Behind Your Back (2 page)

Two

I
meet Cash down the street from his apartment. Unlike me, he enjoys the finer things in life and has decided to occupy a place in the nicer part of the city.

“You look wrecked,” he says by way of a greeting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a compliment.

“Thanks,” I say and he laughs, his blue eyes sparkling. Cash is a contradiction of a person. Tall and built like a wall of bricks, he’s one of the happiest people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. When we walk down the street, people seem to cower away from him, but he just smiles at them as if it doesn’t bother him one bit. The ancient leather jacket that belonged to his grandfather adds to his ferocious image. Cash can act the part of muscled tough when push comes to shove. But as soon as the act is over, he’s back to his sweet self.

“Have you heard from Baz?” I ask as we walk back to his place. We never meet in front of his apartment, and soon we’ll part company and enter the building separately. You can never be too careful.

“Yes. He’s out. Completely extracted. Told the girl he was married.” This makes me laugh.

“How did she take it?” Knowing Baz, he was none too tactful going about it. Words weren’t his strong suit.

“He’s sporting a lovely mark on his cheek and his balls are a little sore, I think,” Cash says as we part company, him to walk the short way and me to take the long back around the building. It’s a risk every time we meet and it’s one of the reasons we move so much. We’ve been here for about eight months so far.

Everything we do is calculated, planned. Nothing spontaneous, if we can help it. We can’t take any risks, which is why I changed out of my business attire and into a ripped pair of jeans and baggy hoodie. None of my clients would recognize me like this, because they wouldn’t give me a second look. That’s the beauty of what we do.

“What the hell is that?” I ask when Cash lets me in. Occupying an enormous space in his dining room is what looks like an old-fashioned writing desk.

“What the fuck does it look like? It’s an antique writing desk. Belonged to a famous writer.” He doesn’t tell me who, but I know, without a doubt, that he’s got a certificate of authenticity and has verified that it’s the genuine article. Among other things, Cash is an antique collector. It’s a bitch whenever we have to move, because he won’t leave anything behind, and some of his pieces are fucking huge and heavy.

“What are you going to do with a writing desk?” I ask. I can’t picture Cash squeezing his large body into a chair and sitting at the desk composing letters.

“I’m not going to do anything with it. I’m going to admire it.” He stares at the desk as if to illustrate his point.

“Is this you admiring?” I ask.

“Shut up. Do you want a beer?” He pops the tops and hands one to me. I savor a foamy sip and we head to his office.

Cash’s office is bigger than his bedroom, mostly because we store so much crap here. There’s also a small gym in the corner of the room. Cash might have been born with more muscle than the average man, but he still has to work out.

Cash’s burner phone makes a noise and he looks down at it.

“Baz is on his way with Row, Track and Hardy,” he says, listing the other members of our group. We don’t have an official name, because we aren’t cartoon characters, but sometimes Cash tries to come up with one. So far, they’re all fucking lame.

“I was thinking about beating his ass, but it sounds like that secretary did it for me,” I say as Cash goes to the fridge for three more beers. We’re going to go through quite a few before the evening is out. I don’t know why he just doesn’t put a fridge in the office and be done with it.

The other three arrive with pomp and circumstance. Well, Row, Track and Hardy do. Baz lumbers in behind them, a red mark across his cheek and a glare in his eyes. Cash busts out laughing the minute he walks in. Normally, this would be cause for Baz to get violent, but Cash gets away with everything.

“How’s your pride?” I ask as he takes a beer from Cash and settles on the couch next to the others, who are giggling like schoolgirls. I glare at them, but they don’t stop.

“Fucking fantastic. Never been better,” he says with a scowl. “She wasn’t that great in bed anyway.” He’s such a liar. He’d gone on and on when he’d first started going with her about how great she was in the sack.

“Well, if you get lonely, let me know,” Track says with a wink. He’s gay and flirts with whomever he likes. Baz just sips his beer in silence.

Our group runs the gamut, from Cash the dark-haired tank; to Baz with his fair hair and stormy eyes; to Track with his pretty, pretty face; to Hardy and Row, brothers with matching brown mops of hair and opposite personalities.

We’re an odd bunch, but we all have a common goal. Humans can get along surprisingly well when they all have something to work toward.

“I still say we need a gavel,” Cash says as I stand. I might not be the oldest in the group, but I’m the one who started this.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “Who’s got a report for me?”

Hardy raises his hand. He’s one of our most useful assets, due to his memory. If he reads something, or hears it, he’ll remember it forever. I can ask him what he had for breakfast three years ago on a specific date and he’ll know. It’s fucking annoying when you’re trying to settle an argument, though.

“So far from 137 we’ve got exactly two million three hundred and thirty-four thousand. And twenty-one cents,” he adds at the end. We always give each of our marks’ numbers, instead of names. Hardy has them all memorized, but it takes the rest of us a second to catch up.

“That’s which one?” I ask.

“Mr. A,” he says and it all clicks in my brain.

“Excellent. So what are we up to, total?”

“Nearly three hundred million,” he rattles off. Hardy is also our bookkeeper, naturally.

“Does anyone need supplies? Now would be a good time to ask. No, Cash, I won’t entertain anything ridiculous today.” I see him open his mouth and then close it. He’s always trying to get something and claim it’s for the job. He’ll probably try to claim the writing desk is a work expense. But unlike the IRS, he can’t write it off with us.

