Four Seconds to Lose (37 page)

“It’s not a big deal,” he mutters. Peering down at my face in earnest, Cain finally holds his hand out, beckoning. I take it and he leads me back toward the office. The air is so much cooler in here and I welcome it, practically falling into the black leather couch. Cain’s desk lamp clicks on. It provides a nice, dim glow, much nicer than the harsh fluorescent lighting above.

“Here, drink this. It’ll help tomorrow.” Cain produced a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge. He takes a seat beside me as I chug back the entire thing.

“Is it just me or does your office spin after hours?”

With a chuckle, he gently pulls me down until my head is resting on his lap. I can’t help but inhale deeply, his cologne taking my intoxication level to where a boatload of shots could not. Fingers draw through my hair in a soothing manner and I moan responsively.

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“Yeah,” I smile, a lazy giggle escaping me. “I really like everyone here. Especially Ben in a bikini.”

Cain’s hand stops abruptly. I accidently smack myself in the forehead as I lift my hand to hit his, urging him on. “Keep doing that.” I guess my request is coherent enough because his fingers start moving again, only now the index finger of his other hand trails up and down my cheek in an intimate manner. “Why wouldn’t you tell me it’s your birthday? I mean, we’re . . .” I leave the rest of it unsaid. In truth, he doesn’t know my real birthday. Or my real age. Or my real name. I have no right to be angry with him. And I’m not.

I’m hurt.

“It has nothing to do with not wanting to tell you, Charlie. I just don’t care about my birthday.”

“Because you’re getting old?”

He snorts. “No, smart-ass. Because I never grew up celebrating them.”

I frown, reaching up to loop my fingers within his.
Never celebrating your own birthday?
Even Sam—a ruthless, murdering drug dealer—always made sure each birthday of mine was special. We’d spend the whole day together and I got to pick the activities. It didn’t matter what it was. He’d do it.

“What are you giggling about?” Cain suddenly asks.

I hadn’t realized that I was. “Oh, just picturing the year I made my dad toboggan down a steep hill with me for my birthday.” I snort as a visual hits me. “Sam fell off halfway down the hill and did cartwheels the rest of the way. I thought he was mad at me, but . . .” I remember that look on his face as he finally stopped tumbling. I was only ten but, for a split second, I was terrified he’d be angry with me for making him come out. “. . . he just laughed. He ended up doing three more runs before he complained that his old body couldn’t handle it.”

I sense Cain’s muscles tensing under me. “Well, I guess you’re lucky.”

Now I feel like a complete jackass. I try to make amends by unfastening several of his shirt buttons and snaking my hand beneath to touch his bare skin. Cain seems to respond very well to physical affection. I’m thinking he didn’t get a lot of it growing up. Then again, after my mother died, neither did I. My mom gave big squish-me hugs. But Sam was more about buying gifts and saying nice things than doling out daily embraces.

Maybe that’s why Cain and I can’t seem to keep our hands off each other. “I’m sorry, Cain. I don’t know what kind of parents don’t celebrate their children’s birthdays,” I offer softly. “I thought that was just a mandatory thing.”

Cain’s mirthless chuckle fills the darkness. “She celebrated one.” There’s a long pause, so long I turn to make sure he hasn’t passed out. He’s awake, his eyes intently on the side of the desk, his mind obviously far away. “On my fourteenth birthday, my mom introduced me to this girl named Kara. Said she was the daughter of a friend from out of town and asked me to take her out. The girl was hot and older and I had no plans, so I figured, why not?

“She picked me up in a van that night. We drove around for a bit, talked about nothing important, and then she pulled into an empty, dark parking lot. We started making out. Fuck, I wasn’t going to complain. I was still a virgin and she seemed nice and into me. Things got heavy and before I knew it we were in the backseat, she was naked and pulling a condom onto me.”

“Sounds like a fourteen-year-old’s birthday dream come true,” I blurt out, followed by a “sorry.”
Those are the kinds of thoughts I’m supposed to keep inside my head.

