by A. J. Norris
Yeah, he was really going to miss me when he was basking in the sun, avoiding extradition and Flynn’s wrath. Oh, and swimming in a sea of crisp dead presidents. I leapt away from the window when the door started opening.
“You’re up,” he said as he shut the door. “And still naked.” His heavy-lidded eyes wandered down my body. His cut-off gray sweatpants rode low on his hips, fully covering him below the waist, yet the cloth hid nothing.
Damn you.
“Yep,” I said with my eyes cast downward. I couldn’t look at him. Pivoting toward the bed, I walked away, not trusting myself to leave. Being so close to my goal, I couldn’t let on that I knew what he and Bandit had planned. What did I care if they ended up with all the money and a bullet in each of their brains? I wouldn’t be around long enough to find out. I planned to tip off the FBI and slip away from J-Zen during the heist. Okay, I cared what happened to Lincoln.
Gathering my clothes from the floor, I redressed.
“Kind of early.”
I shook my jeans out and plugged my legs into them. “Yeah, well, I’m going home.”
He nodded. “Let me buy you breakfast before you—”
“No. Thanks. I’m not hungry.” My stomach growled.
“O-kay. I think your stomach disagrees. Come on, let me take you to breakfast.”
“I just want to go home.”
He smiled. “I knew you were listening.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, you do. You heard me on the phone. I was messing with you because I knew you were at the window.”
I stopped, holding my shirt to my chest. “You better not be lying.”
“I’m not.”
My shoulders sagged. “Fine. But I’m still going home so I can sleep in my own bed.” Heck, I was even exhausted enough to fall asleep.
“I get it. I’ll call you later.” After I was dressed, Lincoln unlocked the door for me while I grabbed my keys. I left without saying goodbye.
* * *
Lincoln
Shutting the door behind Melanie, I deadbolted the door, something which was safehouse procedure and I had been forgetting to do like this was my actual home. Man, I should be fired for so many reasons, I’d lost count. I hated for her to leave but understood the need for one’s own mattress.
I grabbed my laptop from the kitchen table and brought the MacBook over to the bed with me and got under the covers. Sitting with my back against the headboard, I opened the computer and logged into my work email. Last night’s voicemail from the uni said she emailed me the results of her search on Melanie Hughes.
Not expecting there to be a whole lot of information, I read through my other twenty or so emails first. Nothing urgent. I clicked on the bolded words that read: CONFIDENTIAL: OFFICIAL POLICE RECORDS in the subject line. The email only contained an attachment, nothing in the body of the message. I opened the attached folder.
There wasn’t a lot of information, as I suspected. One speeding ticket from four months ago that had been paid. A parking citation, also paid, that was a year old. However, the folder contained a police report she filed regarding her brother’s murder. I scanned the narrative and no surprises there. Distraught over losing her brother, she described their last encounter, her brother’s fears, and who she thought killed him—
Whoa. Wait a minute, she stated the Hermosa Beach Crime Syndicate as her prime suspect.
Sonofabitch.
“What are you up to?” I knocked the back of my head against the wall. What was her angle? The only thing I had been told before going undercover was that the FBI received a tip that the Syndicate might be into more than burglary, and the FBI had asked my department for some help with their investigation. However, I never found any evidence that the Syndicate had turned to murdering people.
I reread her complaint because clearly, I’d missed something. And there it was, in black and white: Joshua Hughes had been a member of the Syndicate, per her own admission. What the fuck? Melanie thought she was some kind of vigilante? Why else would she want to work for an organization she thought murdered her brother other than for some kind of retribution? I rubbed the center of my chest as my heart stung with dread. I needed to talk to her now and convince her to let me and the FBI handle taking down the Syndicate.
Christ. She thought her claims had been dismissed. However, they really hadn’t, had they?
As I reached for my phone I’d tossed on the bed when I sat down, a file named TRAFFIC COLLISION REPORT caught my attention. I got a strong sense this had to do with her past trauma. And what she couldn’t bring herself to talk about. I’d never read Jennifer’s accident report because the idea was too horrific to even think about. Not knowing the details kept me from losing my mind and seeking the driver out. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway, since the driver didn’t remember anything because they had passed out due to carbon monoxide poisoning.
Okay, why the hell was I thinking about this now? Melanie wasn’t the driver who killed Jennifer.
I clicked on the PDF. The document was the standard report filled out by the responding officer. Melanie’s information was listed first, including name, address, make and model of her vehicle, blah, blah, blah.
I skipped down to the other party and froze. When I tried breathing, I choked on the air. Jennifer Regan.
There had to be more than one person with the same name. Right? Leaning forward, I read the license plate number and make of this person’s car. On the right side of the page, the deceased box was checked.
No. God, no.
This had to be a mistake. This wasn’t the correct Melanie Hughes. Right? Tell me it’s not. I closed the file and searched the folder for an ID. And thank you, Jesus, the uni included a copy of her driver’s license. Holding my breath, I clicked on the image.
CHAPTER 22
Lincoln
Melanie’s face smiled back at me. There was an innocence about her eyes in the picture. However, when I had first met her, I thought her eyes looked haunted. Now I knew why. I slammed the MacBook shut and shoved the thing off my lap.
