Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(48)

Why she decided to do it then, at the bar, I’ll never know.

I wish I had been out there. I wish Nate had been closer. I wish I had swept her off her feet in the first four seconds that she walked into my life. I wish a lot of things . . .

I wish I’d known that Roger had one hell of a temper.

“You’re scared, man,” Nate proclaims now with that penetrating stare fixed on me. “Make all the excuses you want—you’re plain scared of getting hurt again. That’s why you’re letting Charlie play this little game of hers, enjoying the view while not taking the leap. You think avoiding the conversation will somehow keep you safe. I’ve got news for you, Cain. You’re already hung up on that girl. You can’t focus on anything else when she’s in the building. It took me a whole ten seconds to grab your attention tonight and you were standing right beside me!”

I rub my hands over my face. I was watching Charlie and Ginger react to something Ben had said. I had never seen Charlie burst out laughing before, but tonight she did. I was desperate to know what was so funny, and bitter that it was Ben making her laugh like that and not me.

“But what if she doesn’t want anything to do with me?” Penny may have given herself to me that night and she may have been breaking off her engagement for me, but I saw the fear in her eyes when I laid out my past. The disgust. I wasn’t the kind of guy she was looking for. And I also saw the confusion because, despite her upcoming wedding, despite me not being the model citizen, she did feel something for me. Whether she wanted to or not. “Doesn’t Charlie deserve someone normal?”

“You mean like a nice, quiet plumber who will bash her brains into the ground?” His words stab me in the chest as he turns and slowly walks toward the door again. “Make it easier on everyone, including yourself, Cain. Tell Charlie whatever you feel you need to about yourself. Or don’t tell her anything about your past, because it’s the past and I don’t think it matters as much as you think it does. Either way, make a damn move. Make it now. ”

Chapter eighteen

CHARLIE

“Charlie!” I hear Ginger’s voice yell out over my hair dryer.

“Yeah?” I yell back, turning to see her holding a phone out.

The new burner phone I picked up from the extended-stay hotel this morning.

Switching off my hair dryer, I smooth my expression as I take it from her. By the lit-up screen displaying “unknown caller,” someone has called and Ginger has answered.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

Oh no . . .

“It was ringing, so I got it,” Ginger explains, though by her drawn brow and hesitant tone, I think she’s wondering if maybe that was a mistake.

I’d love to tell her that she sure as hell shouldn’t have gone into my purse to answer it, but now is not the time. Swallowing the rising bubble of panic, I say, “Thanks, Ginger. I’ll be out in a second.”

She opens her mouth but then pauses as if in thought. She must have decided it’s better left unsaid. Spinning on her heels, she walks back over to my couch and dives into it.

I take a deep breath as I pull the door almost shut but not quite—to ensure Ginger doesn’t scurry back over to press her ear up and eavesdrop. She’d be the type to do that. Holding the phone up to my ear, I say with a slight wobble in my voice, “Hello.”

“Hello, Little Mouse.” It’s the standard greeting, only there’s the tightness in Sam’s voice that I hear when he’s displeased with me. “Who is Ginger?”

Shit.

He knows her name.

That means they talked.

What did he say to her? What did she tell him? Does he know I have a job? That I’m working at a strip club? That I moved? My hand finds its way to clutch my throat and I can feel my racing pulse beneath my fingertips as I swallow once, twice, three times. Dammit, Ginger! In only minutes, she may have just unraveled my life, my plan!

Swallowing the crippling lump in my throat, I explain, “A friend.”

“A friend who answers this phone?”

“I was in the bathroom and she heard the ring.”

There’s an unnaturally long pause. That’s how Sam typically shows his irritation. Silence. I think he believes the mounting anxiety is more effective than yelling.

I think he’s right.

“Is your friend Ginger going to be answering your phone from now on?”

“No. Definitely not.”

There’s another long pause. “I told you to lay low down there. Making friends is not laying low.”

Okay, deep breaths. It doesn’t sound like she’s told him anything. “I’m sorry. It’s really nothing . . . she’s just a neighbor who comes over for coffee sometimes.”

“A neighbor who you let answer that phone?” My stomach muscles spasm as I peek out at Ginger, still stretched out on my couch, flipping through a magazine. “Do I need to come down there to check on you?”

I bite back the scream, keeping my teeth gritted until I can manage to get out in a relatively calm tone, “No. It’s all good.” He hasn’t been keeping tabs on me so far, from the sounds of it, and I sure as hell don’t want him to start now. The very idea of Sam infiltrating my little make-believe life causes me chest pains. I don’t need him coming down here. Finding out that I’ve moved.