‘Something like that,’ I confirmed. ‘He didn’t really give me anything specific to go on. Just wanted me to transfer a lot of Emilio’s offshore cash into an account for him. And the way they were acting, she was in on it, too.’
John rubbed his hand against the stubble on his chin, seemingly agitated. ‘She’s a liability,’ he mused. ‘She’ll keep coming back to you until she finds him. And he’s in little pieces in the bottom of a crematorium somewhere, so we need to deal with her before she gets the DEA officially sniffing around.’
‘Huh,’ I said, an idea forming in my mind. ‘How hard do you think it’d be to get her bank account details?’
We drove in silence to the strip club. In less than twenty-four hours, I’d gone from being a numbers girl to a part of the action. Blood and bullets, all in a day’s work.
John had what I needed within an hour. I didn’t ask him how. He was the president of the Gypsy Brothers, a motorcycle club controlled by the most powerful drug cartel along the west coast. He could pretty much get whatever he wanted.
‘We doing this now?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Sure.’
The beauty of working for Emilio was that he had all sorts of safeguards already in place when it came to the money laundering business. For instance, he’d had someone install an IP address blocker in my laptop, so that if any heat ever came down on the finance side of things, it couldn’t be tracked from our location inside the club. I didn’t understand a lot about the intricacies of it, but I did know that if Emilio thought that it was good enough to hide the staggering amounts of money he was channelling out of the country, then it would surely be good enough for what I planned to do.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ John said, watching over my shoulder as I set up three transfers that equalled more than a hundred thousand dollars, from three of Murphy’s bank accounts into Allie’s. They’d appear as cash deposits, and with over a hundred grand sitting in her bank account by tomorrow, we might just be able to avoid both her wrath and the DEA’s attention. It wasn’t the nicest thing to do to somebody, but that bitch had threatened my son, and if she was Team Murphy, then she had to be stopped.
John pulled out a burner phone he’d just purchased, along with a voice-altering device, a small box that he taped to the handset and plugged in using a small cord. He punched in a number and let it ring.
‘Yes, hello,’ he said to whoever answered. ‘This is Timothy at First National Bank, West Hollywood. I’m calling in relation to a large deposit one of your staff has just received. We’ve had this account flagged as being connected to an international drug cartel run by Emilio Ross.’
The person on the end of the line said something I couldn’t hear, and John smiled. ‘Of course. Her name is Alexandra Baxter.’
He ended the call and broke open the back of the phone, pulling the SIM card out and snapping it in half.
‘You want to get some breakfast with me?’ he asked. ‘I’m starved.’
I smiled.
Another Sunday.
I was sitting at the end of a long conference table where the Gypsy Brothers normally held church. This week, however, they were convening in the dining room, and Emilio had commandeered the large boardroom. Across from me, Emilio looked at his watch, and Dornan paced. That was unusual. Dornan was normally in his own meeting with the rest of the Gypsy Brothers, not in here discussing finances with his father, myself and Murphy.
‘Are we waiting for Murphy?’ I asked finally, looking at the door. He’d been dead less than a week, but neither Dornan nor Emilio seemed to know this.
Emilio unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat back against the large conference table that took up most of the room, so that he was painfully close to me. I wished he’d just sit across from me like any normal person would.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Emilio said, studying me carefully. ‘I’d like you to check on something for me. Did you bring that computer?’
I nodded, patting the bag at my feet.
‘Get it out,’ he said impatiently. ‘I don’t have all day, girl. Pull up Murphy’s bank accounts. The offshore ones.’
So they were missing him already. I was glad we hadn’t waited any longer to transfer money from Murphy’s accounts into Allie’s.
I took a measured breath and reached for the laptop, pulling it from its protective bag. I placed it on the table in front of me and fired it up, navigating to a browser and looking at both of them expectantly.
‘Wi-fi password?’ I asked. Dornan and Emilio stared at me like I was speaking another language.
‘I need an internet connection to log on,’ I explained. Seriously, how had these two gotten this far? With people like me to take care of the details, I realised. Great. I loved enabling rich assholes to get richer. My job satisfaction was at an all-time low.
Dornan disappeared, coming back a few moments later with a post-it note. He stuck it to the desk in front of me, making a concerted effort not to touch me at all. He never gave me the silent treatment. I keyed in the wi-fi password, waited for it to connect, and navigated to the website we used for our offshore trade accounts. Within a few moments, I’d pulled up all six bank accounts that I had set up for Murphy in various places in the Caymans and Europe.
I turned the computer to face Emilio, and watched his face with great interest. He sucked a breath in between his teeth, tapping the screen. ‘What’s this?’ He angled the screen so I could see it, pointing to the last transaction on Murphy’s account, from only days ago.
