Chapter 6
Chapter six
Lou
“I could get used to this,” I say. I can practically hear Clay’s molars grinding as he stands in the doorway.
I’m leaning back in my office chair, my red heels crossed on my desk, as I take another puff off what has to be an expensive cigar, judging by the small but equally expensive-looking humidor I took it out of when I liberated that white t-shirt from his clothes the other day.
It was even easier to get my hands on the shirt I’m wearing now—Serena handed it to me when she dropped off his dry cleaning. I’ve buttoned exactly two buttons and tied the shirt just below my red-and-white polka-dot bikini top.
Despite everything, I’m well-rested. The mattress in the camper is better than my old one, and with all the windows open, the small space is a lot less stuffy than my apartment. The bags under my eyes are gone, and I know I look damn good. I’m battle-ready.
I blow out the smoke in a ring, like Aunt Rita used to. I don’t look up until he’s leaning against the desk next to my legs, staring down at me. I flutter my eyelashes, the picture of innocence.
“I was saving this,” he says, plucking the cigar from my fingers.
His expression is closed off, but there’s a cold darkness in his eyes.
He brings the fat cigar to his cruel lips.
He doesn’t blow a smoke ring. Instead, he lets it out in a long breath.
That it’s aimed at me is an afterthought—his gaze has gone somewhere inward, his thoughts a million miles away as he hands the cigar back to me, pushes off the desk, and heads to the door. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Bullshit.”
But he’s already gone. The smoky, sweet taste in my mouth turns bitter, so I drop my feet to the floor and stub the cigar out in Rita’s ceramic ashtray.
With a frustrated sigh, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at the old filing cabinets along one wall.
Irritating this man into leaving is going to be harder than I thought.
It’s going to take more than making him sit on his bed through two showers a day, liberally using his products, wearing his clothes, and smoking his only cigar to get him to leave.
Fuck.
I kick off my heels, slip into my flip flops, grab my bag, and leave the bar.
Whatever he’s doing here, he can’t afford to leave because I’m an irritating inconvenience. I’m up against something bigger.
Time to find out what’s in those bags under the bed.
I climb into the old Buick—if I’d found his keys last night, I’d help myself to that cherry red sports car instead—and head to Pine Point, hoping to find the key I need to destroy this man.
Richard and Son’s Locksmiths and Hardware Store has been in the same location for the last hundred years.
The place is about 30 years overdue for a paint job, but the family that owns it manages to get by, largely because the Pine Point Walmart abruptly closed after its staff tried to unionize.
It's far cheaper to open a new Walmart in the next town over. It’s far easier for petty locals to visit Richard and Son’s for their hardware needs.
And their locksmith needs.
“Hey there, Ricky,” I call to the older man when he glances up from explaining something to a customer I recognize but don’t know by name.
He smiles and waves. “Keith is around the back. He can give you a hand.”
Perfect.
I find Keith in the back pulling together an order.
I leave Pine Point twenty minutes later with a copy of the key to my apartment—thank you, Mr. Bastien, for shopping local for your new locks—and Keith’s phone number scrawled on a scrap of paper, since I lost his number with my phone.
If I’d been thinking, I’d have dipped into the safe and snared enough cash to buy a new one while I’m in Pine Point. Dammit.
This decision bites me in the ass when I stop at Happy Lake Lodge, and push Gina’s unlocked door open, only to hear that all-too-familiar slap of skin on skin pause before I can quietly close the door and leave.
“Uh, hello?” Gina calls out, sounding winded.
“Just me. Sorry. I’ll come back later.” I’m already out the door, but I don’t get far enough to miss them starting back up again.
Goddammit. I want a twenty-five-year-old sex puppy to worship me.
I glance at the trail leading into the woods, but I have no clue where Milo will have set up his tent. He’s unlikely to be there anyway—if Gina and Benji are both home, he’s probably working at the lodge. And while Milo’s perfectly good in bed, a quick roll isn’t worth a hike in flip flops.
I should go back to the bar, but I’m here, and I need information, so I walk down to the dock, take off my flip flops, and sit on the end to wait for them to finish, dangling my feet in the clear, cool water and feeling a little sorry for myself.
I’m not envious. In fact, I’m happy for Gina.
She deserves a smitten partner like Benji.
The last thing I want is to saddle myself with a husband or wife—even a smitten one.
It’s not something that has ever worked out well for the women in my family.
