“Thank you,” they said in unison.
We went house to house, visiting the last home just before midnight. No one complained, and no one refused our offerings. After we finished singing at the last home, for an elderly couple that I feared we woke from a night’s sleep, the man – dressed in red pajamas – stepped onto the porch.
He cupped his shaking hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you!” he shouted. “We look forward to this, every year. Last few years, a tattooed boy has come by. Haven’t seen him yet this year, though.”
I realized Baker was wearing a long-sleeved blazer.
Baker patted him on the shoulder, and then gave a nod. “Have a Merry Christmas. Maybe he’ll be by in the next day or so.”
The man gave a nod and yelled his response. “Sure hope so! He’s got a set of pipes!”
It was the first Christmas since my arrival that I felt festive. The caroling gave me a sense of holiday spirit that I’d been missing for years. I couldn’t help but admire Baker for doing it, and wondered what drove him to do so year after year.
On the way to the van, Baker turned to me and grinned. “Come back day after tomorrow?”
“Day after tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
He stroked his beard. “Makes it that much better, doesn’t it?”
I glanced over my shoulder. The man in the pajamas was still standing on the porch, waving.
“Yes,” I said, hooking my arm through his. “I’d love to.”
EPILOGUE
We put up the tree on Christmas Eve, which was a tradition of Baker’s. Although there weren’t any gifts under it when we went to bed, I enjoyed decorating it immensely, and hanging the lights together was a memorable experience. Spending the night with him – and waking up at his side Christmas morning – was going to be gift enough.
We woke the next morning, and showered together. Eager to give him the gifts I’d bought, I begged him to go into the living room and look under the tree. After he’d fallen asleep, I got up and placed his presents under the tree, and I was giddy to have him see them.
Hand in hand, we walked into the room. Much to my surprise, the tree was surrounded by gifts.
“Oh wow,” I gasped.
“Looks like Santa Claus was bored.” He turned toward the kitchen, “Let’s make a pot of coffee.”
I wanted to rush to the tree and see what, if anything, was mine. Heck, for all I knew, the gifts were for – or from – his five brothers.
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, we sat beside each other, cross-legged on the floor. He handed out the gifts, and I ended up with four and him three.
I never viewed the amount of the gifts as important. One gift, if selected with love, was plenty. I pointed to a two-foot square box that sat at his side. “That one first, please.”
He agreed, and opened it. Inside, the gift itself was wrapped in another paper. He picked up the thin package and smiled. “I wonder what this is.”
After unwrapping it, he clutched it to his chest and laughed. “Don’t have this one.”
“Well, you do now.”
It was Amos Lee’s Supply and Demand, on vinyl. It wasn’t an easy record to locate, but eventually I found it. I looked at The Wind as our song, and I suspected I always would.
He pointed to a small box. “That one.”
I picked it up the eighteen-inch-long box and shook it.
“Be careful,” he said.
Carefully, I took the tape from the paper, peeled the paper away, and looked at the top of the box.
My heart raced at the familiar sight of the manufacturer’s label, written in cursive on the top of the box.
“Is it?”
He shrugged. “Open it.”
I lifted the edge of the top and peered inside. Upon seeing the shoes, I flipped the top to the side and pulled them out.
“A pair of Louboutin’s,” I said. “I’m in love.”
I stood up and slipped the shoes on my feet.
He looked at them and smiled. “Fit?”
“Perfect,” I said.
The black heels with the signature red bottoms were a staple in the closets of the rich and famous. They weren’t anything I could ever afford, but I’d surely wear them on special occasions.
Giddy, I sat down and admired them.
He cleared his throat. “Ahem.”
I looked up. “Oh. The big red one.”
He pulled off the bow, peeled off the paper, and opened the box. Immediately, he laughed out loud. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I love it when you wear hats.”
Carefully, he removed the felt porkpie, and lifted it to his head. The black hat looked sexy on his head, and gave him a distinguished look.
“I like it.”
He tipped it toward me. “As do I.”
He pointed to a little blue box. “I think that one next. This is going to be weird in a minute.”
“Why?”
“Just open it.”
After carefully unwrapping the three-inch square box, I peeled back the top. Inside, a key to his car.
“My own key?” I asked, lifting it from the box. “In case I want to go racing?”
“You own the car,” he said. “There’s another one on there, too. It’s a key to this house.”
My heart went aflutter. “It says Por-Shah,” I said, pronouncing it the way he had when we met. “Are you serious?”
“It’s not just like mine, but it’s close.”
“It’s mine?”
“Registration and title are in the bedroom. It’s yours.”
“Holy crap. Oh. My God. I have a car.” I jumped to my feet. “When can I see it?”
