“I didn’t think so. Now get out of my sight.”
He turned her around and shoved her hard on her spine. In her skyscraper heels, she stumbled and the sidewalk loomed ominously close, but she gripped the doorway of the bar in time, and walked away from him. When she reached her building, she stopped at the mailboxes in the lobby and grabbed bills, flyers and coupons. She quickly sorted the letters, tossing credit-card offers and carpet-cleaning deals in the trash. Then she spotted a letter that would make any citizen groan.
From the IRS.
She slid her finger under the flap as she trudged up the stairs, wondering what the government could want from her. She paid her taxes on time every year. She unfolded the letter and scanned it—a letter of inquiry. The IRS was asking if she knew where Dillon Whittaker was living these days since he hadn’t filed his taxes for the year before.
She scoffed as she unlocked her door. If Charlie didn’t know where Dillon was, the IRS sure as hell wasn’t going to find him.
* * *
Later that night, the hot water from the shower rained down on her head and her mind returned to Dillon. When they’d met he seemed like the easygoing photographer, the funny guy with a quick wit, and a sweet word.
But he was so much more. He was insidious in ways she never imagined he could be, because he’d figured out how to leave town with $100,000 scot-free, and no strings attached. Tra la f**king la. She could still recall the moment when her world came crashing down. She and Dillon had already split, and she wasn’t keeping tabs on him so she didn’t know he’d fled the country. She’d been mixing a pitcher of margaritas for a bachelorette party when Charlie strolled into the bar, parking himself on a sleek, steel stool. He steepled his hands in front of him, and cocked his head to the side. “How is the expansion going?”
“What do you mean?” she asked curiously. She knew Charlie, had met him once before through Dillon, but they’d never broken bread or toasted together.
“I understand you needed some money for your bar. Dillon asked me for a loan on your behalf, and since he’s been good and loyal to me, and was willing to pay 15 percent, I happily said yes. And seeing as Dillon has left the country, it seemed the right time for you and I to get acquainted.”
The saying you could hear a pin drop took on new meaning as the sound in the bar was vacuumed up. She could hear everything, from the chatter of nearby patrons, to the waiters placing drinks on low tables, to the frantic beat of her heart and the blood roaring in her ears.
“What do you mean?” She carefully set down the pitcher she was holding. If she held it a second longer she’d drop it, and it would shatter and break. It would be her tell, and if there’s one thing she knew from the mobster movies she’d seen, you don’t let them smell your fear. When they do, they pounce.
He drummed his fingers against the counter. “What I mean is we need to talk, Red.”
“About what?” she asked, feeling like an animal crouching in a corner.
“About what you can do to repay me.”
Her eyes widened. “But the money wasn’t for me. I didn’t even know he got a loan from you,” Julia had said, her voice rising in fear, her skin turning pale.
Charlie arched an eyebrow. “That’s very funny.”
“But it’s true. This is the first I’ve heard of this, I swear. I never got that money. I never saw a dime. I had no idea,” she said, trying so hard to prove her innocence, as her stomach twisted and her hands turned clammy.
This couldn’t be happening.
Charlie cackled. “That’s what they all say. I had no idea. But now it’s time to have an idea about how you’re going to pay me. I hear you like poker. Make me a gin and tonic and I will tell you how you will be playing for me. Because what this means, Red, is that you are mine.”
She still was his, and she had no idea how much longer she would have to pay for that son-of-a-bitch’s twisted act of deception.
* * *
Julia couldn’t sleep, which bugged the crap out of her. She’d never suffered from insomnia, not even in the darkest days with Dillon. Not even in those early weeks of Charlie’s indentured servitude when she was still dazed and shocked that this had become her life. But now she lay wide awake in her king-size bed, the window open, the late night sounds of San Francisco drifting in: the occasional car horn, the faint hum of the bus that ran on electricity, the crash of a garbage can, likely knocked over by a vagrant.
Clay had seemed a bit wary of her neighborhood, and while her section of The Mission wasn’t bad per se, it hadn’t yet come into its own. She didn’t mind the seedier elements; she knew real danger didn’t lie with the guy panhandling on the street corner. But she liked that Clay had a protective side, and a helpful side, too. He’d tried so hard to get her to open up the other day and tell him all her troubles. She’d been tempted. She could see herself laying them at his feet and serving them up for him to solve.
But then her problems would become his problems, and she couldn’t abide by that. Dillon had sloughed off his garbage onto her, and she wasn’t going to hot potato it on to someone else, especially someone she cared so deeply for. Because she did care for him. So much more than she’d planned to when she said yes to that one weekend in New York. She’d thought she could jet across the country and have a fantastic getaway. Instead, she’d gone all in.
She had nothing to show for it though.
All the anger that fueled her during the game had faded, and she simply felt weary, and lonely, too, as she flashed back to the pained look on his face, to the tortured gaze in his eyes, to the way he’d reacted when she’d pleaded.