I moved closer. ‘It’s a transfer,’ I said. I tilted my head, feigning confusion. ‘A few.’
Emilio looked at Dornan, an eyebrow raised. ‘Who the fuck is Alexandra Baxter?’
I’d had her pegged as an Allison. Alexandra was much too refined for that woman.
I shrugged.
‘Wait,’ Dornan said. ‘Alexandra. Allie?’
Emilio ran his tongue along his teeth. ‘His partner?’
‘I’m pretty sure she was more than that.’
Emilio looked pointedly at me. ‘Can you find out where she’s spending this money?’ he asked.
‘Not unless I have her online banking details,’ I replied. ‘I’m not a hacker. I don’t even know who we’re talking about.’
Emilio waved his hand dismissively. ‘We’ll go over the figures tomorrow,’ he said, turning back to his son. ‘You think he’s skipped town?’
Dornan lit a cigarette. ‘I told you not to trust that motherfucker.’
‘Oh, really? You got someone else in the DEA who we can use?’
Emilio glared at me. ‘Go.’
I stood and pointed at the laptop, and he placed a hand on it. ‘I’ll get this back to you,’ he said, staring at me until I had the urge to squirm.
I looked at Dornan, but he wouldn’t even meet my gaze. Slowly, I turned and left the office, half-expecting one of them to pull out a gun and shoot me in the back.
‘Your boy left early today,’ Guillermo said, as we walked down Santa Monica Boulevard together. I shrugged, worry churning in my stomach. Something was up, and I didn’t know if Dornan suspected me of cheating on him with his best friend or murdering his associate. Something was definitely not right and the stress was eating me alive. After the meeting, I’d hung around outside, waiting for Dornan to drive me back to the apartment. It was what we always did on a Sunday. And, sure enough, he had driven me home. He’d pushed me down onto the bed (complete with brand new mattress), fucked me and left without saying more than two sentences to me. I was feeling adrift.
‘You miss me while I was gone?’ Guillermo asked, teasing me.
‘Always,’ I replied, smiling. ‘Your mom okay?’
‘She’ll be dead if she doesn’t stop eating so much fucking fried shit. I tell her, Mama, you’re diabetic, and then I catch her eating cookies and shit behind my back.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Who does that remind me of?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Ha ha, very fu
nny. I work out, don’t I?’ Guillermo pointed to the large gym we were approaching. ‘So I can eat whatever I like.’
‘I don’t think that’s how it works,’ I replied. ‘I’m pretty sure fried chicken every night is going to kill you, regardless.’
‘Whatever. I’ve got arms today,’ Guillermo said as we walked into the gym, referring to his workout. I nodded, splitting off into the female changeroom as he entered the male one. I threw my bag in a locker, grabbed my towel and headphones and headed out to the cardio area. I wasn’t feeling particularly energetic after the way Dornan had literally come and gone, and so I stepped onto the easiest piece of equipment – the treadmill. The great thing about our gym was the view – like my apartment, it overlooked Santa Monica Beach. The treadmills had prime position, up against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that framed the beach like a postcard. It was a beautiful day, so I cranked the treadmill up to an easy jog and started running. Back before the gym had opened, Guillermo and I had always run along the path that stretched along the beach, but nowadays he was more concerned with bulking his arms up and talking with his dude friends in the weights section.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I pretended I was running along the beach, instead of on this treadmill. The beach I could always see, but not touch. I imagined there was sand underneath my sneakers, instead of a rubber belt that looped endlessly around and around. I imagined dark blue eyes, a small boy’s hands reaching out to me, the warmth of the afternoon sun on my face.
‘Excuse me,’ a male voice interrupted my daydream.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I muttered, standing on the sides of the treadmill and holding my chest with one hand, panting, as I stopped the treadmill belt with the other.
I looked to the source of the voice, my eyes landing on a clean-shaven face belonging to a guy with a short crew cut and thick arms that Guillermo would be envious of. He looks like a cop was the first thing I thought. Maybe a marine. His hair was the dead giveaway. No one as attractive as this guy would willingly shave their hair that short. He was tall, with striking green eyes that were circled with light brown at the edges of the irises. You’d call them hazel, except that the two colours were completely separate. The green and brown didn’t intersect.
‘Nope. I’m not Jesus Christ. Sorry if I startled you there.’
My treadmill had slowed to a stop, and I stepped off the edge. Bad idea. I hadn’t realised how tall this guy was and now he was towering over me.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m flattered, but I’m kind of busy.’ Before he could open his mouth again, I turned and hightailed it over to Guillermo, who’d been oblivious to the entire exchange. Some bodyguard.
