Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(62)

With a sigh, I mutter, “Everything is about the girl, these days.” After Ginger filled me in on what happened on Monday—the call from a “father” on Charlie’s second phone, who I know couldn’t be her father because her father is in jail and only making collect calls these days—I sent her home early to check up on Charlie. Then I reviewed the surveillance video of V.I.P. room two.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Charlie knew who that guy was. The way she strolled into the room, arm-in-arm with him, the covert way she warned him about the camera. Everything about the interaction screamed familiarity. When I watched his hand reach up under her skirt, my jaw cracked from the tension in my face. When I saw him backhand her, I had to pause and take a deep, calming breath.

As usual, I could count on Nate to handle the situation. After delivering a blow to the guy’s gut in a quiet corner of the parking lot outside—I watched that surveillance tape too, with a big f*cking grin on my face—Nate dragged him to the black Camry he pointed out as his and left him writhing in pain on the ground while he searched his wallet and car, taking down as much information as he could. Once Nate had confiscated the loaded gun that he found beneath the seat, he tossed the guy into the driver’s side as if he were a chew toy. Next to Nate, everyone looks like a chew toy.

Nate made it clear that if anything ever happened to Charlie, that surveillance tape would go to the police along with all of Ronald’s info, and then it would be a race to see who got to him first, me or the cops.

And Ronald would want it to be the cops.

As a parting gift, Nate dropped one last brutal punch to the douchebag’s nose and left him there, cupping his face against the rush of blood. I imagine Ronald Sullivan spent the night in a lot of pain and, possibly in the ER.

Nate and I know we’ll have to watch our backs for a while. But if I see the guy here again, I won’t hesitate to put him down.

“And her father’s still locked up, right?”

“Yes, sir. He won’t be getting out for a long time.”

“Thanks for the quick turnaround, John,” I offer before I hang up, looking at the clock as I take a long draw of my drink. It’s four thirty. Charlie was supposed to be here at four for that administrative work and she’s never late. I shouldn’t be surprised that she hasn’t shown up. After last night, I’ll be surprised if she comes at all.

She hasn’t answered my calls, though the florist confirmed that she received my flowers this morning. I’ve never sent a woman flowers. I hope it wasn’t too much. I hope she didn’t think it was tacky. I’m still at a loss for what to say, what to do, how much time and space I should give her.

What if she won’t want me once she knows what I’m all about?

My hands find their way behind my neck, where they clasp tightly. How is this going to go? Will she see me as another Ronald Sullivan? Or someone as violent as her father? Or some other guy who’s probably taken advantage of her in the past, who may still be doing so?

Maybe she will see me as any or all of them. Maybe I’ll spill my guts to her and she’ll run away from me and into the arms of a normal guy with normal parents and a normal career. Maybe that would be for the best.

■ ■ ■

I’m sure my body visibly slackened the second I walked out into the club earlier tonight, to see Charlie behind the bar. I had convinced myself that she wasn’t coming in, but she’s here, mixing drinks, smiling at customers.

Avoiding me.

She immediately shifted to the opposite end of the bar when I approached her. I’m not going to lie—that felt like a punch to the heart. I fought the urge to throw her over my shoulder and demand we talk. I had to hide out in my office to calm myself.

But now I’m back, because I can’t stay away from her. It’s ten o’clock. I’m just waiting for her to attempt to get up on that stage again. I will throw her over my shoulder if she tries that.

“Cain!” a familiar voice calls out, a second before a hand smacks my shoulder. It’s Storm’s fiancé, Dan, and Ginger is lining shots up in front of him.

In my peripheral vision, I catch Charlie looking up at the sound of my name being called, but her eyes are already down when I try to make eye contact. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to Dan for the time being. “What are you doing here?” I am genuinely curious, given that he’s not the type to frequent strip clubs. He hated Storm working here—rightfully so—and was only too happy the day she quit.

A guy behind him, who’s obviously part of Dan’s group, slaps his back and shouts, “Celebrating! You’re looking at Special Agent Dan Ryder.”

Dan just shakes his head, but he can’t keep the wide grin from escaping.

And I can’t help but match it, announcing, “Next round’s on me!”

When John did the background check on Dan—of course I had Storm’s guy investigated—he came back stamping Dan as the last true boy scout. And everything Dan has done since that day has only strengthened the claim. The guy inherited a shitload of money a few years back from his oil-tycoon grandma. Enough that he could be spending the rest of his life lying on a beach, fishing . . . doing anything, really. Instead, he kept chasing criminals, holding out hope to join the DEA. And he finally made it. He’s about to be chasing dangerous lowlifes, making a big difference.