“Are you feeling better? Do you need something?” Her worry is genuine and sweet.
And feeding my guilt.
“I’m just running to the store for some medicine.”
“Oh, you stay home. I’ll get it for you,” Ginger quickly insists, her hands on my shoulders to stop me. I feel her strength as she attempts to turn me around and push me back into my apartment. “I stuck around in case you needed anything.”
Shit. Ginger isn’t making this easy. Think fast! “It’s okay, Ginger. I need to see all of the packaging. There’s only one type of pill that doesn’t make me sick and I can’t remember the name of it.”
Her furrowed brow tells me she’s not accepting this answer. “Well, I’ll take pictures of all the packages and send them to you.”
I’m already shaking my head and backing away toward the gate. I can’t come up with anything more than, “No, no . . .”
Ginger pauses as if thinking this over. “Well, then wait up! Let me throw some clothes on. I’ll come with you.”
“No!” I don’t mean it to come out in a yell but it does. Dammit! Why does Ginger have to be so pushy and . . . such a good friend. I just need to leave. I need to run out of here and not have to explain myself or my actions. I knew this would happen. I knew living so close to friends would cause problems. I was better off in the roach-infested place. No one asked questions there. No one cared.
She bites her lip, and her eyes finally flicker to the straps around my shoulder. I intentionally have my gym bag tucked behind me, trying to hide it. A grimace forms on her face as she ponders something. “You’re not really sick, are you? You’re trying to ditch me.”
“I am sick, Ginger! Good grief. You’re paranoid.” I’m such a shitty friend.
Tanner clears his throat several times, as if to remind us that he’s standing right there, able to hear the conversation.
Ginger ignores him. “Are you going to the gym without me?”
“No, Ginger. I swear I’m not.”
With her hands landing on her hips, she heaves a sigh. “You’re pretending to be sick so you can ditch me for a guy. That’s what this is.” I can’t tell whether she’s annoyed or hurt or curious, or maybe a combination of all three. “Is this about Cain?”
Another throat clearing from Tanner. “No, Ginger. I’m not going to see a guy.”
Folding arms across her chest, her head tilting, she says, “Then it’s about the guy on the phone. He isn’t really your father, is he?”
As if on cue, the burner phone in my purse begins ringing again. I should already be at the café to meet Jimmy. I have no more time for this. “I’ll talk to you later, Ginger,” I say as I walk briskly away. Except I don’t know that she’ll talk to me. I may have just lost my first real friend.
“This isn’t a f**king hair appointment and we’re not girlfriends,” Bob snaps the second the door to the hotel bedroom is shut.
“I’m sorry. There was construction,” I mutter. I’ve already gotten an earful from Jimmy, and I’m sure I’ll get Sam’s silent treatment when I talk to him afterward.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Eddie mutters, sitting in his usual spot, watching the television screen and appearing indifferent.
Bob is a different story. “I don’t f**king care if a road blew up. This is the big leagues. You get here on time and everything goes smoothly. It’s called respect. You show up late and I get pissed off. You don’t want me pissed off.”
I give a curt nod, wondering if I’ve misread Bob’s role here. I thought he was just the muscle. Right now, as his meaty paws begin their rough and invasive search of my body, he’s acting like he runs the whole show and me being fifteen minutes late is a personal attack upon him.
When his hands reach my inner thighs and I involuntarily stiffen, he stands to meet my eyes, a flicker of amusement touching his otherwise cheerless face. “Don’t think because you’re late that we’re going to skip a wire search.” He makes a point of holding my eyes as his hands reach around to prod my ass, as if silently telling me that he can get away with just about anything right now. I say nothing, keeping my face calm, unperturbed. I can’t keep the sweat from beginning to trickle, though. I’m not that controlled.
Grabbing my hips and spinning me around to face the wall, Bob doesn’t warn me before he yanks my shirt up, stretching the bottom over my shoulders. I feel his fingers curl around the back of my sports bra as he begins tugging at the clasps.
What the f**k? This is new. This didn’t happen last time . . .
“It’s easy to hide wires in these things,” he explains, though I can’t help but hear the wicked smile in his voice. Bullshit. This is Bob trying to assert authority over me. I bite my tongue to keep the complaints at bay.
This will be over soon.
When Bob is still struggling with the clasps after ten seconds, a chuckle slips out of my lips, unbidden. “Not a lot of experience with those, Bob?”
Eddie’s bark of laughter sounds a second before my body jerks from a violent tug. I hear the tear of fabric as the feeling of support disappears and I know that Bob has ruined a very good sports bra. He begins stretching, pulling, and twisting the material as he mutters, “Keep it up, Jane. I’ve done strip searches before. Never can be too cautious of a rat.”
My stomach flips with his words and I grit my teeth before anything else rash and stupid slips out of my mouth. I know that I was lucky Sal never raped me. I know that I won’t be so lucky a second time. But I can’t let Bob see that I’m afraid, and I sure as hell can’t let him talk to me like this or I’ll never have a solid footing in these drops again. From somewhere deep inside, I manage to pull out an icy tone to retort, “Maybe I should give details about these romantic little sessions of ours when I speak to Big Sam on the phone.”
Eddie’s snort sounds in the background. “We’re going to be doing business together for a while. How about you two lovebirds start getting along.”
Bob’s invasive hands reach around to slide over my br**sts. He says nothing, but I hear his sharp exhale as he cups each of them for a tad too long.
“All right . . .,” Eddie growls.
Bob’s hands finally fall away and he announces, “All clear.”
I yank my shirt down and turn around, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around my chest as we complete the rest of the transaction. It takes mere minutes and then I’m out.
Another successful drug drop to add to my résumé.
Another horrid memory to bury with my sordid past when I get away.
I have to focus on taking deliberate steps to keep myself from running down the hall, out of the elevator, and away from that hotel. And for some reason, I can’t shake the image of a beautiful dark-haired man from my mind, only it’s marred by a look of disgust. The same look Cain had on his face the day he moved me out of my apartment.
The look isn’t meant for my drug addict neighbors, though.
It’s meant for me.
Despite the oppressive late afternoon heat, I feel a chill course through my body.
Something has shifted in the air since our conversation two nights ago. I can’t quite peg it. It’s not the music, though the song I’ve chosen—“Sail,” by Awolnation—is decidedly slower. It’s not my routine, though I need to temper some of the moves to flow with the music. It’s certainly not Cain’s attention. He’s still standing in his customary location, still watching with that intense gaze as I peel articles of clothing off. It’s not the lighting or the location or the crowd—it’s as congested as always.