Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(29)
Charlie’s gun.
“Calm down or I will shoot you. Do you understand?” Charlie says with an impressive degree of composure, slowly stepping into the apartment. Her hands aren’t even shaking.
The woman has enough sense to realize that Charlie isn’t bluffing. She edges back and around me—giving me a wide berth—until she reaches the moaning, writhing idiot on the floor. Dropping to her knees next to him, she starts sobbing as she presses her lips to his head, her arms loosely around his body. “I’m so sorry, babe! Are you going to be okay? I love you! I’m so sorry!”
Sirens sound in the distance. Someone has called the cops. “Charlie.” My eyes land on the gun in her hand. “You should go back to your apartment. I’ll take care of it from here.”
I don’t have to ask her twice. She tucks the piece under her shirt before she steps out, hiding it from any curious witnesses.
A few hours and a barrage of questions from the cops later, I’m facing a very quiet Charlie in her sweltering apartment once again.
“Here, take this.” She holds out a bag of ice for me. But I don’t take it. All I do is reach out and touch her delicate hand, attached to her delicate arm, attached to her delicate body, which would have crumpled to the ground had that bullet sailed only a few inches to the left.
She shifts from my touch, gingerly lifting the bag to my head while on tiptoes. I wince as it touches the bump. “Sorry, but you need to ice it. Come and sit. You’re too tall for me.” She wraps her fingers around my bicep and guides me toward the red folding chair next to her dining table. It’s a foreign feeling, having someone leading me. Ordering me.
Caring for me.
I go willingly, finding myself intrigued by this role-reversal.
Pulling up the other chair, she rests on it with one knee and continues her silent tending to my lump. Luckily, that was it. I don’t want to deal with stitches. Charlie’s mouth works as if she wants to say something but is hesitant. And so she says nothing, content to half stand, half lean while I simply stare up at that perfectly proportioned face. Because I can’t help myself.
Charlie’s eyes aren’t brown. They’re a deep, mesmerizing bluish-purple. I’ve never met anyone with violet irises. I’ve heard they do exist, but they’re rare. Elizabeth Taylor apparently had violet eyes. If they looked anything like Charlie’s, then it’s not a wonder she kept landing husbands. Why the hell Charlie would want to hide those gorgeous things is beyond me.
Everything about Charlie looks different from the woman who showed up in my office two days ago. I knew those big, springy curls probably weren’t natural, but they actually change the shape of her face, making it appear rounder than it really is. And why the f**k does she wear all that makeup? She’s stunning without it. I’ve never seen natural lashes that long before. And her skin is porcelain smooth, like one of those dolls. That’s what Charlie looks like. A perfect little doll. Except with that ultrawide, sexy mouth.
A young, perfect little doll.
I’m not sure that she’s twenty-two. It’s so hard to tell with women these days. I’ve seen fourteen-year-olds look legal. It could be that Charlie’s license is fake and she’s a minor. I’ve already sent her paperwork off to my private eye and I’m expecting a call from him any minute. Short of robbing her previous employer blind or attacking other dancers, I don’t care too much about her past experience at the Vegas club. But I am a little worried about her age . . . f**k.
What if I just put a fourteen-year-old on my stage?
I push that thought out of my head with force. Now I’m just looking for excuses, reasons for why hiring her is a f**king bad idea. Reasons besides my own selfish ones.
Short of being underage or being a criminal, she can have a job at Penny’s for as long as she needs it. That, I know for sure. After distancing myself—with Rebecka’s help—I was able to see that I was overreacting. I thought about telling her she can only bartend but decided against it. The stage means a difference of a couple hundred dollars a night. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to get used to seeing Charlie topless every day. I’m not going to send her off to suck Rick’s cock—or worse—because I want to avoid a case of blue balls.
So now here I am, with this angelic-looking violet-eyed young woman playing nursemaid to me. And all I want to do is touch her.
Fuck.
She clears her throat and then, with a slight chuckle, says, “Can you believe he shot himself in the foot?” The sound of her voice and the way her face softened are so contradictory given the words she just spoke, and what we just went through. Most women—and men, frankly—would be rattled after a bullet barely missed them in their own home. Penny would have cried. Ginger would be throwing a proper fit. Kacey, my former bartender, would have murdered the man with her bare hands. But Charlie continues to be surprisingly calm and unperturbed by the entire experience.
Is this the way she has always been? Or did something, or someone, make her like this?
“Drug addicts,” I mutter, causing her giggle to die off abruptly. Ah, Cain. If only you had a sense of humor, like Ben, she’d still be laughing.
And probably on her back in that bed.
But none of what happened today is remotely funny. “Charlie, I really don’t like the idea of you staying in an apartment next to gun-wielding neighbors. You could have been shot.”