Cain snorts. “It was . . . until she dropped me off at home and I saw the tears running down her cheeks. I couldn’t figure it out. She seemed so into it. When I got home, the first thing my mom asked was, ‘Was she any good?’” I hear Cain’s teeth grind together. “I had no clue what my mom was involved in at that time. A year later, a few buddies and me broke into the house where my mom ran her bookkeeping business—my grandmother’s old house. I hadn’t been in it in years. It was the middle of the night, we were drunk, and we just wanted a place to hang. Turns out that the bookkeeping business was more of a hobby, and a front for what was really going on inside that house. I found Kara in a room there with some old married guy. After I chased him out, she admitted that my mother had set everything up, that night we were together. She wanted to make sure Kara could go through with paid sex.

“That’s how I lost my virginity. At fourteen, to a prostitute, arranged for me by my mother.” Cain’s head falls back against the couch. “Kara ended up ODing a few years later,” he offers vacantly.

“Oh my God, Cain.” My chest tightens. So many of Cain’s childhood memories seems to end with sex, drugs, death, or a devastating combination.

Turning, I move to prop myself up on my elbow, intent on distracting him from his dark thoughts. But he quickly shifts out from beneath me, muttering, “I’d better go check on things out there.” Without another look back, he leaves.

A prickly lump settles in my throat. Is this about his birthday? Or is Cain upset with me for something? I can’t bear that thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have prodded. I never prod. I shouldn’t start now, slurring and dizzy from those stupid drinks. When he comes back, I’ll shut up, wrap my arms around him, and hold him tight.

Until then, I’ll just rest my eyes for a while. It feels so good to close my . . .

chapter thirty-one

■ ■ ■

CAIN

The place is a fucking disaster—empty glasses and bottles everywhere. Nate is sitting on the stage with his back against the dancer pole, hunched over. Focusing in on him a little more closely, I see that his eyes are closed.

Giggles from the V.I.P. room tell me that Mercy and others—likely Ben included—are still there, defiling the space. Aside from them, the place is empty. I hit the lights and grab some more water, then check the doors to ensure they’re locked and security is set.

Charlie’s snoring quietly when I return. I pull a blanket over her body and spend a long moment watching the woman I’ve come to care so deeply about.

And then I pull her file from my cabinet. I check the birth date to confirm that it’s September 23. I’ve never been to Indianapolis, but I have a hard time believing they have enough snow to toboggan on in September. That’s my first question. Maybe there’s an explanation, though. Maybe they celebrated a few months late. Maybe they went to the North Pole for her birthday.

More important, though . . . who the fuck is Sam?

■ ■ ■

I know she’s awake before she makes a sound or moves a muscle. I sense it in her body, the way it goes rigid against mine. I managed to slide in beneath her comatose frame last night and grab a few hours of sleep with her in my arms. “Do you know what time it is?” she asks in a croaky voice and I feel her swallow several times.

Reaching back to grab my phone that I placed on the side table last night, I flip it open to check. “Eleven.”

She lets out a cute little groan. “God, I drank a lot last night. I’ve never drunk that much before.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I may still be drunk.”

I chuckle and then wince, the first sign of my own hangover making its appearance. I feel her swallow again and I reach back for a bottle of water. “Here, drink this.”

She moans appreciatively, shifting into my groin. “Seriously, Cain?” She shakes her head.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s the morning and you’re lying on me.”

“Hmm . . .” I watch as she eases herself up into a sitting position. I haven’t forgotten what she said last night. I was drunk, but I wasn’t
that
drunk. I know I told her that I don’t care about her past. And I don’t. But we’ve been together for weeks now. I’d like to know who the fuck Sam is and why she’s referring to him as her father, when her father’s name is George Rourke.

Or is it?

Standing, she wobbles a bit, using the wall for support as she heads toward the bathroom. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk,” she announces, pawing at the light inside before closing the door.

If I weren’t me, I might not worry so much about this. But I
am
me and she still hasn’t divulged a damn thing about herself, even after I laid my history out for her to judge. I lay awake beneath her for hours, trying to rationalize it, to tell myself that it doesn’t matter to me. Still, I feel a sense of bitterness seeping in. A touch of betrayal that this woman doesn’t trust me, or my word that I would never hold her past against her.

