14. Chapter 14
Evan
“Are you much of a reader? It’s been mostly eBooks or audio for me these days, but I love print, too.”
Evan blinked at Coy’s question, baffled by the enthusiasm surrounding her latest random conversation opener. She seemed to have an insatiable zest for life, which only burned brighter whenever she glanced at her girlfriend.
It was a toss-up for Evan whether to instantly like Coy or to allow their own insecurities and baggage to fester inside the possible new friend bubble. It was hard not to feel jealous of the joyous, carefree attitude.
“I’m not. To be honest, I …” That’s funny.
When have you ever been honest? All you do is lie.
Evan cleared their throat, shaking off the less-than-helpful silent commentary.
“I’m dyslexic, so reading’s always been a struggle for me.
Kind of lost interest in the idea over the years, but I’ll borrow an audiobook from the library if need be. ”
“You’re dyslexic?” Coy and Sloane, who stood on the opposite side of Evan, echoed in unison.
“So that explains why you got so flustered reading the menu that day,” Sloane added, and winked. She took a drink of her vodka cooler, adding, “I assumed it was because you were nervous around me.”
The tips of Evan’s ears grew hot, and they grinned sheepishly. “I mean, you’re not wrong. I was.”
“Still are, from what I can tell,” Coy teased, reaching around to poke Sloane. “I dunno why. Unless she’s being a bitch for absolutely no reason, Sloane’s the nicest person around.”
“Fuck off, Coy,” Sloane shot back, shoving at Coy, but the mechanic barely moved. “Just because you’re clueless doesn’t mean my reasons aren’t any less valid.”
Evan squeezed out from between them in case fists started flying.
They didn’t get far before a hand was snaking through theirs, tugging them to a halt.
Evan turned around again and over Sloane’s shoulder, spotted Frankie carrying in a platter of appetizers from the kitchen.
Behind her, Rain followed with another platter, and they set both out on the waiting tables.
Then they were gone again, without Frankie looking Evan’s way once.
Evan gnawed on the inside of their cheek and wondered at the strange sting they felt beneath their chest. Frankie always looked at them, regardless of whether Evan wanted her to or not.
They sipped the ale being offered complimentary to the staff that night.
Evan had heard through the grapevine that it wasn’t the selection Frankie usually offered, and that it was the basic, run-of-the-mill brew that anyone could make, but Evan was digging it.
They had also heard gossip floating around about how Frankie was running on short supply of her best-selling microbrew.
Evan tried hard not to feel guilty.
If Cecil knew how heavy-chested they were, or how their gut had churned with the news, he’d have certainly given Evan something else to whine about.
Frankie deserved much more than she’d received so far as payback.
Evan should be elated if her business went under, so that she could learn what it felt like to lose everything.
There was nothing like watching someone else’s world crumble around them, especially when they learned how avoidable it could have all been.
Or so Cecil says.
“You should hang out with us some night when the rest of the Fab Five are around,” Coy said, holding her mug of beer out. “To new friends.”
“Yes, to new friends!” Sloane agreed, clinking Coy’s mug before Evan’s. Her smile was wide and infectious, her green eyes glistening under the dimly lit pub lights.
“To new friends,” Evan said, toasting them both before taking another drink. The ache in their chest grew larger, and they weren’t at all surprised when the bridge of their nose started to burn, the threat of tears stinging their eyes. Did their friendship count if it’d begun under false pretenses?
Andy and his girlfriend sidled up beside them. “Hey, how ‘bout another game? Then it’ll be the best out of three.”
“You sure you want that? Best out of three takes a bet,” Sloane drawled, holding her drink out with her index finger pointing toward Andy. “And you know I rarely lose, my sweet, handsome Newfie friend.”
“Are ye drunk already, b’y?”
“Sloane, c’mon. We can shoot a game without needing to bet on it,” Coy told her sister, annoyance crossing her features.
“Ugh, you’re no fun anymore,” Sloane pouted, before tossing her drink back and finishing it in three long swigs. She handed the empty over to Coy, who shot her another peeved look, and tugged on Evan’s hand. “When I’m finished giving Evan a proper tour, I plan to wipe the floor with you guys.”
“But I already got the—”
“C’mon. It’ll be fun.” Sloane winked at them, something she did at an alarming rate once a few drinks were in her, and led the way through the pub.
Evan allowed it, assuming they were headed for the washroom.
They’d been dying to relieve their bladder for the last thirty minutes or longer and practically whimpered when Sloane pulled out a set of keys in front of Frankie’s office.
She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Finally, I’ll be able to get you to myself. ”
“Um, yeah.” Evan’s smile was unsure, because the idea of them together was the ideal scenario to be unsure about. Sloane was everything they should want, but …
Evan glanced around them, waiting for Frankie to pop out of her hiding place and demand to know why Sloane was helping herself to her office.
“Benefits of being the manager.” Sloane’s hand was on the doorknob. She cast Evan a heated look and turned the handle with another wink. The unconscious movement might have worked on others, but for Evan, it was distracting.
“Whoa!” they exclaimed as Sloane yanked them inside Frankie’s office. She quickly pressed Evan against the closed door, cupped their cheeks in her palms, and kissed them.
The first sensation to hit Evan was the sickeningly sweet odor of vodka as Sloane breathed into their mouth. The next was the extreme lack of sexual tension between them, but perhaps it was because Sloane had caught Evan off guard.