I inhaled and exhaled in ragged huffs. Jumping from the bed, I stormed around the apartment, stopping at the couch. Grabbing the back, I shook the sofa as if I could rip the thing in two with my bare hands. She killed my Jennifer. Took her life because she drove an old car with a leaky exhaust system. Ending the dreams and plans my fiancée and I had made for the future.
I had sex with the woman I’d hated for three and a half years. Who I told my sob story to and let myself be vulnerable around. Who’d helped ease the constant ache in my chest. And I was in this situation because I’d been too much of a pussy to find out the details of Jennifer’s death. This was my fault.
Jesus Christ!
I’d fallen for the woman who had ruined my life.
The woman I now wanted to save from going to prison.
My legs weakened and I fell on my ass. I hung my head low and my hands off my peaked knees. Tears flowed down my cheeks and dripped from my chin. My heart pounded, and my entire body quavered with every beat.
When my ass went numb, I lumbered to my feet and lurched into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. I honestly didn’t know why or what I hoped to find. The fridge portion had nothing in it, except for half a case of bottled water, condiments, and an open box of baking soda. I didn’t eat here unless it was drive-thru.
I had never opened the top freezer that I recalled. Who knew if there was anything in the damn thing? Nonetheless, I cracked the seal. A bottle of vodka lay on the bottom, the glass fogged over, frost clinging to the side. I grabbed the neck and dragged the alcohol from the freezer. With the bottle uncapped, I swigged the clear liquor in front of the open freezer. It burned going down.
Over on the couch, I sat in the dim light, drinking straight from the bottle. In between swallows, I rested the cold glass bottom on my thigh. After three years, I’d found it hard to picture Jennifer
clearly anymore. I didn’t keep pictures of her in my wallet, neither did I visit the house we’d shared, where pictures of our life together hung from the walls. Her grandmother’s silverware she’d inherited lined the antique hutch in the dining room. Jewelry. Things my fiancée’s family wanted returned so they could stay in the family.
I glanced at the vodka absently. Only the blue glass registered. My vision blurred from my watery eyes. I wasn’t crying or anything because my life just exploded. No. Not at all.
* * *
Melanie
When I got home to my cheap apartment, the first thing I did was take a shower, followed by falling into bed and sleeping until four in the afternoon.
The next couple of days went by fast. By Wednesday, my mood festered into something south of volatile. I snapped at the pizza delivery dude, snatching the box from his hand and telling him it was about time because he arrived thirty seconds past the ETA I had received when I placed the order.
Today marked forth-eight hours since I last heard from Lincoln. Okay, that wasn’t a lot of time, but he said he would “call later.” I assumed this had meant later in that same day, or early the next, at the latest. I hoped he would still call, even though I was now furious at him for not doing it sooner.
I believed him when he said he was joking about his stupid double-scheming plot, yet the lack of contact had me doubting him. God, what did that say about me? I wanted to talk to the man who threatened my life. He had to have been joking, right? This couldn’t be real.
My cell rang, jolting me out of my thoughts. “Hello? Lincoln?” I gushed into the phone.
“Expectin’ him, were ya?” Flynn drawled.
I cursed mutely for not looking at the caller ID before picking up. “No.”
He chuckled. “You’re a terrible liar. But I’m not surprised you two hooked up.”
“What makes you think we hooked up?” I snapped.
“Because you’re defensive. Anyway, I’d like you to come to the Garage. We have somethin’ to discuss, you and I.”
A quick wave of dread washed over me, prickling my skin with a cool sweat. “Are the others invited?”
“This is a private meetin’.”
Even though my intuition was running amok, his tone suggested this wasn’t for sex. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to discuss, though. I sighed. “When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.” I hung up without awaiting a response. Grabbing my purse and keys, I headed for Flynn’s Garage.
Eighteen minutes later, I honked and the bay door to the Garage trundled upward. Flynn stood at the other end of the expanse, which could hold at least four cars end to end with breathing room to spare between the vehicles. I parked in front of him and got out. “What did you want to talk about?” I asked while shutting my door.
He put his finger up to his lips to silence me.
Okay. That was weird. Was he afraid to talk business inside? Since when? My questions were answered when he led me out the back door. It opened to a street that dead-ended on the right and intersected with the main road on the left with lots of foot traffic to the restaurants and shops along it. A warm breeze lifted the ends of my hair. The building across the way shielded us from the blazing sun.
Flynn paced, scanning left and right. I tracked him with my eyes. Something was off with him. The Kodiak Wintergreen bulge in his lip was gone, his usual bravado virtually nonexistent. If he wasn’t such a douche-bag murderer, I might have found him attractive. He didn’t speak for the longest time. The man kept walking back and forth.
On his next pass, my patience wore out. “Why did you ask me here?”
Stopping, he shifted his eyes over my left shoulder as if he couldn’t look me in the eye. “Are you ready for the job?”
I nodded. “I’m not worried about my part. I know what I gotta do.” What in the world was going on with this man? His out-of-character skittishness made me uneasy. This change was confusing. Was he covering for someone else? He seemed scared for some reason. But I didn’t have a clue what. He was the one in charge, wasn’t he?
