Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(63)
“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.
I was careful to watch for tails on my way to work, and again, when I climbed into Cain’s Nav. But now, we’re far away from the noise of the club, the hustle of Miami’s streets, and for the first time all day, I feel safe. Sheltered.
A rare, broad smile on Cain’s face tells me that he’s pleased. “It’s one of my favorite restaurants. I live just over there.” His index finger points out one of the tall luxury condominium buildings on the water. It doesn’t surprise me. Cain has “downtown bachelor” written all over him. He adds as an afterthought, “I haven’t been here in a while.”
“What does that tell you?” I mutter dryly.
His head dips once in assent. “Yes, I know. I need a life. Storm and Nate keep reminding me.” A light chuckle escapes his lips.
It acts as a sedative for me, warmth and relaxation creeping into my limbs. The waitress arrives with a bottle of wine and we say nothing, silently stealing glances at each other as she fills our glasses with cabernet, the soft buzz of conversation and music floating around us.
When the waitress leaves with our order, Cain finally speaks up, his voice calm. “You scared me tonight.”
I feel my cheeks burning. Now that the shock has worn off, I’m more embarrassed than anything. “I don’t do that often.” I’ve actually never passed out before but I don’t want Cain to know that, so I make sure my hand is steady as I take a sip of my wine. He watches me do so quietly, leaning back in his chair in a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top and looking casual yet tailored. His dark hair, normally styled tidily, is slightly unkempt now, and there’s the slightest five o’clock shadow across his jaw.
He’s a kind of handsome I’ve never seen in real life. I can’t believe I’ve been stripping for him nightly on a stage. And he’s been watching me. And he kissed me last night with a kind of reckless abandon I didn’t know possible. And now I’m sitting across from him at a table. And I’m desperate to go home with him tonight.
The Cain I’ve been using as a prop onstage all these weeks is an emotionless man who wants nothing more than sex. He’s aggressive and demanding and walks away when he’s gotten his fill. Aside from a lustful crush, it’s difficult to picture myself forming an attachment to a man like that.