Chapter 17 - Augusto
Augusto
And she has no idea what that short sentence has just done to my dick.
Those boots might smell of yard—they don’t, for the record—but seeing her dressed in knee high leather and tight beige pants has messed with my head and everything south of my stomach.
I thought this gig would be easy—the wife part of it, anyway.
The meetings, less so. I still need to figure who these people really are.
Some are telling the truth, some have exceptional covers.
Only one man I’ve identified so far is a dead cert Russian.
All either have money, have the means to clean it, move it or spend it, or have something to sell.
It’s like a regular old mini mart, except we’re not moving cookies, we’re moving military grade guns.
But as it’s turning out, the meetings are the easy part. It’s keeping my eyes from roaming over Erin that’s proving to be the biggest challenge.
We head to the café and sit at a small table by a window overlooking the grounds.
“Where did you go?” I ask, after placing our order with a waitress.
“Through a gorgeous pine forest. It was so beautiful and atmospheric with the spring light filtering through the trees.”
I try not to imagine Erin cantering through the forest, the leather saddle bumping rhythmically against her inner thighs, and steer the conversation back to why we’re here.
“Did you talk to anyone?”
The smile on her face falls a little. “Not really. The other wives were nervous so they weren’t up for conversation.” She flicks her lashes. “I did try.”
Her earnest expression makes something in my chest lurch and I cover her hand with mine.
“I know you did. It’s fine. It’s as useful to me to know if they’re talking to each other, not just to you. It helps me understand if there are any… pre-existing affiliations.”
Her shoulders soften. “No, they didn’t say a great deal to each other either. But we agreed to have lunch so I’m sure I’ll have more to report back on after that.”
A heaviness appears in my gut. “I won’t be able to meet this afternoon—the briefings are likely to go on all day, but you can fill me in after dinner.”
“Okay,” she nods. A long but comfortable silence follows while we both sip our coffees, then she tips her head to one side, the corners of her eyes narrowed curiously.
“Do you have any family waiting for you back home?”
The change in topic surprises me, then I remember my cover. “If you mean a wife and kids, no.”
She laughs a little nervously. “What other family would I mean?”
It’s a good point. Thankfully, she doesn’t labor it.
“So, you never wanted kids?”
I draw in a breath and release it slowly. It’s a question I haven’t been asked in a while. “It’s not that I’ve never wanted them…”
There’s a warmth in her expression that makes me feel weirdly safe talking about this.
“I guess I never met anyone I wanted to create a family with. Certainly not in recent years, anyway. There was a time when I had this image in my mind of what kind of family I’d have, what kind of dad I’d be. But over the years, it just… slipped away, I suppose.”
Her voice is quiet. “Do you regret not having kids?”
I look down at the hands I’ve clasped between my spread thighs. “No. I don’t have regrets about anything.”
She releases a short huff. “You’re lucky. I have regrets about everything.”
My chin tips up sharply. “Even becoming a mom?”
“Oh God, no. Never. I would never regret becoming a mom. It’s really the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.
No. I regret other things, like not going back to work, like moving to the opposite end of the country, like plucking my eyebrows in the nineties.
Boy, does that bad decision still haunt me. ”
My gaze drifts to her perfectly coiffed brows. “They look fine to me.”
“They’d look better if I hadn’t plucked them into near-extinction,” she grinds out, monotone.
She falls silent then, and I can tell something is weighing on her mind.
“What’s California like?” I ask, wanting to keep the moment light. I love seeing her smile, hearing her laugh.
Her shoulders drop a little. “It’s great. I loved the weather and the lifestyle. I had friends there—mostly other moms—and Paige’s life is obviously there. But it’s not New York. New York will always be my home.”
For some reason, that statement makes my chest fill out. “What do you love about New York?”
She sighs wistfully and shakes her head. “The craziness…”
I laugh. “Yeah, it has a lot of crazy.”
“I love how busy it is and how there’s always something going on, whether it’s a new gallery opening up, or a new event. There’s an edginess to it that you simply don’t find anywhere else.”
“Yeah, I totally get it. New York has the best of everything and the worst of everything and yet, somehow, the two things co-exist.”
She smiles at that, a small, knowing curve of her lips, like I’ve said something that lands deeper than I meant it to.