He smiled. “In a few minutes. When we’re done.”
I kissed him and sat. I pointed to his last box. “Last one.”
He opened it and lifted the book from the box and read the cover. “Thug Kitchen: Eat Like You Give a Fuck”
“It sounded perfect for you. You can learn to cook, now.”
He opened the book and flipped through the pages. “Thank you.”
He pointed to a large box. “That one now, and then the other.”
I opened the bigger of the two boxes, and laughed out loud when I saw what was inside. No differently than the album I’d wrapped for him, a thin square sat inside the box, wrapped in a different paper.
Eager to see what he’d chosen, I unwrapped it.
My heart swelled. “We can keep one for when we get old.”
It was a copy of Amos Lee’s Supply and Demand. It was affirmation that great minds think alike.
He gestured to the last box and stood. “Open it.”
Carefully, I opened it. And then, I opened the one inside of it. And then, another. After the fourth box was opened, I looked inside. The air shot from my lungs. Eager with anticipation, but uncertain of what was inside, I opened the felt box.
I nearly fainted. The biggest round diamond I’d ever seen was fitted to a white gold band. On each side of the band, diamonds were inset along the edges. I stared at it in awe, and tried to hold the box steady.
“I want to say something.” He walked in front of me and reached for my hand.
Teary-eyed, I watched as he took my hand in his.
“I want that ring to be my commitment to you,” he said with a shaky voice. “I don’t know how to do this.” He paused, raked his fingers through his hair, and looked me in the eyes. “I love you, Andy. I truly do. That’s not an engagement ring, and this isn’t a proposal. I guess you can call it a promise ring. Me giving it to you is my promise that if you come home at night, I’ll be here loving you, and you alone. For as long as you choose to wear it, I’ll never leave you. Ever. This can last forever if you let it. It’s the best I can do.”
He lifted the ring from the box, slipped it on my finger, and gave me a kiss. “Merry Christmas.”
And, at that moment, on Christmas morning, our forever began.
To Erin.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains scenes of criminal acts, some that are typical of gangs and motorcycle clubs, and some that aren’t. The fictitious club name, Devil’s Disciples, is in no way tied to the real-life club, Devils Diciples. Different spelling, different club. The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.
Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
CASH 4d Edition Copyright © 2018 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights
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PROLOGUE
I wrapped my arms tightly around my mid-section – hoping to ease my pain. Crying was inevitable, I simply hoped I could keep the tears at bay until I was alone.
“You’re telling me that someone hacked into my accounts, took all my money, and didn’t leave a single trace?” I murmured.
He lifted a one-inch-thick pile of paperwork from his desk and held it firmly between his thumb and forefinger. “We’ve got the account number that the money was initially transferred to, but the funds aren’t there any longer.”
“There’s got to be some record of where the money went. Right?”
“There does,” he said with a slight nod. “And, there is. But…”
My heart fluttered with hope. There had to be a way to find it. There simply had to.
He set the stack of paperwork aside and shook his head. “I’m sorry to say the account no longer exists. The money was moved several times. At one point, the funds were split into multiple accounts. Then, they were converted to cash. From that point, it’s impossible to trace where the money went.”
My father’s intelligence coupled with a little luck in the stock market had built the fortune, and I’d spent my lifetime acting as if it didn’t exist. To think that someone managed to get to my accounts, drain them of several million dollars – and do so without my knowledge or approval – was incomprehensible.
“But, there’s a name. There must be a name,” I muttered. “An account can’t be opened without a name and a social security number.”
His blank expression confirmed my fear.
“Tell me you’ve got a name, John,” I pleaded. “My dad hired you because you’re the best.”
He laced his fingers and lowered his chin. “Neither my abilities – nor the firm’s security measures – should be in question. Our system of checks and balances were met. Passwords were prompted and entered. Mother’s maiden names, high school mascots – everything seemed legitimate. On the surface, it appeared that you were the one transferring the funds. Your presence today, however, indicates you weren’t. I’m truly sorry, Kimberly.”
My eyes thinned. “This was someone who knew me?”
“It’s difficult to say.”
“You said they had my passwords…”
“It could be someone you know, or it could be someone who used computer software devised to obtain such information.” He lifted the stack of documents that he’d previously set aside and flipped through the pages mindlessly. “The FBI will be conducting an investigation. I’ll forewarn you to reserve little hope the funds will be found. This isn’t a common occurrence, but I have seen it happen before. Cash is impossible to trace.”
Impossible to trace unless someone knew where to look. I had my suspicions that it was someone I knew.
Someone I’d loved.
