Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(32)

Ginger seems oblivious. “I know it’s a little strange. Cain is a little strange. But you’ll be my neighbor now!” She lets out an excited squeal. “We can have coffees in the mornings with Mercy and go to the gym together. You can be my guinea pig for test recipes.” Ginger is taking culinary classes but refuses to eat anything she makes, for fear of turning into a portly chef, she says. “We can drive to work together, too! I hear you’ll be working with me every night.” With a raised brow, she adds, “That’s a lot of Ginger time for you. I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

Oh, man. Laying low is hard to do when you have people watching your every move . . . Shit . . . I can’t have anyone seeing me heading to a drop, in disguise. That’s how questions begin. I can’t have people asking questions.

None of them can ever know what I’m into.

I should have kept my roach-infested apartment, but Cain made it clear that wasn’t an option. He walked me to the superintendent and, after watching them have a heated conversation about bullet holes and appalling conditions, followed by threats about having the place condemned—I don’t know if Cain can make that happen, but he sure as hell sounded convincing—I handed in my keys and the landlord handed me back my security deposit.

I watch as Cain’s lean body slides out of his driver’s seat, with his phone to his ear. I don’t know whether to be thankful or angry with the way things played out today.

Or worried.

Sure, the fact that I might get a night’s sleep without having to leave the lights on is more than enticing. But . . . why is he doing all this? I now have a job and what I assume will be a better place to live. What will he want in return? Everyone wants something.

Sam sure does.

And Cain is doing it all despite not knowing anything about me. Except that I have a gun, which he didn’t even say a word about.

“He sure likes to get involved with his employees’ lives,” I say out loud.

Ginger’s gaze locks on her boss. Now, our boss. “Yeah, he tends to.” She pauses. “But not in a bad way. He’s a good guy,” she assures me. “A little different, sometimes. Reclusive. Charming, occasionally. And he can be moody, but who wouldn’t, with all the shit he deals with.”

I have to agree with her. I caught rare glimpses of a joking, playful Cain earlier today, with his soft chuckles. They were few and far between but when he loosened up, I couldn’t deny there was a magnetic pull. Most of the time, though, he seems stressed—his back rigid, his keen eyes boring into me as if scouring for answers.

I watch him now as he begins to pace, one hand deftly adjusting the collar of his new shirt while he talks. By the deep wrinkles in his forehead, he doesn’t look impressed with the conversation. Maybe it’s my background check.

Not good.

When I came back from grabbing that shirt from his Navigator—a spotless, well-maintained vehicle that smelled fresh and clean, like him—I found him standing next to my bed and I immediately panicked. I thought he had discovered the wigs I’d hidden. But then I was distracted by the fact that my sheets were in his hand. The 1200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that I had to buy because cheap sheets make my skin itch and keep me up half the night, paranoid that bugs are scurrying all over me.

And he was shirtless.

And his other hand was on his groin.

That was a super-awkward moment.

Awkward because I didn’t know what he was doing, and awkward because I instantly wanted him to offer me the same ultimatum that Rick had. At that very moment, I would have submitted.

“And he’s intense,” Ginger says, cutting into my thoughts. She pauses. “And principled. Cain marches to a different beat. I mean, I’ve heard the kinds of things that some of these girls try on him, and he never takes the bait.”

“Never?” I feel my face tightening with doubt as I gaze out at the tall, dark form again, still on the phone. “Bullshit.” I don’t believe it. It doesn’t matter, because he can do whatever—or whoever—he wants.

“No . . .” Ginger’s soft chuckle fills my truck. “Ben jokes that Cain must have a malformed, Hobbit-sized penis, because there’s no way any man can own a strip club and have the pick of the litter—Ben’s words, not mine—and not take advantage.”

“That’d be unfortunate,” I mumble. The very idea of Cain with a malformed, Hobbit-sized penis leaves my insides heavy with disappointment. I feel Ginger’s curious green eyes on me as I ask, “Has anyone ever seen him with a woman?”

“Nope. Well, maybe Nate, but good luck getting any dirt out of him. That guy is like Cain’s own private Chinese wall.”

I could see Cain preferring a sophisticated, suit-wearing woman with a pinched nose and a snotty attitude, who only ever has sex in a bed with the lights off. Who he would never bring around to a strip club. But, then, why would he own one in the first place? And why would she be okay with him owning it? Unless she doesn’t know that he owns a club.

And may or may not be a pimp.

All these conflicting thoughts swirl around my head, none of them fitting the man I see before me. Unless . . . An even more disheartening thought pops into my head. “Do you think Cain’s gay?”

Ginger’s derisive snort and confident head shake tells me she doesn’t think so, and a sigh of relief escapes me before I can help myself. “He may not ever touch the girls, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t caught him adjusting himself when one of them walks by and accidently,” she uses air quotes, “brushes her ass into his groin.” She pauses. “He doesn’t fire them for it, though some of them deserve to be tossed out. I’ve actually never seen him fire a dancer, not once. Oh,” she scowls. “I lied. There was one. But that girl was dealing drugs out of Penny’s. Cain has a huge issue with drugs. I think it’s one of the reasons he hates Rick Cassidy so much. We don’t know if Rick’s the one supplying the girls with drugs or if he’s got some slimeball dealer working with him, but all the girls that go in to Sin City seem to come out addicts.”