“That’s exactly it,” she says softly. “The good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly—it all lives side by side and no one apologizes for it.”
I watch her as she speaks, the way her eyes drift past me, like she’s seeing a version of the city layered over the one outside the window.
“You can be completely alone there,” she continues, “and somehow not feel lonely. The city doesn’t care if you start over or mess up, or become someone else if you need to.”
I huff out a low breath, something settling in my chest.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It may not always feel like it, but New York is always on your side.”
Her gaze flicks back to mine and something shifts between us, subtle but unmistakable. It unbalances me in a way that makes me never want to be balanced again.
Then I remember where we are and what’s burning a hole in my inside pocket—what I’d had biked up to me overnight.
After seeing the way Clara Miller’s gaze dropped to Erin’s finger, the judgement that filled it, and the strange effect it had on my sense of masculinity, I put in a call.
She watches with deflated eyes as I reach into my inside pocket and pull out a small, square box. “I have something for you.”
Her lashes lift and her cheeks drain of blood.
I pop open the box and lower it for her to see inside. Without a word, she presses a small hand to her chest and just stares at it.
“My wife has a decent ring,” I say, by way of explanation.
She swallows a few times, clears her throat, then looks up. “Is it— is it real?”
I would be offended by that if it were not for the fact it’s a reasonable question. What we’re doing here is fake so why shouldn’t the ring also be fake?
“Yes, it’s real. I wouldn’t put a cheap knock-off on your finger, Erin.”
She sucks in a breath and lowers her hand. “I can’t wear that, August. What if I lose it?”
“You won’t.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You won’t be the one wearing it.”
I glance at the gold band of nothingness on her finger. “You ever lost that?”
She shakes her head.
“And this one is much nicer, I’m sure you’ll agree. Have some faith in yourself. Now put it on, or I will.”
The mild threat works as she lifts the ring out of the box and slides it onto her finger.
It fits perfectly, as it should. I measured her finger while she slept and had it custom made overnight.
We finish our coffees in silence. Erin’s mind is elsewhere and she keeps glancing at the ring as if she’s worried it will disappear into thin air.
“Don’t keep looking at it like it’s new,” I say, tightly. “If anyone asks, you’d been having it professionally cleaned.”
She nods and doesn’t say another word until we part ways. Then, I can’t help but take her hand to feel the weightiness of it now it possesses something of me.
I run my thumb lightly over the purple-tinted diamond, but watch the reaction of her skin as goosebumps erupt over her forearm.
I lift my gaze only to see her staring back at me with wide blue eyes.
“I’ll see you at dinner.” Then I turn and walk back to the meeting.
The meeting goes on into the evening, so there’s no time to change for dinner. I’m no clearer on who the key players are. The briefings have all been polite and professional so far, no cracks showing in anyone’s armor—yet.
Tomorrow, we get to see product. I expect greed and ego will win out then, and we’ll start to see some true colors.
The men are the first to enter the dining room, but slowly the wives appear, each one looking as though they’ve spent the last two hours readying themselves.
I can’t help but wonder how Erin has spent her afternoon.
I’m joined at the corner bar by the couple from Florida.
“How long have you and Erin been together?” the wife asks.
“Six years. How about you?”
The wife turns to her husband and cuddles into his arm. “Oh, twenty-three years. But it feels like only yesterday we got married.”
“That’s nice,” I say, unsure of how else to respond. Couples chat isn’t something I’ve had to engage with in a long time.
“You look like you make good partners,” she adds.
I try not to frown. “What do you mean by that?”
Her husband shifts awkwardly while she waves a nonchalant hand in the air.
“Oh, you know, some couples just can’t seem to get enough of each other. Others are more… reserved, I suppose. Less obviously into each other.”
My spine hardens. “Oh, we’re into each other. We just don’t feel that’s anyone else’s business.”
I leave her staring open-mouthed as I walk back to the table and take my seat. Her observation has left a bitter taste in my mouth. As I sit and wait for Erin to arrive, I rack my brain to work out exactly what’s bothering me.
Unbeknown to anyone else here, Erin and I have known each other—and ‘known’ is perhaps an exaggeration—for all of ten days.
Last night was the first time we shared a bed, and even then it was with a line of pillows between us.
We’re not really together and we won’t ever be.
This is a business transaction. That’s what we both signed up to.