
Out of habit, I scan the walkways and find nothing unusual. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
I have ten minutes to figure out how to lie to my best friend. Again. The vise closes another inch.
Chapter 17
“Cass!” Denise stands up so fast her chair tips over, and she stumbles over her bag in a hurry to throw her arms around me.
Then she starts crying.
Her obvious worry has a lump forming in my throat, and I blink back tears of my own. I hate this. I hate having to lie to her. I hate how much danger being my friend has put her in, and she doesn’t even know it. Best friends since junior high, and not being able to talk to her, to tell her everything about Nick and my parents, is killing my soul, one ugly second at a time.
“Neese. Hon, I’m here.” It’s hard to talk. My tongue is thick in my mouth, words foreign, a damn tingling in my nose, and burning in my eyes.
She eases away and swipes at her tears. “Why are you wearing a scarf?”
All at once I’m tired of lyi
ng. There’s a lot I can’t tell her, but I can leave it out. “Can we sit down?”
She rights her chair and sits, pushing an oversize cup toward me, and the tears I struggled against brim again. Chai, with tons of honey, exactly how I like it. Denise has been my friend long enough that the battlements I’ve erected to keep others out open to let her in.
I suck in a breath, let it out. Drink some tea. Suck in another breath. Tug the scarf away from my neck.
Her face goes sheet white, her eyes wide and stuck on the bandage on my throat. “What is that?” The question is wavering and full of fear.
“Someone tried to slit my throat a few days ago.” I cup my hands around the mug, suddenly cold. “Mugging gone wrong, I think.” Lie. “I managed to get away. The cut’s not too bad, but I’m keeping it covered for a few days while it heals.” When she doesn’t say anything, I push on. I tell her I fought with my parents and I’m not staying with them—both true statements. “They think he’s too old for me,” I say with a scowl. “I’ve been staying with him instead.”
The number of truths, happily, outweigh the lies at this point, though I don’t go back and tell her why I asked her to stay away from the apartment. Allowing her to think it’s still because of the threat to my mother means she’ll be worried for me, but I’d rather have her worried than in danger.
I’m scared to tell her the truth. If Denise were to judge me for the past I’ve kept from her, I’d slip into that cold, empty space and never come out. I’d lose the toehold on my sanity. She has no idea how important she is to me. How completely screwed I’d be if she wasn’t around. Being this dependent on another person scares the crap out of me, but I don’t know how else to be.
“Wait. Nick’s your boyfriend? That totally gorgeous man from our kitchen is yours?” Denise’s hazel eyes round in surprise. “I thought you said he was with your mother’s firm.”
Squirming would not be a good idea right now. “He is. It’s part of the reason Mom and Dad don’t approve. It’s obnoxious, you know? I’m an adult. He’s only ten years older than me. If I were just a few years older, no one would care. But they’re treating it like I’m still in high school or something.” I scowl into the cup.
“Well…”
I glance up, and Denise is biting her lip and staring at the table top. “Go on. Might as well say it.”
Guilt colors her face. “I don’t see how it could work. You’re in two completely different places. I mean, he’s got a job and a place of his own, and you’re still finishing your degree. He’s had, I dunno, life experience and stuff.”
Plus the cultural references. Don’t forget the cultural references. I make a mental note to watch The Godfather sometime soon. “I sort of get it. It’s weird for me too. I figured we wouldn’t have much in common.”
As far as I know, we don’t. I’m not interested in dating him. I just hope we can indulge in some good, sweaty sex while this whole mess is going on, then go our separate ways once it’s over. It’s been too long since I’ve seen any action, and I’m getting antsy.
“The maturity level isn’t to be underrated, though.” The guys I dated since starting college had ranged from douchebags to total sweeties, but none of them came close to the realm of care Nick has shown me, and we’re not even a couple. “You know Charlie would do anything for you, right?”
Her cheeks flush, and she nods, lips curving in a small smile. Jealousy pierces my chest. I want that. I want the guy who looks at me like I’m the most amazing thing ever created. I want the guy who would stand in front of me without hesitation and fight off the bad guys.
Or in my case, the guy who knows my strengths well enough to let me fight the bad guys myself.
“Nick’s like that.” A lie, built off a kernel of truth. I think, given the right woman, Nick would go to the ends of the earth to make her happy and keep her safe.
I am not that woman. Yet he took me in when he didn’t have to, got me help when I needed it, and kept me safe. It’s far more than I’d expect anyone to give a stranger. “Given how new our relationship is, he didn’t have to let me stay with him. We haven’t even had sex yet.”
“Whoa. Okay. Time out. Are we heading into TMI territory?” She leans forward. “And I was totally gonna ask you how he was in bed, because yum.”