The son-of-a-bitch probably started planning to rob me right after he swept me off my feet. I should have known better than to ever let my guard down. Confiding in him that I had the nest egg was a mistake I’d undoubtedly regret until the day I died.
Admitting now that I once loved him made me feel ill. Thoughts of my future reminded me of how bleak life would be without the interest income from my investments.
I owned a cute little shoe boutique. It was my pride and joy, but it produced virtually no revenue. The earned interest of my inheritance was my main source of income. Without it, living day to day – even in my modest home – would be impossible.
I stared blankly at him, waiting for something to change. For him to tell me that there was something left. A crumb. A few thousand dollars.
Something.
He stood and straightened his tie. “I’m sorry, Kimberly. I know Isaac and Janet are turning over in their graves about this.”
Fearing my legs wouldn’t hold me if I stood, I chose to remain seated. As he came around the corner of his desk, the sorrow he wore caused my stomach to twist into a knot.
“Whoever did this was a professional?” I pressed my forearms tight to my mid-section. “Someone who knew what they were doing? Someone who didn’t leave a trail?””
“Absolutely. It isn’t that they didn’t leave a shred of evidence, because they did.” He exhaled a long breath. “It’s more difficult than that. When the funds were turned to cash, all traceable activity vanished.”
I drew a slow breath, and then stood. After bracing myself on the arm of the chair, I met his sorrowful gaze. “The FBI can’t trace the cash?”
“They’ll try, but I have doubts they’ll do anything in a manner timely enough to recover the funds. Cases like this are always shoved to the back burner, so to speak.”
“To find this guy, a person would have to move quickly. Is that what you’re saying?”
His gaze narrowed. “For you to find him?”
I nodded.
“It would require more than moving quickly. It would entail finding a computer genius who was capable of hacking deep into the bowels of a financial network designed to thwart such activity. There’s a handful of such people. They’re either employed by the government, or they’re very anti-government,” he explained.
“A hacker?”
“A hacker who isn’t opposed to breaking the law. They’d have to search without warrants, or cause. The person in question would have to be a criminal with experience in manipulating funds. Not simply a criminal, a professional criminal.”
My mouth twisted into a smirk.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you know such a mastermind?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
Eager to find my money – and to bury the prick who stole it – I brushed the wrinkles from my dress and straightened my posture.
“Take your time giving the FBI any information they might need,” I said. “It’ll buy me some time. I may need it.”
“If you retrieve the funds before they do, there’ll likely be no prosecution for the crime.”
I chuckled a dry laugh. “If I catch this son-of-a-bitch, there’ll be nothing left of him to prosecute.”
43
KIMBERLY
When it comes to relationships, forever doesn’t mean forever. It means until something more exciting comes along.
For twenty years, Marvin promised that the day would come when things would be different. For nineteen of them, I believed him. Convinced that he was going to change, I lived hoping the next sunrise would bring with it a new life. One where I lived with the man of my dreams, not the one I was ma
rried to.
But change never came.
My fear of being labeled a failure prevented me from leaving him. Somehow comfortable in the awkward one-sided relationship, I accepted that I’d simply be alone throughout our marriage. That fear was replaced by anger when I found out he’d been cheating on me for two decades.
Humiliated, angry, and scared, I gathered my things and left one day while he was at work.
Although it took time, I became comfortably independent. Confidence followed. I planted flowers. I learned to cook for one. I joined the YMCA. I ran a half marathon. I planted flowers. I developed routines. I cleaned house, repeatedly. I planted flowers. Eventually, I found new friends and developed a new way of enjoying life. And, I planted more flowers.
Yet. I remained single.
Not by choice, either.
A few years passed. Several drunken idiots hit on me, often saying things like, nice tits, or do women your age give head? In my search for a new companion, I found no one who was looking for a true relationship. It seemed when people found out everything there was to find out about me, all they wanted to do was fuck me.
I realized I may never find love. Then, I accepted it as being inevitable. Even though I’d never felt better about myself, I feared I was simply incapable of garnering anyone’s interest in the competitive SoCal singles scene.
Initially, I blamed him for ruining my chances at living a normal life. He promised to cherish me and love me forever, despite what changes may come about in our lives. He took an oath. An oath that he broke repeatedly through dishonesty, infidelity, indifference, violent behavior, and sheer disrespect. I felt that I’d wasted twenty-five years of my life. A quarter of a century of dating and marriage, all for nothing. In the end, I realized it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just the way life unfolded.
So, I accepted it as being nothing more than a speed bump on my life’s freeway.
Now, after nearly four years, that speed bump was standing on my porch. Dressed in my pajamas and house slippers, I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He had no right to simply show up at my home, and I was prepared to tell him so.
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