“Good. You gettin’ any vibes from any of the crew?”
I shrugged, debating whether I should be truthful. “What kind of vibes specifically?”
“Not the good kind.”
“What are you trying to tell—?”
“Forget it. Just watch yourself. I don’t wanna see you get hurt on your first big score.”
“Is this about Lincoln?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. It was too late to take them back, though.
His eyes widened. “I thought you were fuckin’ him? There trouble in paradise I should know about?”
“Naw, we’re cool. But if you’re talking bad vibes, I don’t trust Max. I mean, where did he come from?” Honestly, I trusted none of them.
He kicked up his chin in a stiff nod. “Why did you ask about Lincoln if Max is the one you don’t trust?”
Um. Yeah, why, Melanie? “I thought you might have a problem with us.”
“I don’t care whose bed you lay in, as long as it doesn’t interfere with business. How come you don’t trust Max?”
“I don’t know him. Would you trust someone you just met and had no prior knowledge of? And since you just told me to watch my back I gotta wonder if I can trust anyone on the crew.”
“Let me give you some advice: It’s in your best interest not to turn your back on any one of them. This business is about the money. It’s unforgivin’ and full of ruthless SOBs.”
Like yourself.
“Thanks for the advice.”
On the way over, I’d been convinced he intended to put the moves on me. Now, I had no idea what was going on. Asking about bad vibes and telling me to watch my back? After our talk, I was finding it difficult not to be paranoid. I shuddered and glanced over my shoulder where Flynn kept looking, as if someone was behind me. Watching my every move. Listening to our conversation. I had the strangest compulsion to tell him to watch his back, too, even though I still believed the man had something to do with Josh’s murder.
Flynn went for the door to the Garage then hesitated before going inside.
“Is that all you wanted?” I asked.
Facing the door with his hand on the knob, he spoke. “I’m cuttin’ you loose after the job is done.”
“Why?” Okay, that one slipped out. Then again, if I hadn’t asked, it would’ve looked suspicious.
“You’re young and you shouldn’t waste your time hanging out with lowlifes.” Flynn disappeared into the Garage.
“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” I muttered to myself.
CHAPTER 23
Melanie
What. The. Hell. Was. That?
When I still hadn’t heard from Lincoln after leaving Flynn’s, I drove to his apartment. He didn’t answer the phone on my way over. I parked in the rear of the building in his driveway and got out before I changed my mind and left. However, I wanted to see him.
I took the Cowboy’s words as a warning of sorts, though. Clearly, he was trying to tell me something. What, I didn’t know. Maybe Lincoln’s plan was real and he found out about it, except why not tell me, then?
I knocked on Lincoln’s front door. A minute later, I rapped my knuckles harder in case he had been getting out of the shower or something and hadn’t heard.
Still no answer.
Leaning to the left, I peered in the window and met closed blinds. Fishing my cell out of my purse, I dialed his number.
Again, no answer.
I gave up and stepped from the stoop. A man walked unsteadily toward me from down the sidewalk. With the sun behind him, I couldn’t see his face. As he drew closer, I realized it was Lincoln. He was carrying a brown paper grocery bag with both hands. “Don’t you ever answer your phone?” I asked when he came within earshot.
“When I want to.” The harsh words would have wounded me if his eyes hadn’t been so glazed over. He brushed past me and put
the bag under an arm to unlock the door. The keys fell to the ground. He swore and bent down to retrieve them. A sound like glass bottles knocking together came from the bag.
“You’re drunk.”
He smirked at me sideways and pushed his way inside. I followed him into the apartment and he shut the door, then deadbolted the metal panel with a brass key. He slipped it into his front jeans pocket.
“I thought you didn’t self-medicate? Is something going on?”
“You tell me.” He unbagged two fifths of vodka, setting them on the kitchen table. He twisted the cap off one of the bottles.
I stood in front of him, searching for the right words to say. But what did you say to a drunk person? “Have you been drinking all day?”
“Try all week.” He pivoted and walked away from me with a bottle of vodka. His movements were not quite coordinated. Reaching out for the couch, he steadied himself then planted his ass against the back. Putting the rim of the bottle to his lips, he guzzled down a sizeable amount of the vomit juice.
“You’ve been drinking since the last time I saw you?”
“Uh-huh. Su-sure have.” He swigged from the bottle again. How could he drink that stuff straight? It smelled like rubbing alcohol. My stomach didn’t handle hard liquor well, at least not without being mixed with something else.
“Is this because of Jenni—?”
“Don’t say her name.”
I winced. So, this was about her. “Do you want to talk about what’s upsetting you?”
He narrowed his eyes as he stared at me. “No. I think you’ve fucked me over enough.”
“Fucked you over? What are you talking about? How have I fucked you over?”
Instead of responding, he chugged the vodka. Well, this was an answer, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to talk in a way that made sense, though. At least not as far as I knew. Lurching to the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress. He burped and tried setting the vodka on the nightstand. However, he didn’t get the bottle completely upright and it tipped over, spilling onto the floor.