Chapter Five
Five
Caine
I don’t know much about religion, but my feelings for Margot Elizabeth Walker are nothing short of worshipful.
She’s the first thing on my mind when I wake, the last before I sleep.
The angel on my shoulder when I walk away from a fight.
An unholy ghost whispering in my ear as I stroke my cock to the image of her in my head.
Why I haven’t had sex with anyone but myself for the past five years and a huge part of the reason I made a career move that’s giving me heart palpitations.
So when a finally single Margot said she was sitting in my brother’s big old house in the woods all by herself, I couldn’t get here fast enough.
Would it have made more sense to wait until after the Scream Scene convention I’m supposed to be at tomorrow?
Absolutely. But I couldn’t, and now that I’m here, I’m glad I didn’t.
Though as I was making the drive over, I played out a couple dozen ways my arrival could go, and a rattlesnake didn’t feature in any of them.
Neither did a stun gun or coming in my pants.
Here I am, ears ringing slightly, dressed in a pair of cum-free pants swiped from Shane’s closet. Sitting on a couch next to Margot, who thinks she’s about to figure this out by herself.
Please.
It’s not that I think she’s incapable of dealing with whatever fresh hell this is—she is. But I’m here, so not putting me to good use is basically wasting resources. I make a mental note to pull that card if she tries to weasel out of accepting my assistance.
“Have you heard about Restoration Ministries?” She’s tense nearly to the point of vibration.
Part of me wants to say yes, because the name sounds familiar. The problem is, the way my brain works, familiar could mean I’m full of information on the topic, and I just need to unlock it, or it could mean I’ve heard about it in passing.
I play it safe. “I have not.”
Relief flashes across her face, there and gone like the power flickering.
“Okay, well, Nicholas is—was—a televangelist with Restoration Ministries, the megachurch.” Margot pauses, as if testing something. At my nonresponse, she keeps going. “They’re nationwide; there’s a location two hours away.”
She’s going somewhere with this, but I’m not great at reading between the lines, so I wait it out.
“Restoration Ministries protects their own, and their reputation, at all costs. They also do many fundraising ‘initiatives’ with local police departments.” Margot clears her throat, jaw tight and defiant.
She’s ready for a fight. While I’m not sure what she thinks we’re about to argue over, I’d be lying if I said that tough-as-nails attitude doesn’t get me hot and bothered.
“So I’m going to call the police and tell them someone left me a snake, but I am not telling them that I know it was Nicholas.” Narrowing her eyes, she stares me down. “We aren’t telling them about the card either. You’re going to let me do all the talking.”
I nod. “Sit and look pretty. Put me in, coach; I was born for this.”
“Caine—” she starts.
“You already know I’ll do whatever you say.” I can’t resist letting my gaze drop to the microscopic shorts she’s wearing before looking back at her face. “And I’ll do it so damn good you’ll ask me to do it again.”
A flush creeps up the front of her throat. Her long blonde hair’s been down and tangled this whole time, but now she aggressively gathers it into a high bun, pulling a hair band from her wrist to secure it. I flirted too close to the sun and activated business-mode Margot.
That’s probably for the best. I’m easily distracted—by her—and there is a rattlesnake present.
“Since I’m here, you don’t have to call them at all if you don’t want to,” I offer. “I’m no preacher, but I’ve put the fear of god into a few people over the years. Bet Nicholas and I could find lots to talk about if he comes around again.”
Though I’ve mostly outgrown and out-therapied my craving for a good fight, I’ll gladly come out of retirement for this.
Margot shakes her head so hard I worry about whiplash. “No. I need a formal paper trail, because there will probably be more snakes, but I’m not mentioning Nicholas until I know they’re going to take me seriously.” Redirecting, she asks, “Wasn’t your dad with the Newbound PD?”
“He was.” The words come out clipped. That I’m thirty-six and the words your dad make me feel like a fire ant nest somebody stepped in is its own issue. I try to turn Joel into a joke, because he is. “You know, when he wasn’t too busy competing in the Asshole Olympics.”
She snorts. “How was his performance?”
“Consistently podiumed,” I deadpan. “But seriously, you’re smart not to trust them.
There were major corruption problems within the police force when I was a teen.
Can’t imagine things have changed significantly since.
