Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(30)

“The girls started getting nervous, with all the cash flying around and his crazy ass comments, so we did some checking after he left.”

I swallowed a gulp, savoring the burn.

“When was this?”

“The night some rich white folks were murdered. I didn’t know…didn’t realize they were your folks until I started working here.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped the glass so hard it’d shatter if I didn’t relax.

I felt a soft hand on my arm, and I forced myself to calm. “You get a name?”

Her voice was whisper soft when she said, “He gave me a hundred dollar tip after my dance. Told me it was a Benjamin from Black Ben himself. He also said that if more white folks wanted to off white folks, the world might be a better place. I thought that was real weird. Never forgot that part.”

Black Ben. A name to run down. But it was the last part that threw me.

She started to slide out of the booth, but I grabbed her wrist. “You’re telling me he said he was working on the orders of a white guy?”

She stilled, eyes dark and full of sadness. “He didn’t say anything for sure. Just ramblings of a drunk guy looking to rub up against a tight ass and fake tits.”

“You ever see that guy again? Black Ben?”

She shook her head. “Nah.”

I released my hold and reached for my wallet. Peeling off a stack of hundreds, I slid them across the table.

I needed to process the information. It didn’t make sense. I was missing something.

Gina scooted out of the booth, folded the bills, and shoved them in the waistband of her thong.

“Wish I knew more.”

“Thank you. This is…helpful.”

As I watched her strut away, I knew a call to my boy was in order. I didn’t understand how this fit with the gangbangers my buddies and I had tangled with when we were on leave. But it had to be connected somehow. Nothing else made sense.

Updating the cop on the cold case wouldn’t help. They’d listened to my theory early on, and they’d found “no connection between the two incidents.” Those empty words hadn’t smothered the guilt rising up from my gut to suffocate me.

It’d been over three years and still the guilt hadn’t abated. Which is why I sat in this back booth and paid girls like Gina for information. And anyone else who had a lead I could follow.

After Joy and Andre’s funeral, I’d gone back to service and finished out the remainder of my commitment. Instead of doing my twenty like I’d planned, I’d separated and made my way home. I’d bought Voodoo first, then Chains, my pawnshop, and most recently, Tassel.

Lord, the manager of Chains, helped Reggie and me out with the boys. But more than that, he ran a tight ship and kept his ear to the ground. I rarely had to set foot in the store, but I got the benefit of the information he gleaned off customers and the cash flow.

I’d chased down more leads and had my Army intelligence buddies misappropriate more government resources than I could count. Every damn time we ended up in the same place: a dead end.

And now I had a name from Gina “Gold Dust” Mulvado. Black Ben.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose like a dog sensing trouble. There was a whole hell of a lot more going on here than I thought.

I palmed my phone and found the contact I wanted.

It only rang once.

“Lord.”

“I got another lead.”





I’d replayed those moments on the rooftop over and over. And Con’s words.

Sitting at my desk, at work, was not the appropriate place to be remembering. The stack of bids in front of me needed my attention. But reading about interior finishes for the new building paled in comparison to remembering what it had felt like to kiss Constantine Leahy while we were both sober. The few sips of beer didn’t count in my book—except for how good it’d tasted on Con’s tongue.

“If the scenery in my office was this good, I’d probably never leave.”

Those words were more effective than a bucket of cold water. All thoughts of Con were dashed away as Lucas Titan smiled broadly and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Surprised you ever leave your office at all to begin with, Mr. Titan.”

“Board meeting for my favorite foundation qualifies as a good reason.”

Crap. How could I forget the meeting—one I was scheduled to attend—this afternoon?

He crossed the room to one of my guest chairs, unbuttoned the jacket of his three-piece suit, and took a seat without being invited.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I mumbled.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

For a moment I was surprised he didn’t just kick his heels up on the edge of my desk. Instead, he rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

“I expected a progress report.”

“And I expected to leave the banquet without being blackmailed. Guess we both have to live with disappointment.”

“I like your style, Frost.”

“Don’t bother trying to charm me, Titan. I’m not interested.”

“You know saying something like that is just going to make me want to try harder.”

I surveyed him. Pale gray suit, crisp white shirt, orange and navy plaid tie. “I think you’re smart enough to know when investing your time in something is going to give you a dismal return.”