Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(102)

“Look forward to seeing you again,” Manny calls out with a wicked voice as Bob walks me to the door. As I step out, a fist seizes my wrist. “Girl.”

The last thing I want to do is talk to him, but I don’t have much choice. He’s leaning out the door, glancing over his shoulder, as if he doesn’t want them to hear him. “If I ever see you again, I promise I’ll make good use of that bed, do you understand?” He speaks in a low, fast, harsh whisper. “Get the f*ck away from here and don’t come back. I’m not taking the heat from your club friends when you turn up dead.” He releases my wrist with a throw and slinks back, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Leaving me standing alone in a hallway with a bag of money, a bubble of vomit rising, and the knowledge that I was seconds away from dying tonight.





chapter thirty-seven


■ ■ ■

CAIN

“So . . .” Storm’s arm is still linked around mine as we walk along the sidewalk, the oppressive summer heat making our pace extra slow.

“Are you sure we should be walking out here?” I ask, glancing down at her ever-growing belly.

She swats away my concern with her free hand. “Yes, I’m fine. And if I’m not, you can carry me back. Now, stop trying to change the subject.” She peers up at me with that cute, curious stare of hers. “What made you show up on my doorstep tonight with that sad look upon your face?”

With a sigh, I mutter, “I don’t know where to begin, Storm.” Storm is the most nonjudgmental person I’ve ever met. I know I can tell her anything and not worry about her disapproval. Nor will she divulge anything. With my free hand lifting to rub the tension out of my neck, I give her the basic rundown of the last few weeks, ending in today’s disastrous events.

She groans. “Oh, Cain. I’m so sorry. Fucking China.” It sounds so off-kilter to hear Storm swear. Then again, no one would think she used to swing from a brass hoop above my stage only a few years ago. But if anyone can make Storm swear, it’s China.

“I know. But China has issues. You know that.”

“Everyone has issues, Cain. Stop making excuses for her,” Storm scolds. “And if you have any hope of a relationship with Charlie then you know what you need to do.”

I sigh, dreading the words. “China’s got to go.” Already, my chest is tightening, visions of the raven-haired woman kneeling on a dingy carpet in front of some * assaulting my conscience. Fuck. “But she’s just so close to—”

“She’s got to go, Cain,” Storm says more forcefully. “We all make our own choices. You’ve helped her more than anyone ever has and probably more than anyone ever will. Now she needs to help herself.” She stops and steps in front of me, poking my chest with a manicured finger. “And you have to stop living in your past or you’re going to die a very sad, very lonely man. The thought of that breaks my heart.” Stepping back, she gives my arm a gentle rub and then prods the conversation. “So you saw Charlie at the café, in a wig, with this uncle . . .”

I tell her the rest, including the phone call from the guy who’s supposedly her father, “Sam.”

“And it doesn’t match up with what John’s found out for you?”

“No.” Part of me feels like I’m betraying Charlie by divulging this, even to Storm, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to think. With a hiss through my gritted teeth, I shake my head and admit, “I was so close to throwing her over my shoulder and walking out of there.”

“I am surprised that Caveman Cain didn’t make an appearance,” she says with a giggle, her vision clouding over as her thoughts drift to the past, I’m sure to the time that I did that to her. I’ll never forget it. The first day Storm came in with heavy makeup around her eye and a story about an unfortunate tumble into the wall, my gut told me to call John and ask him to do some research on her husband. When she came in with a fat lip a week later, my gut said f*ck the research. Nate and I drove her home to find a coked-out * on the couch and a toddler crying in the crib. Storm started babbling about how he was stressed, how she’d said something stupid to him, that he’d never hurt Mia. All typical excuses used by an abused woman. I had heard it all before. That’s why I scooped Mia up in one arm and, leaning down, hoisted a teary-eyed, scared Storm over my shoulder. In hindsight, I probably could have escorted her out on her own two feet but at the time, all I could think of was filling my arms so I didn’t have a chance to beat that * senseless.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do that tonight, to Charlie. I wanted her to make that decision on her own, to come home with me willingly. I didn’t want to force her. I’ve never wanted to force her.

I need to know that she chooses me.

But she asked me to let her go, instead.

And I did. With my words, anyway. In those few seconds, I wanted her to feel the pain that I was feeling.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve figured this out, but it sounds like she’s into something. The question is what.”

“There are only a few things it could be.” The very thought of her f*cking another guy makes my fists ball up. But my gut says that’s not it. She’s not practiced enough to be doing that professionally. If not that, what else? Theft . . . extortion . . . drugs?