Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(9)
I’ll certainly be passing her paperwork on to my private investigator. The one who does the kind of in-depth background checks average employers don’t bother with. I know it’s not normal, but I’m not normal and I won’t let any illicit shit get dragged into my place, derailing everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
Speaking of illicit . . . I pull into the parking lot outside Cherry’s apartment complex, wondering how long before this goes sideways.
“You sure you’re fine?” Nate’s booming voice thunders over the Bluetooth speaker in my Nav.
“Yeah,” I mutter. The passing streetlights cast enough light to reveal my swollen knuckles. I can’t believe I injured my hand, but I guess it has been a while since I’ve cracked a jaw with my punch. Years, actually. Despite the multitude of close encounters in this business, I’ve rarely had to lay a finger on the lowlifes that my employees naturally draw to themselves. Nate’s shadow passing over them typically has them running before there’s a need.
But Cherry’s ex is a special kind of scumbag—a small-time coke dealer with a penchant for slapping around pretty strippers. I guess he thought the “never so much as bat an eye at Cherry again” warning had a one-year expiration date. A more permanent removal from Cherry’s life was necessary.
And I think we made sure of that tonight.
While waiting for me outside Cherry’s apartment, Nate saw her son playing at the neighbor’s place, so we knew he wasn’t in imminent danger. A quick walk by Cherry’s window found her bent over the couch, clearly not fighting him off, while the jerk-off plowed into her from behind, in prime view of anyone passing by.
It took everything in me not to kick the door in. I was livid. Livid with her for letting the guy in.
Livid with her for allowing him to use her like that.
Livid that he’s still breathing.
As much as the idea of pummeling him into the ground appealed to me, there are better ways of getting rid of this cockroach. Nate stood guard while I ran back down to the parking lot. I popped the locks on the guy’s truck—some talents you just never unlearn—and, once inside, planted a sizeable bag of coke in the glove compartment.
I may avoid the drug scene at all costs, but I have connections wherever I need them. Tonight, on my way out to Cherry’s apartment, I needed them. For her and her son.
We waited for him to leave Cherry’s. As I suspected, he was carrying, but it took nothing to disarm him and throw him up against the wall. I didn’t even have to pull my own gun.
I had no intention of laying a hand on him. But then the stupid f**k went and called me a pimp. I shouldn’t care what a degenerate like him says, but I do—because I know that, to anyone outside, it’s exactly what I look like. I got a couple of good shots in on Cherry’s “boyfriend” before Nate pulled me off. We let the jerk stumble away to his truck. I even gave him his gun back—unloaded and wiped clean of my fingerprints—and then we tailed him until the cops I’d notified of an intoxicated driver pulled him over.
He has a record, so I know they’ll do a full search. When they do, they’ll find the drugs and the gun.
He’s as good as dead for the next twenty-five years.
I know it was a dirty thing to do. And I know I’d do it all over again if I had to. Still, dipping my hands back into that world leaves me cold.
“I’ll be fine. You sure you can keep the bar up and running on your own?” I ask Nate as I turn onto the street leading up to my condo.
“Piece of cake. A chimp could run that place. Actually, a chimp does run that place,” Nate jokes, earning my chuckle. “Take a break. You need it.” It’s funny that Nate—who is at Penny’s almost as much as I am—would tell me that I need a break. Then again, Nate’s not the one losing his cool lately.
“Yeah, okay. Check up on Cherry later, will you?”
“Already swung by. Had to get fresh food. The other stuff went cold. She’s good. Clear-eyed. Looks like it was a straight booty call.”
I roll my eyes but let the smallest breath escape me. One of small relief that she’s not back into the blow and, that with that guy behind bars, his “booty calls” won’t involve pretty girls like Cherry for a long time.
“See you tomorrow, Nate.” After a long pause. “Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, boss. Try to keep out of trouble.”
The second I hang up with him, I hit my speed dial.
“Unusually hot, even for July,” Vicki croons, her four-inch heels clicking against the marble. My eyes follow her swaying hips as she struts through the foyer and into my spacious kitchen. She’s a thirty-year-old platinum-blond stockbroker who thinks I’m a twenty-nine-year-old investment banker. Because that’s what I told her. Women of her caliber want socially acceptable men.
Strip club owners are not socially acceptable men.
And I’m clearly successful in the field of investment banking—based on my spacious two-floor corner condo overlooking the Miami waterfront, in one of the most sought-after buildings by the bay. Really, it’s because of a great investment banker that I have all that I have. Aside from that lie and my address, she knows nothing about me.
Well, she also knows my favorite positions.
There can be no doubt about what I want when my number shows up on her call display. There’s never any guilt. Not on my part, anyway. Vicki is a smart, successful businesswoman who knows—and gets—what she wants. She probably devours male egos for breakfast. She made it clear from day one that she doesn’t have time for a boyfriend or a husband; she’s more focused on being the first female VP at her company. That’s fine with me because I don’t do relationships. In truth, I don’t know how to do a relationship.