“Fine,” he says, crossing his arms, making his muscles bulge.

“I need to make a run,” Row says. We’ve got codes for everything. This means he needs to buy drugs. When it comes to getting information, sometimes that’s the best way to do it. Greases the wheels a bit.

“How’s our stash?” I ask Cash and he goes to check. We’ve got this place outfitted with plenty of hiding places, so a cursory search would turn up nothing.

“Low,” he says when he comes back. “Very low.”

“Okay, just let Hardy know how much you need.” Row might have been a liability if it weren’t for Hardy. He’s honest and trustworthy enough for both of them, and Row would never betray his brother.

Track is next, with a report that he might have a new potential mark for us that he’ll be sending my way. He works at one of the most exclusive country clubs and has a way with people and getting information out of them. He’s also not opposed to using sex to get information, something that has come in handy more than once. It’s shocking how many married men are quick to bang the pretty boy who brings them drinks at the club.

I give them an update on Mr. Beaumont, but I leave out the daughter. It’s not like me, but I can’t seem to make myself say her name. She’s in my head, though, and not in the way I want. I picture that hair spread out across my sheets. That mouth open in ecstasy. Those legs spread wide for me.

Sex isn’t forbidden, but relationships of any kind are. It’s just common sense, really. We can’t run the risk that someone would find out what we do and then turn us in. There have been close calls, like with Baz and the secretary, but they’ve been fewer than I expected. As long as the guys can sleep with whomever they want, they seem to be happy. Or at least not miserable.

Once we get through business all of us start hassling Baz to tell us the story of the secretary.

“I just told her that I was married,” he says, but knowing him, he didn’t word it that way. “I let her get the slap in, okay? Figured she’d have a good story to tell. Just didn’t know it would hurt that much, or that she’d go for my balls.” We all wince in unison.

“Never underestimate a woman,” Cash says.

“Hear, hear,” Track says, raising his beer. “That’s why I stay away from them.”

We talk about other things and keep drinking late into the night. I have to work tomorrow, but I’ll survive. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.

Row and Hardy are the first to leave for their apartment, followed by Baz and then Track.

“You doing okay, Sylas?” Cash asks.

“Fine, why?” I say. That’s another thing about Cash. He’s fucking cheerful and fucking perceptive.

“Nothing,” he says, sensing that even if I knew what was bothering me, I wouldn’t be quick to share it.

I say goodbye to him and take a cab back to my apartment, paying in cash so as not to leave a trail.

T
he next morning I have a break between meetings. Some of the work I do is legit, but it’s mostly there to cover up for the work that isn’t so legit. On the outside, we’re just an investment firm, but appearances are nearly always deceiving.

Working here also has its advantages, since I have access to untraceable Internet. I tell myself I’m doing all this in the name of research and take the extra precautions Cash taught me before I start searching for her.

Saige.

Thinking her name reminds me of the herb. I wonder where her parents got that name from. It fits her, in an odd way. Her name is unusual and matches the way she looks. Don’t get me wrong, she’s definitely pretty. But a different kind of pretty. She’s pretty in the way a thunderstorm with lightning forking across the sky is pretty.

I scan her social media pages, but they’re sparse and the only pictures of her are those that you’d find in the society pages. Even in those, she doesn’t look polished or posed.

In one, I can tell her mother is angry with her, although she tries to hide it. Saige has a black dress on with little white designs on it. Upon closer inspection, I see that they’re skulls, done in the style of Mexican Day of the Dead. I nearly laugh out loud when I see that.

And then I want to slap the shit out of myself. She’s the daughter of a mark. Nothing more. Just a means to an end.

My office phone interrupts my perusal and I quickly click the windows closed, as if I’m worried whoever is on the other end of the line is going to somehow see what I’d been researching.

“Yes,” I say, picking up.

“Mr. Beaumont is here to see you,” Grace says in her robotic professional voice that has just a hint of sex appeal.

“Excellent, send him in.” Just the man I want to see. I’m a little surprised he decided to bring the money himself. Most in his position would send a middleman so they don’t get their hands dirty with all that laundered money.

Grace knocks at the door and it opens to reveal Mr. Beaumont, clad in a superb Ralph Loren suit. After we shake hands, he produces an envelope full of cash from his briefcase.

I count the money quickly, just to make sure it’s all there. You can never be too careful.

“Is it clean?” I ask as I thumb through the bills.

“Do you doubt me?” Mr. Beaumont asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Just double checking. In my line of work, you can never be too sure of anything.” I put the money aside. I’ll check it over more carefully later, and then I’ll have one of the boys put it through its paces to make absolutely sure it isn’t dirty or counterfeit. It happened once before, early on when I wasn’t as careful. I won’t let it happen again.

Mr. Beaumont and I talk more about money and what I’m going to do with his and how he’s going to get paid. It’s simpler than it sounds, actually.

What he doesn’t know, of course, is that part of his money will be funneled to my own account. He’ll never know because I can make the numbers say whatever I want them to. It’s all part of the process. It takes time, but it’s worth it in the end.

Inside, I’m buzzing with the high I get from doing what I do. The edge had worn off in recent months, like an old knife blade. I need to sharpen my resolve. Remember why I’d started this.