Coldhearted Boss(8)

She ignored all of us as she walked straight to the bar, threw herself up on a barstool, and heaved a heavy sigh. The bartender asked if she wanted anything to drink. She asked for some water but didn’t order anything after that.

Instead, she sat, twirling her phone in her hands with her shoulders slumped over and her head bowed forward. She looked like she needed a savior, and some caveman instinct kicked on inside me, making me yearn to be that for her, even if just for one night.

My partners had all noticed her walk in too. In fact, one of them, Grant, tried to get me to change seats with him so he’d have a better vantage point from which to watch her at the bar. I didn’t budge.

Then, later—still not quite ready to give up—he volunteered to go up to the bar to order our next round. Not happening. I clapped my hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay in his seat, much to the amusement of our two other partners. It’s not often I make a fool of myself for a woman, if ever, but not a single one of them was surprised when they stood to leave and I opted to stay behind. They all wished me luck except for Grant, who shot me the finger and told me to go to hell.

At the time, it made sense. No man in his right mind would want to walk out of that bar and leave that angel behind.

No, I remind myself swiftly. She’s a lot of things—con artist, thief, liar—but she’s no angel.

I’m seeing red as I pull open the door to the bar and stalk toward the bartender, who’s cleaning glasses.

“Is she still here?” I ask, my voice cutting through the air with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

“The brunette you trailed into the bathroom?” he asks with a barely interested tone. “Nah. She left right after you did.”

My ego takes another sucker punch at having my speculation confirmed. She never did plan on meeting me in my room.

“Great. Well, did you happen to see my wallet clutched in her hand as she ran out of here?”

Without a reply, he heads over to the cash register, grabs something, and then holds it up like a magician completing a trick.

I freeze, completely baffled.

So she didn’t steal it? It really just slipped out of my back pocket—

No.

Fuck.

I haven’t even finished the thought before I tear it out of his hand, look inside, and find every bit of my cash gone. I just pulled it out of the bank this morning, and I know I had over $800 because I didn’t want to have to get cash out here in the middle of nowhere.

I curse under my breath and the bartender shrugs, totally unperturbed by my anger.

“Who is she?” I ask, biting out each word while my fingers curl into fists. Surely every man within a fifty-mile radius knows her name.

“Listen, I just started here. I’ve never met her before tonight and she didn’t tell me her name. All I know is she walked out of the bathroom a few minutes after you and told me you’d dropped your wallet in the hallway.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a fucking liar. She stole it.”

He shrugs as if to say, Well, what can ya do?

Then he resumes his duties.

“All I can say is, I hope she was worth it.”





I shouldn’t have told my partners what happened, Grant most of all. He won’t drop it at breakfast the next morning.

We’re all sitting around a table in an old diner named Lonny’s. It’s the only restaurant we could find that was open early. The food is only one minuscule step up from the crap I could have gotten in the vending machine back at the motel, but their coffee is strong and, after the night I’ve had, I need it. I ask the waitress for a refill just as Grant launches back into it.

He couldn’t look more pleased with himself if he tried. I think he’s soiled his pants.

“You thought she was into you and then she—” He breaks off into a fit of laughter so hearty and all-consuming that his next words are complete and utter gibberish. I don’t pick up any sounds that resemble the English language until, “And then in the bathroom—” More laughter. He’s wiping his eyes now. “Took your wallet!”

Grant is our youngest partner and the one I’m most likely to punch on a daily basis. It’s that damn baby face. If it weren’t for the fact that he keeps his blond hair buzzed short and stands close to my same height, I’d mistake him for a teenager. Our other two partners, Steven and Brad, sit quietly, sipping their coffee and keeping their attention down on the blueprints we’re supposed to be discussing. I credit their resolve to their age. Both of them are well into their 40s and married, each with a couple of kids under their belt. Then I notice the smile Brad is trying desperately to hide and that idea flies out the window. They’re all assholes. Every one of them.

Steven nudges my shoulder. “So you got scammed—who cares? Jesus, with that face, any one of us would have fallen for it.”

Brad agrees, and even Grant stops laughing long enough to nod along.

He reaches across the table as if wanting to shake my hand, cocky smile in place. “Hey man, I actually owe you one. It could have been me in that bar getting duped—”

Steven motions across his neck for him to cut it out. “He’s been sufficiently shamed,” he says, nodding back down to the blueprints. “Let’s move on and focus so we can get the hell out of here.”

“How far is the site from where we are now?” I ask, itching to leave.