Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(95)

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I know she’s awake before she makes a sound or moves a muscle. I sense it in her body, the way it goes rigid against mine. I managed to slide in beneath her comatose frame last night and grab a few hours of sleep with her in my arms. “Do you know what time it is?” she asks in a croaky voice and I feel her swallow several times.

Reaching back to grab my phone that I placed on the side table last night, I flip it open to check. “Eleven.”

She lets out a cute little groan. “God, I drank a lot last night. I’ve never drunk that much before.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I may still be drunk.”

I chuckle and then wince, the first sign of my own hangover making its appearance. I feel her swallow again and I reach back for a bottle of water. “Here, drink this.”

She moans appreciatively, shifting into my groin. “Seriously, Cain?” She shakes her head.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s the morning and you’re lying on me.”

“Hmm . . .” I watch as she eases herself up into a sitting position. I haven’t forgotten what she said last night. I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. I know I told her that I don’t care about her past. And I don’t. But we’ve been together for weeks now. I’d like to know who the f*ck Sam is and why she’s referring to him as her father, when her father’s name is George Rourke.

Or is it?

Standing, she wobbles a bit, using the wall for support as she heads toward the bathroom. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk,” she announces, pawing at the light inside before closing the door.

If I weren’t me, I might not worry so much about this. But I am me and she still hasn’t divulged a damn thing about herself, even after I laid my history out for her to judge. I lay awake beneath her for hours, trying to rationalize it, to tell myself that it doesn’t matter to me. Still, I feel a sense of bitterness seeping in. A touch of betrayal that this woman doesn’t trust me, or my word that I would never hold her past against her.

At the same time that the toilet flush sounds inside, her phone begins ringing. Normally, I wouldn’t think to go through her things. Now, though . . . I don’t hesitate. I unzip her purse. I pull her phone out.

And I answer it.

“Hello?”

There’s a second or two of dead air and then, “Who is this?”

“This is Cain. You looking for Charlie?”

Another pause. “Yes. How do you know her?”

I don’t like the calm, even tone of his voice. It sounds manipulative. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” The number is marked “unknown,” so that doesn’t help me.

A soft, condescending chuckle answers me. “That’s because I didn’t give a name.”

This must be the same guy that Ginger spoke to. I don’t have patience for this. “Well, then I guess you can go f*ck yourself.”

A sharp hiss fills my ear. “You don’t sound like the kind of man I want my daughter with.”

“Pardon me?” I did not expect that. And Charlie’s father is in Pendleton, so it can’t be true. “Who is this?” Wait . . . “Is this Sam?”

The line goes dead.

The phone is still in my hand when Charlie emerges with a freshly washed face. She freezes, her now violet eyes skittering from the phone in my hand, to her opened purse, to what I assume is a stony expression on my face.

“What are you doing?” She’s trying to sound casual about it, but it’s impossible. I can almost see the wave of shock as it ripples through her.

“Who’s Sam?” I can’t keep the bite from my tone.

She blanches, her mouth opening to tremble for a second. “You talked to Sam?” Her jaw clamps shut instantly as if she didn’t mean to say that out loud. There’s undeniable fear in her voice and my anger wavers as worry courses in.

So Sam does exist. And she’s afraid of him. “I don’t know, Charlie. The man I just talked to said he was your father but he wouldn’t give his name. So is your father Sam or George?” I can tell by her screwed-up face that she’s trying to process the logic behind my words. I sigh. “You were talking about tobogganing with your dad last night. You called him ‘Sam’ but your dad’s name is George. So . . .”

She averts her eyes to dart around the office, searching for something. An answer. Or an escape. Her eyes suddenly widen as panic flies through them. “Did you give him your name?”

“Yes, I did,” I answer calmly.

Somehow, her face pales even more. “Why?”

“Why not, Charlie? Why wouldn’t I?”

Her head shakes back and forth, ridding itself of panic and fear and . . . everything. “You had no right going through my things or answering my phone.”

Standing, I gently place the phone back in the purse. “I guess not.”

I turn my back on her and walk out to the club.

■ ■ ■

“Some people need sleep,” John mutters groggily.

“Then don’t sleep with your phone by the bed,” I retort.

With a loud groan, followed by a coughing fit that leaves me cringing at the sound of morning phlegm in John’s lungs, my P.I. demands, “What do you need?”