“C’mon. Have you been in here before?” Sloane asked, draping her arm around Evan’s waist on the way to Frankie’s large, rectangular desk.
Her lips found Evan’s again, kissing them longer this time.
Evan returned the kiss because, why not?
They couldn’t—and wouldn’t—entertain how magical it’d felt the other night when Frankie’s lips had grazed their cheek.
Evan’s ass pressed into something solid, and then Sloane whispered, “Get on the desk, Evan.”
They felt a bit dazed looking back at her but did as she requested. Sloane shot Evan a devilish look, her fingers landing on the seam of fabric leading into her cleavage. “Close your eyes.”
Evan laughed in disbelief but did as Sloane asked. “We’re gonna get in trouble.”
“No way. And don’t peek.”
“I’m not.” Evan couldn’t help but smile at Sloane’s silliness. The whole thing was ridiculous, but it was turning into one helluva night.
They heard Sloane moving around, and then the distinct beep of numbers being punched into a keypad.
Realization hit Evan like a tidal wave. They cracked one eye open, just enough that Sloane wouldn’t notice, and sure enough, their new friend was drunkenly attempting to disarm the safe’s code.
A sly grin crept over Evan’s face as they watched Sloane get it right finally.
Breaking into Frankie’s safe later would be too easy.
Sloane opened the door and started pulling bills out of Frankie’s safe and stuffing them into her boot.
As she was closing the door, Evan caught the gleam of a silver handgun.
Holy shit!
Evan squeezed their eyes shut again, old images of Caleb’s coroner report flooding their memories. Seeing him on a slab, cold as ice. The ME had stitched up his wounds, but nothing about the sharp entry and exit points of the bullet could have stopped Evan’s imagination of what happened that night.
“Have you ever broken in anywhere just to hook up with someone?” Sloane’s voice was close now, so close, her hot breath tickling Evan’s ear seconds before her lips did.
“You’re a bad influence.” Evan clenched their hands to their sides, struggling with the urge to shove her off. When their eyes opened, Sloane was stripped of her shirt, and her bra-clad breasts were doing their best to caress Evan’s chin.
The office door opened, and Evan and Sloane jumped when it crashed against the wall. Evan swiveled around from their place on top of Frankie’s desk, almost knocking their forehead into Sloane’s, and stared, mouth agape, at the stormy look in Frankie’s eyes.
“Get the fuck out of my office. Sloane, you should know better.” Frankie marched toward them, her glare bouncing between Sloane’s half-naked state to, well, whatever current hellish state Evan was in.
She grabbed Sloane’s arm, pulling her away from Evan, and didn’t stop until she’d pushed Sloane out into the hallway.
“This is my office. You work for me. Don’t fucking forget it. ”
“Jesus, Frankie, we were just having fun.” Sloane’s whine died off when her discarded shirt struck her in the face, compliments of Frankie.
Evan slid off the desk on wobbly legs. They hadn’t drunk too many beers, perhaps three, but damn did it feel like they were leaving the office intoxicated.
Evan was almost to the door when Frankie caught their arm, turned them around, and pulled them closer.
Unhelpfully, Evan’s breath hitched with a dramatic flare, as if they were a couple intakes away from an orgasm.
The reaction caused Frankie’s entire demeanor to drip with a kind of hate-fuck possessiveness Evan had never seen before.
Then Frankie let go of Evan and turned away. “Leave,” she growled, “before I do something I regret.”
The next morning, Evan stared at the locked closet door, just as they had for the last ten minutes after their shower.
If their focus was enough to melt the door or see through it, both would have happened already.
Evan was curious by nature, and hearing that something was off limits just made them want it more.
And if someone like Frankie kept a closet locked when her own bedroom didn’t even have one, that could only mean one thing.
Secrets lay beyond that door. Fuel for Evan’s vendetta, something they could use to con Frankie, or tangible proof they could expose, stating what a horrible human she was. Something Evan could later reason with as to why they’d done what they’d done to her.
Isn’t Caleb’s death reason enough, you fucking coward?
Evan ground down on their molars. Their hands clenched the bed sheets, and with a deep breath, they pried them open and got to their feet.
More evidence was necessary for their peace of mind.
Obsessively hanging on to an old news clipping of Frankie in uniform—during a time when she went by Officer Katheryn O’Rourke—and reading a printout of the police report, all seemed so different now that they’d gotten to know Frankie.
If Evan didn’t know better, they’d question if Frankie was the one who’d shot Caleb.
What if the police report Cecil had received was wrong?
Yes, Frankie had confirmed she’d once been a cop.
And she had a gun in her safe—but those things alone didn’t tell much.
“Just do it already.” Evan sighed heavily, checked that the bedroom door was shut, and retrieved their lock pick from inside the dresser.
It was stupid that hesitation was now a factor. It was as if a part of Evan didn’t want to displease Frankie, but that made zero sense. They were a thief. Breaking into places and stealing was what they’d always done, and who the hell cared what offense they did toward the enemy anyway?
“Fuck. How you gonna kill her, hmm?” The endgame seemed further away each day, especially after the humiliating way Evan had reacted in Frankie’s office. Instead of feeling threatened and defensive, they’d gotten more turned on than ever before.
Evan got to work using the lockpick. The closet door was child’s play, really, and within seconds, they were granted access to the mystery that lay beyond. Their eyes widened.
“Holy shit.”