At the same time that the toilet flush sounds inside, her phone begins ringing. Normally, I wouldn’t think to go through her things. Now, though . . . I don’t hesitate. I unzip her purse. I pull her phone out.

And I answer it.

“Hello?”

There’s a second or two of dead air and then, “Who is this?”

“This is Cain. You looking for Charlie?”

Another pause. “Yes. How do you know her?”

I don’t like the calm, even tone of his voice. It sounds manipulative. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” The number is marked “unknown,” so that doesn’t help me.

A soft, condescending chuckle answers me. “That’s because I didn’t give a name.”

This must be the same guy that Ginger spoke to. I don’t have patience for this. “Well, then I guess you can go fuck yourself.”

A sharp hiss fills my ear. “You don’t sound like the kind of man I want my daughter with.”

“Pardon me?” I did not expect that. And Charlie’s father is in Pendleton, so it can’t be true. “Who is this?”
Wait . . .
“Is this Sam?”

The line goes dead.

The phone is still in my hand when Charlie emerges with a freshly washed face. She freezes, her now violet eyes skittering from the phone in my hand, to her opened purse, to what I assume is a stony expression on my face.

“What are you doing?” She’s trying to sound casual about it, but it’s impossible. I can almost see the wave of shock as it ripples through her.

“Who’s Sam?” I can’t keep the bite from my tone.

She blanches, her mouth opening to tremble for a second. “You talked to Sam?” Her jaw clamps shut instantly as if she didn’t mean to say that out loud. There’s undeniable fear in her voice and my anger wavers as worry courses in.

So
Sam
does
exist. And she’s afraid of him. “I don’t know, Charlie. The man I just talked to said he was your father but he wouldn’t give his name. So is your father Sam or George?” I can tell by her screwed-up face that she’s trying to process the logic behind my words. I sigh. “You were talking about tobogganing with your dad last night. You called him ‘Sam’ but your dad’s name is George. So . . .”

She averts her eyes to dart around the office, searching for something. An answer. Or an escape. Her eyes suddenly widen as panic flies through them. “Did you give him your name?”

“Yes, I did,” I answer calmly.

Somehow, her face pales even more. “Why?”

“Why not, Charlie? Why wouldn’t I?”

Her head shakes back and forth, ridding itself of panic and fear and . . . everything. “You had no right going through my things or answering my phone.”

Standing, I gently place the phone back in the purse. “I guess not.”

I turn my back on her and walk out to the club.

■ ■ ■

“Some people need sleep,” John mutters groggily.

“Then don’t sleep with your phone by the bed,” I retort.

With a loud groan, followed by a coughing fit that leaves me cringing at the sound of morning phlegm in John’s lungs, my P.I. demands, “What do you need?”

“Is there any chance that her ID is fake?”

“I assume you mean Charlie?”

“Yes,” I snap with impatience. When I came back to my office after half an hour, Charlie was gone. She took either a bus or a cab, because she didn’t have her truck here.

I have half a mind to drive over to her place and force the truth out of her. I can’t bring myself to do it yet, though.

“It’s damn solid if it is. She’s got a valid passport, birth certificate . . . everything. Maybe it’s a stolen ID. You’d need a ton of cash and major connections to pull that off.”

“But it’s possible.” Is everything that I know about Charlie a lie? Has she been lying to me
all this time
?

His heavy exhales blows into the phone. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay. Can you see what else you can dig up on Charlie Rourke? Old school pictures, gymnastics pictures, anything. And find out if there’s anyone by the name of ‘Sam’ in her life.”

“Will do.”

I hang up. I stare at my phone, the lump in my throat choking. I want to call her. But, right now, I’m pissed off, too.

More, though, I’m something I haven’t felt in years.

I’m hurt.

chapter thirty-two

■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

I knew it was coming.

I’ve sat on a park bench overlooking the water for hours, staring out at all the people who live their own lives, who worry about paying their rent and what bar they’re going to go to on the weekend.

Waiting for my phone to ring. And now it’s ringing, the display reading “unknown caller.”

He’s anything but unknown.

My stomach twists into knots as I answer.

“Hello, little mouse.”