” Even if Joel hadn’t been a horrible human being, I’d still support directing funds toward mental health services and community support programs over police departments.
That he was just gives me an extra dash of enthusiasm about it.
Nodding, Margot tugs her phone out of the waistband of her barely there shorts. “Good. I’ll call the nonemergency number, then. Glad we’re on the same page.” Relief eases the tension from the corners of her mouth.
Same page sounds too far apart, especially considering this Nicholas creep. I’d prefer the same line. Or the same word. Possibly the same letter. But I smile anyway. Same page is a start—I can build on that.
· · ·
Leaning against the kitchen wall, I do exactly as Margot asked: stay out of her conversation with the police.
It’s difficult, because the officer clearly isn’t taking this seriously.
The cop is too young to have worked with Joel, but I still don’t trust him.
Margot’s at the table, across from him, but every so often she glances toward me, as if ensuring I’m still there.
An act of god couldn’t get me out of this room.
My head is spinning from everything I’ve learned.
I can’t believe I don’t know any of this.
My memory isn’t great, so I’m a note taker.
Since I don’t get to see Margot as often as I would like, I keep a notebook of facts to ensure I don’t spend the precious little time I have with her rehashing old ground.
The Book of Margot contains her allergies, pet peeves, favorite flowers, bands she likes, and any other tidbit I learn.
Pages of information, but I know without looking there’s no mention of a con man ex-husband.
Unacceptable.
One ear on Margot’s conversation with the cop, I decide to do a little bit of research.
Opening the browser on my phone, I type in: Nicholas Ammon Arrest. Hundreds of hits.
It only takes a second to see that the first page is all links to articles on why he’s been wrongly convicted.
I’m on the third page of search results before I start to hit articles that aren’t obvious plants from a reputation management company.
At last, I find an article that looks like a solid source. Unfortunately, it doesn’t offer much more information than Margot’s already told me. I’m about to click out when a recommended article at the bottom of the page catches my eye.
Televangelist’s wife questioned after NEAR-FATAL fall.
I can’t click fast enough. It matches what Margot shared earlier: she confronted Nicholas, at which point there was a scuffle over an evidence-containing laptop, and he fell through an interior window at the church.
Apparently, one of the worship leaders was still hanging around and insisted that Margot pushed Nicholas because she overheard them arguing.
Nicholas, however, stated that he lost his balance and fell while they were tussling over the laptop.
Margot took the note from the door upstairs with her when she went to change into jeans and a hoodie earlier, but I can picture the you owe me line perfectly in my mind.
Holy shit.
Margot’s voice pulls me from the article. It’s the tone she gets when she’s holding on to her manners for dear life, seconds away from going straight for the jugular.
“Like I mentioned, I called the rescue I volunteer at and they’re getting ahold of a reptile specialist. So, no, I do not want you to kill the snake.
Thank you for offering, though.” Margot’s smile is showing too many teeth to be friendly, but the cop seems to take it as genuine.
Tucking Gremlin under one arm, she stands from the table.
As they head toward the front door, I trail along, just in case she needs backup.
True to form, she doesn’t.
As the cop leaves, the reptile handler arrives.
How Margot’s friend at the rescue found someone with venomous snake–handling capabilities in the middle of the night is beyond me, but his name is Brady and he’s rocking an impressive auburn beard and what I’m pretty sure is a tie-dye lizard onesie.
He’s tied the arms around his waist and is wearing a gray 5K T-shirt.
All but skipping into the house, he beams at the tub the way most people smile at babies.
Margot is still suspicious. After the basic pleasantries, she jumps straight to, “You aren’t going to kill her, are you?”
He shakes his head. “No, there’s a herpetology center an hour south of Newbound. I’ll take it there.”
Visibly relaxing, Margot’s smile is real this time. “Good. I’m glad. Can I get another peek before you take her?”
“Of course.” Brady sounds surprised, but he carefully cracks the lid on the tote. I move close enough to grab Margot in case Scales decides to make a break for it. Coiled in the bottom of the rubber container, the snake looks thick and deadly.
“Don’t think he likes us,” I mutter. If snakes can glare, this one is. Can’t blame him. I’d be ornery too if somebody took me away from Margot and put me into a plastic bin.
“She,” Margot has the perturbed air of a parent whose baby was insulted. I give her a Seriously? look, and she scowls back.
There’s my little grouch.