But I want something hot and heavy to match the warm, muggy summer nights.
For my own good, maybe I shouldn’t. At least not until after I get rid of Clay Bastien.
The key Keith cut for me sits warm in my pocket. As soon as Clay leaves the bar, I’ll check out the contents of those bags. I’m doing research instead of going off half-cocked, like I did when I followed Hayden down to Missouri and lost him.
Time passes slowly. A dragonfly suns itself next to me on the dock, and with the quiet of the lake, my problems fizzle out until the only thing left is sunlight filtering through the water to play over the tops of my feet as I slide them back and forth.
Schools of minnows redirect at the movement, taking a long way around to shelter under the dock.
But I’m wearing his shirt. The warmth of the sun must be activating something in the expensive fabric, because even though it’s been dry cleaned, I swear I can smell the sparkling citrus of his cologne. It pulls me out of the lull and leaves me frowning.
I should take the shirt off and plunge it in the lake. Happy Lake is remarkably clean, but I could find some muck or weeds to rub it in if I felt like wading along the shore.
Which I don’t.
After what feels like an eon, Gina steps out onto the dock.
“Sorry,” she says, blushing. “We should’ve locked the door.”
I stand up and slip my wet feet into my flip-flops. “Don’t apologize. I walked into your house without warning. I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“Still—”
“Knock it off or I’ll push you into the lake.” She’s such a people-pleaser, but I’m not in the mood to lecture her about it. “I need to ask your husband some questions about this Clay guy.”
Gina doesn’t look all that surprised. We walk back up, and she calls Benji out as we sit by the cold fire pit. He bounds down the steps, looking every bit the energetic sex puppy as he sits next to her.
I can’t be bothered with small talk, so I clasp my hands together and lean forward. “What’s Clay’s deal?”
Benji’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“I get why you came here, because of Gina. And the whole thing with the ring and the mob guys. But why did Clay come? Why has he stayed?”
Benji shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Does the purple-haired girl know?” I can’t remember her name, but she came with them. Apparently, she’s been working at my bar.
“Briar? I doubt it. He just said he needed to get out of town for a while.” Benji tells me about the shooting at the club. I’d heard something in the news about it, but since no one was hurt, it wasn’t in the news cycle for long.
“Did Clay have a bunch of duffel bags with him?” I ask.
Benji shifts uncomfortably as he tries to decide if that’s something he can answer. He probably considers Clay his friend, but I doubt Clay would consider anyone a friend.
By the time he says yes, I already knew the answer.
“What’s inside?”
“Don’t know. Not body parts.”
That’s oddly specific. I frown. “Drugs?”
“Nah, he’s not into that sort of thing.”
That’s a relief—I can’t deal with a Travis 2.0. “What do you think it is?”
Benji glances at Gina and smiles. “I think he pulled off an Ocean’s Eleven.”
So he doesn’t know. This was a waste of my time, and theirs. The way they sit, thigh to thigh, holding hands and giving each other looks, makes it clear they’d rather be back in bed. Since tomorrow is the Fourth of July, today is likely the last day they have off work after the wedding.
With a sigh, I get to my feet. “Well, thanks for indulging me. Sorry about the interruption.”
“That’s Clay’s shirt, isn’t it?” Benji asks abruptly, and I don’t like the little knowing glimmer in his eyes or the tone of his voice.
“I stole it.”
His eyebrows go up, and that had better be at my audacity in stealing the shirt rather than the defensiveness that crept into my voice. I don’t stick around to find out. “Have fun, you two,” I call over my shoulder on the way to my Buick.
Luck isn’t on my side when I return to the bar, probably because the bastard took down my lucky cornicello charm. Clay’s red sports car is outside, and the office door is open enough to give me a glimpse of him staring at the computer screen.
My key will have to wait until he leaves, so for now, I put it out of my mind. I could go back to the camper. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, and I could leave Clay to do the work while I take a nap. That’s not something I had the luxury of when I shared the bar with my cousin.
But the Fourth of July is this weekend, and I need to make sure we’re prepared.
A few years ago, my cousin accidentally placed an order for fifty thousand Gallo’s beer coasters, so I banned him from placing orders for anything.
In fact, I banned him from even doing the inventory.
As long as he hasn’t touched anything he shouldn’t have before selling my bar, we should be fine for the holiday weekend.
Providing Clay hasn’t fucked something up.