B008DKAYYQ EBOK (13 page)

“Dan.”

Cole’s sharp tone had Daniel swinging around to face him. “Whatever she told you, I did
not
hit her.”

Cole’s stomach jerked. But instead of walking away now, while he still had time to save himself from a shitload of drama, he waited for Daniel to give in to his own hatred of silence. It didn’t take long.

“That’s what she’s saying, isn’t it? That I hit her?”

Cole didn’t respond until he was sure he could speak evenly. The thought of this huge, muscled guy taking a swing at Bailey, or any woman, made his whole body go hot with rage. “She hasn’t said you did anything.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I saw her scar.”

Daniel’s face went white.

“She suggested I ask you about it,” Cole added.

Daniel’s eyes narrowed, and then the color returned to his cheeks, his eyes widening as if he’d just worked out a riddle. “You son of a bitch. You messed around with my girlfriend.”

“I didn’t—” Cole broke off, confused and irritated at the mixed signals coming off the guy. “
Ex-
girlfriend.”
 

“Like that matters? You know she screwed me over, and you still went for it. How did you expect me to react?”

Cole finished his beer and carefully set the bottle down. “I have somewhere else to be.”

Daniel followed him to the door. “What do you want from me anyway? I already told you all about it. She’s a fucking bitch.” He gave a mirthless, ugly laugh. “And when I say ‘fucking bitch,’ I put the emphasis on
fucking
. She’s a tiger—”

Cole pivoted and punched him.

Chapter 17

James Chase sat in his red, beat-up Toyota Corolla and squinted into the sun as it floated toward the line where the Gulf of Mexico met the sky. Dark pink streaked toward the horizon as if fingertips had smeared watered-down blood across a light blue canvas.
 

He was waiting for darkness, when the seniors and vacationers headed to nearby restaurants for dinner. Then he would get out of his car and wander out to the beach in front of the Sandpiper Resort on Kendall Falls Beach. There, he would meet the man who (please, God) would help him dig out of this particular sand trap he’d landed in.
 

Luck was not on his side.

But, then, it rarely had been.

The one time he’d been truly lucky was the night he’d pulled over to help a woman change a flat tire during a driving rainstorm. That woman had been Theresa, and he’d fallen for her fast. A few months later, she was pregnant. He’d proposed on one knee, right at the water’s edge only a few yards from where he was parked.

When he’d slipped the ring on her finger on their wedding day, he’d never been so happy. Unfortunately, Theresa died an hour after delivering Austin. The doctor had explained something about excessive bleeding that couldn’t be stopped. And James went from being a husband, proud papa and luckiest man alive to being a stricken single parent.

He’d thought he’d been lucky again when Payne Kincaid helped him out. His father had seemed pleased that his best friend had offered his son a job—that’s what family did, and Kincaid had always been considered a part of the family.
 

 
He wondered what his father would have thought if he’d known that his best friend was not only the head of a major smuggling ring but also behind his son’s downfall.

To be fair, James couldn’t blame Payne Kincaid for all of his problems. Kincaid had not given him the drugs to which he’d become addicted nor had he known how James was spending the thousands he was being paid every week.
 

To be even more fair, Kincaid had not even led James into his life of crime. He’d originally hired James to do nothing more than drive a truck delivering fancy works of art to rich-ass customers all over Florida, which had suited James just fine. He’d had no plans to follow in Kincaid’s footsteps. In fact, he’d had no plans at all. His wife was dead. All he needed was a paycheck so he could feed and diaper his motherless son.
 

If he’d had a résumé, “become an importer of art” certainly would not have been the objective on it. The way he saw it, making art deliveries was simply a means to an end—until the day he found out the truth about his Uncle Payne’s business.
 

Payne Kincaid was indeed an importer of art. But art wasn’t the only merchandise on the manifest. When James had confronted Kincaid about what he’d discovered by accident, Kincaid had been beside himself with regret and anger.
 

“You weren’t supposed to be driving that truck,” he’d said. “You weren’t supposed to drive
any
of the trucks that had illegal goods on them. Damn it, I didn’t want you anywhere near this business, but your father asked me for a favor, and how could I say no?”

And then Kincaid—probably because he feared James would go to the cops, or worse, would tell his father the true nature of his best friend’s business—had made James an offer he couldn’t refuse: more money than he could ever have imagined.
 

James had jumped at it. Why the hell not? He certainly wasn’t going to rat out his father’s best friend, especially when the guy was offering to cut him in on a business that was going gangbusters. Sure, it was illegal, but it’s not like he was becoming a drug dealer or a hired killer. Besides, at that point in his life, he’d gotten nowhere by doing the right thing. He’d tried to play by the rules, and life had swatted him down like a badminton player whacking the shit out of a shuttlecock.

So James had accepted the offer, with dollar signs dancing in his head and one big caveat: He’d wanted Kincaid to show him the ropes. Kincaid had agreed only reluctantly and, James suspected, only because he figured James would eventually get bored or have a guilt attack and move on. Instead, James stumbled right into his niche. He discovered he could close a deal with the best of them, and before he knew it, he was not only helping Kincaid
run
his business, he and Kincaid were talking partnership.

All was going well until James discovered how much he enjoyed cocaine and other recreational drugs. He could buy whatever he wanted with the money he made working with Kincaid. Drugs, women ... and a fancy car.

And now, a year after walking out of prison a free man, with plans to never dirty up his newly clean slate, James stared out at the water, his heart drumming louder in his ears the darker the sky became. What he was about to do was desperate, and his request would probably get shot down in a heartbeat.

But he had to try.

That’s what Bailey would tell him. “Maybe it won’t work, Jamie, but you have to try.”