Brain to mouth: close now. I take a sip of tea. “It hasn’t happened. Bad timing.” Truth. We should be concentrating on the threats to our lives, and with a few detours, we have. Add in my desire to wait until I’m absolutely certain Nick will have no regrets, and I might get lucky sometime in the next few weeks. Might. I think he’s leaning that way.
Sort of.
Denise studies me over the rim of her mug. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I’m not. My life is a whirlpool of chaos, and I can’t find my way out. “No,” I admit. “This thing with my parents hurts. I figured my dad wouldn’t be okay with it, but my mom? I thought she’d be more sympathetic.” Who would I have been if my mother had stood up to Turner? If she treated me like a human being able to process logical thought? If she tried to talk me out of it instead of standing by and letting the black eat away at the edges?
I wouldn’t have those images shuttered and chained. I wouldn’t know how to lose a tail. I wouldn’t have to lose a tail, and I wouldn’t have to lie to everyone under the sun.
I wouldn’t have met Nick.
Somehow that one major positive isn’t outweighing the negatives. Though it’s getting there. Silver linings. I’ll take them when they come.
I nudge the mug aside. “I’ll be okay. Eventually. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go back to class, though. I just got done at the registrar’s. Did you know you can withdraw after the semester’s started, and it won’t count against you?”
She shakes her head and swallows a sip of coffee. “You think you’re going to be gone that long?”
“Everything could be resolved tomorrow. But there’s so much else going on right now with my parents and Nick and our apartment. I can’t go back there, not after everything that’s happened.”
Her hands tremble around the mug, and she grips it firmly to halt the stutters. “I sort of needed to talk to you about that.” She peeks at me through her lashes.
I grin, twin sensations of happiness and jealousy smashing into one another. “Charlie wants to move in together?”
She blows out a breath. “His lease is month to month, and his roommate graduates at the end of this term anyway and already has a job lined up in Sacramento. He, um, said he wanted to ask me a while ago before classes started last month.”
“Hey.” I scoot my chair back and stand to give her a hug. “Charlie is fabulous and outstanding and I love him to death. I’m happy for you, lady. Go for it.”
She gnaws on her upper lip. “You’re okay with it? I don’t want to leave you without a place to live.”
I sit again and pick up my mug. “I’ll figure something out. If I can’t find someone who’s looking for a roommate, I’ll look around for a place of my own.” That I can’t afford to pay for, since I’m currently unemployed. “Can we talk about something else? Something not so depressing?”
She purses her lips. “Scott’s roommate got arrested again. Drunk as three frat boys and hollering all over the place. He almost fell off a balcony.”
The next few hours whip by, coupled with mugs of tea and coffee and the bakery’s to-die-for cinnamon rolls. They smear them with chocolate frosting instead of the white stuff. Eating one is like getting a glimpse of heaven.
My ass can only take so much of their less than comfortable seats, though. When Denise’s phone chimes with a text from Charlie, I use that as my excuse to leave. Bag of cinnamon rolls in hand, I wander outside and wait with Denise until Charlie shows up. A quick look around doesn’t show any random goons lounging about, and I head for the car.
* * * *
The man pacing the seating area outside the boardroom
has the same dark good looks as Nick and Constantine and probably well over half their family, but something about his demeanor makes him less drool-inducing and more approachable, despite the dark look on his face. I pull out the copy of The Godfather I stopped for and open it to the first page. The book serves a dual purpose: to educate and to pass the time while I wait for Nick to finish up whatever he’s doing.
We had a stunted argument via text. I didn’t see the point in coming to his office to wait for him to wrap up his meetings. Even though I don’t have a key to the condo, I could find other ways to occupy my time. Wander the beach, mostly. The strip of sand a few blocks from where we’re staying is more inviting than what they have at Santa Monica. Nick said we were safer if we stuck together, and the hours we’d spent apart were long enough.
The thought he might actually be worried about me tied my stomach in its now familiar knots, and I gave in. I detoured by the bookstore first, then took a meandering route to his office in Century City.
The pacer stops, as though he’s noticed me for the first time, and strides over. Too late, I bury my nose in the book. “Can I help you?” he asks.
I lift my head, tuck my hair behind my ear, and smile. “Nah. Just waiting for my boyfriend to finish his meeting.” The knot tightens on the word boyfriend, and my fingers flex on the paperback.
He sits in the chair opposite me and nods to my book. “A classic.”
I tip the book toward me, glancing down at the cover. “I’ve been told. I was also scolded for not having read it.” Scolded for not having seen the movie, actually, but whatever.
One side of his mouth kicks up higher than the other, and I smile wider in response. It’s hard not to be drawn in by a crooked smile, and his is one of the best I’ve seen. “I wouldn’t worry too much. I doubt the average American has read it, classic or no.” He leans forward and holds out his hand. “Isaiah.”
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