Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(63)

Dan’s one of the few good guys. And being friends with him has helped me out greatly. For years, I’d routinely have cops at my door, looking for reasons to shut me down. I’ve been hauled into the station, questioned for hours, tailed around the city. I did get shut down once for a few days, until my lawyers worked their magic. Since Dan started dating Storm, though, I’ve had only a handful of issues. Everyone loves and respects the guy. Sure, I still get the odd threat, but all I need to do is give Dan a call and the threats seem to disappear on their own.

“What about a dance for the special agent?” one of Dan’s friends shouts.

I’m already shaking my head, a laugh escaping. “Storm would have my balls in a sack if she heard that anyone touched him.”

The friend—drunk and clearly not interested in spousal approval—waves his wallet toward China. “We’ve got a grand. She’ll take that!”

Dan gives me an almost imperceptible head shake, his eyes widening as he takes in China’s electric-blue dress. There’s no need. With a wave, I catch Nate’s attention and, pointing at Dan, I mouth, “No dances.” It’s not worth being murdered by a pregnant woman. Or more likely, her best friend and henchwoman, Kacey.

To Dan, I ask, “So, does Storm know?”

“Yeah, Nora knows.” Dan still refuses to acknowledge her by the name everyone else calls her, even though she doesn’t mind it. “I just got the call at the end of my shift. The guys decided to bring me here to celebrate.”

“When do you start?”

He takes a long sip of his drink. “Next week.”

“New job, wedding, baby on the way . . . You’re going to be busy.”

“Yeah.” Dan’s head bobs up and down as he scratches the back of his neck, adding absently, “And it’s about to get a lot busier from the shit we’re hearing on the streets.”

Another one of Dan’s officer friends lifts his shot glass in the air, saluting, “To Special Agent Dan Ryder, newest member of the DEA!” A loud cheer explodes from around us.

Seconds later, I hear a squeal of panic. My attention flies to the bar to find Ginger hovering over where Charlie was just standing. Looking down.





chapter twenty-two


■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

“Charlie?”

I open my eyes to see a masculine furrowed brow and rows of shelves and boxes. I’m lying on the couch in Cain’s office.

“Are you okay?” Cain is seated on the couch, his body hovering over me protectively. I feel the warmth of his hand as it cradles my neck, and the intimacy of his thumb as it gently rubs back and forth, catching the corner of my mouth—and my breath—with each pass.

What happened? Oh, right.

Cain is friends with a DEA agent.

Cain is a law-abiding citizen who hates anything to do with drugs and he’s friends with a DEA agent.

And I am trafficking heroin.

“Charlie?”

“I’m fine,” I croak out.

Ginger runs in with a glass of water and I immediately move to sit up. With a hand sliding beneath me to my shoulder blades, Cain helps me, his other hand smoothing the skirt of my short dress down to a respectable level. I shudder in response.

“You dropped like a bag of bricks. What happened?” Ginger frowns.

I shrug, trying to play it off. “Not sure. Just got dizzy for a minute. I’m fine now.” I’m so not fine. My heart is racing.

I’m supposed to be gone. I should be on a bus, close to Louisiana or Alabama—wherever my coin toss lands me. I would have been, if the bank had released my money. They told me it would take twenty-four hours to withdraw such a large sum from my accounts. When I protested that it wasn’t that large a sum, I learned that Sam had deposited 25,000 dollars instead of the ten he mentioned. I’m wondering if that’s his way of apologizing. That’s typically how Sam operates, after all.

It’s funny . . . the second the teller informed me that I couldn’t pull all that money out—that I couldn’t leave today after all—a sudden lightness washed over me.

Relief.

Relief that I had a valid excuse to stay for one more night.

It was like fate intervening, pointing me once again toward Penny’s.

I can have tonight with Cain. I’ll take one night with him, with whatever he’s willing to give me, to earn myself memories that I can hold on to.

Cain’s concern hasn’t disappeared. “Was it too hot? Too loud? What did you eat today?” There’s a frantic tone to his voice that tells me the I-don’t-know-what-happened brush-off isn’t going to work and he’s truly worried about me.

“Oh, crap.” I roll my eyes rather dramatically so he doesn’t miss it. “I haven’t eaten since lunch. I completely forgot.” That’s partly true. I didn’t eat, but I was well aware of it. I just didn’t feel like it, my stomach twisting and churning into anxious knots.

Cain heaves a sigh. “Can you walk?” He stands and holds a hand out. I take it, and an electric current instantly dances along my limbs and through my core.

“Good.” His eyes drift to my mouth. “I can’t have you passing out behind my bar. You need to eat.”

■ ■ ■

“This place is nice,” I admit, peering out over the white railing to Biscayne Bay just below. We’re seated at a small corner table on a patio with palm trees hovering behind and a band playing soft alt-country music in the opposite corner.