God, why couldn’t he have been more like his sister? Nothing seemed to knock her down. After the accident, she’d been a rock. She’d taken care of everything. Gotten him a lawyer. Given his son a good, warm, loving home. Arranged the funeral and burial of their father. Never once had she lost her cool with him. Never once had she called him a weak drug-addicted son of a bitch father killer. Even though that’s what he was.

Bailey usually called them as she saw them. But not that time. At least, not to his face. Knowing her, he doubted she’d even allowed herself to think something so counterproductive. She was entirely focused on moving on.

Now, James vowed, now
he
was totally focused on being productive. He’d fix this. He’d repay Kincaid what he owed, and he’d make things right. He would never screw up like this again.
Never
.

Resigned, he stepped out of the car and shut the door. Taking a moment to calm himself, he lit a cigarette and concentrated on sucking the nicotine into his lungs. He could hear the water gently washing onto shore, the distant shrieks of little kids at a nearby pool. A mellow, salty breeze lifted the hair off his forehead as he crossed the white, shifting sand that crunched like sugar underfoot.
 

When he arrived at the hard-packed water’s edge, he faced the hotel. Most balconies were empty, but a few vacationers lounged in plastic chairs, their feet propped up as they talked and laughed while the sun set.

The concept of vacation fascinated James. He’d never had one, unless four years in prison counted.

“What can I do for you, Chase?”

James turned, surprised that the man standing behind him had walked up so silently. He wore a fishing hat, red shorts and a T-shirt, his feet bare. A stubby cigar was clamped between his teeth. A common tourist.

But he was no tourist. And the decal of a shark on his T-shirt, its mouth opened wide to show sharp, killing teeth, was no joke.

James swallowed the knot of fear that tightened in his throat. “I need cash, Sam.”

“No kidding. And I thought you wanted to take a stroll along the beach with an old pal. How much?”

“Fifteen grand.”

The cigar’s tip glowed red before tangy smoke curled up into the humid air between them. “That’s more than usual,” Sam said.

“I know.”

“I heard you’re out of a job.”

“Where’d you hear that?” James asked.

“Word gets around.”

Damn.
James had known this wouldn’t be an easy sell, but it had just gotten fifteen thousand times harder. “Then I suppose you’ve heard that Kincaid is squeezing me.”

“Rumor has it that it’s not without reason.”

“I messed up a deal,” James said. “I’m trying to make it right.”

“By screwing me over?”

“Hell, no. I just need the cash until I can get back on my feet. I paid you what I owed you before.”

“You had a job with Kincaid then. Now you don’t.”

“What’s it matter to you as long as you get your money back?”

“You need to have a plan, Chase. I’m not a bank, but I like to know there’s a plan, ‘cause if there isn’t, it’s likely there’ll be no payback. Get what I’m saying?”

“You never wanted a plan before.”

“You never wanted fifteen grand before,” Sam said. “And you had Kincaid to back you up.”

“So that’s it? I can’t do business with you anymore because he’s got it in for me?”

“If that’s how you want to look at it. But mostly, you’re just a lousy risk.”

Lowering his head, James rubbed the knot at the nape of his neck, his skin cool and damp under his digging fingers.
 

Sam gestured with his cigar. “I’m going to give you some advice, because I like you. I think you’re a major league screw-up, but I like you anyway.” He drew on the cigar, blew out smoke. “Your time has come to get the hell out of Dodge. Kincaid’s pissed off. And not because you blew off a client and spent money you didn’t earn. Don’t kid yourself. He makes more than fifteen grand an hour on some deals, and losing one customer won’t even knick his bottom line. This is about you.
You
, James. You killed his friend because you were too stupid to know better than to get high before sliding behind the wheel. He’s got a lot of rage bottled up inside him over that. He’s held it back because you were like family to him—the son he never had. He’s been cutting you a break for the past year, but now he sees you twisting in the wind again, screwing things up, losing jobs you’ve barely got, going to loan sharks for money, setting a bad example for your kid. Now you’re the son he never wanted. Now you’re just trash he plans to kick around until he’s ready to pull the trigger.” He pulled a wad of bills out of a front pocket of his shorts. “Here’s five hundred bucks. Take it.”

James stared at the cash in confusion. “That’s not enough.”

“This isn’t a loan, kid. I’m telling you to get the hell out of town. Alone.”

Chapter 18

Bailey lay on her back in A.J.’s bed, staring into the dark. She had tried to insist on sleeping on the futon in A.J.’s office, but her friend wouldn’t budge.
 

“My neighbor listens to talk radio all night long,” A.J. had said. “It’d drive you batty. You know me, though, I can sleep through a freight train.”

“Or a tropical storm.”

“Just that one time,” A.J. countered.
 

Turned out, Bailey couldn’t sleep anyway. She’d spent the entire afternoon dozing on the sofa while her friend had returned to work. And while she felt much better, and stronger, than she had in the morning, every time she closed her eyes, she saw a man in a motorcycle helmet coming at her with a knife or Cole watching her, his blue eyes warm and kind.
 

Then there was the issue of her brother. How could she help him when he refused to admit a problem existed? She didn’t know how to reach him, how to get him to open up or ask for help. She couldn’t blame him, of course. She was the same. It apparently was a Chase gene. How could she impress upon James that he had to damn the gene and do the thing that ensured survival? For his son’s sake.

She decided that she would consult with Uncle Payne. He would know what to do, or at least have some good advice. He’d always seemed to understand James in a way that she didn’t, and she was grateful that they had him to turn to at times like these. He was decent and reliable, and he cared about them.

She concentrated on the faint clicking sound that the ceiling fan made, hoping to clear her head so she could drift off. Instead, the noise reminded her of the ceiling fan that had hung—probably still hung—in Daniel’s bedroom.