He was lying on a bench, sweat pouring from his face as he did chest presses.
‘You here to spot me?’ he asked through gritted teeth, a vein bulging on his forehead as he lifted again.
‘I don’t think I’d do it justice,’ I said, stealing a glance at Not Jesus Christ. He was talking to the woman at the front counter, flashing his white teeth at her.
‘I’m going to shower,’ I said, leaving Guillermo to his workout.
I was washing my hair in a shower stall when a voice cut through the silence and almost made me scream.
‘Mariana Rodriguez?’
I opened my eyes, which was stupid, because shampoo-laden water flooded them straight away. Fuck! I pulled my head away from the stream of water, my hand searching for my towel.
The hook was empty.
If someone had taken my towel, I’d murder them. I knew how to do that now. I rubbed the water from my stinging eyes and opened them again, gasping when I saw the guy from the treadmill, Not Jesus Christ, leaning against the wall outside the shower, my towel dangling between his thumb and forefinger.
I snatched the towel from his grip, pressing it to my chest.
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t looking,’ he said. The cocky bastard then proceeded to give me a once-over, from head to toe, an amused smile plastered across his face.
‘This is the women’s changeroom,’ I said emphatically, still holding onto the hope that he’d come in here by accident. ‘And I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.’
‘You ran away from me,’ the guy said. ‘We could have done this out there, when you weren’t completely naked.’ He looked like he was about to dissolve into laughter. ‘And I know the name you’re going by now, but that’s not the name your parents gave you, is it?’ As I opened my mouth to argue, he held up a xeroxed copy of my old Colombian driver’s licence, complete with my photo.
Shit.
‘How do you know my name?’ I asked. ‘Are you a cop?’
He grinned. ‘Maybe. Are you a friend of Christopher Murphy’s?’
I wrapped the towel around me. ‘No.’
‘Do you know him?’ The man pressed.
‘Maybe.’ Fuck. Motherfucking fuck. Was he going to arrest me? Great. I was going to get arrested, and I wasn’t even wearing clothes.
‘He seems to be missing. You haven’t seen him around, have you, Mariana?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope.’
He nodded, as if we were sharing a secret or something. He reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out a business card. ‘In case you see him anywhere,’ he said, ‘or if you want me to take you out to dinner. You eat too many microwave meals with that Mexican schmuck who lives with you.’
How did he know what I ate? Who I lived with?
I took the card, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run as I turned it over.
My eyes just about bugged out of my head when I read the name that was printed on the thick paper.
Agent Lindsay Price, FBI. The name Murphy had given me before I shot him. The same man who was investigating Emilio and the entire cartel.
Jesus Christ.
I looked up from the card, but Agent Lindsay Price was gone.
Three weeks later
I locked eyes with Dornan, his smirk eliciting a small smile from me as he squeezed his erection, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of me. I saw a bead of pre-come glistening on the head of his cock and my mouth watered at the thought of licking it up. Later.
Now it was my turn to receive.
It was difficult to lie on my new mattress, legs spread, a tongue dragging on my clit and not enjoy it. I was a sexual being. I practically lived for these moments. But lying on this bed, all I could think about was Murphy and the look of sheer terror on his face as I shoved a gun between his teeth and pulled the trigger.
Focus. This is your time with Dornan! And it was bonus time, too. It was a Monday night. He never showed up on a Monday night.
An orgasm was building inside me, much slower than normal, not through Dornan’s lack of effort. I gasped, squirming as he pushed one finger inside my tight slit, then two. When he added a third finger, I started to moan. The feeling of fullness was overwhelmingly satisfying, and it was enough to send me up over that elusive edge as I fisted the sheets and cried out, my pussy clamping around his fingers as I came.
As I crested down the precipice of my afterglow, a delicious warmth settling in my belly and limbs, Dornan stood over me, thrusting into me in one fast stroke so that I cried out. He didn’t last more than a few seconds before he, too, was spilling himself inside me.
I imagined John taking his place for a split second, how his face would look as he came, and blood rose uncomfortably in my cheeks. Don’t think about him. Do not think about him! What was wrong with me? Suddenly, after nine years with Dornan I was thinking of somebody else just because we’d shared one stupid kiss?
No. I refused to give in to those treacherous feelings that had been gnawing at me ever since I’d kissed John in the shower.
But it raised an interesting question.
If I had a choice, who would I choose?
‘Goddamn, that was hot,’ Dornan said, pulling out of me and handing me a towel.
I cleaned myself off as well as I could, kissing
Dornan’s stubbled cheek as I headed for the shower. He responded by grabbing a handful of my ass and squeezing, sending little shooting pains through my body that felt oddly good. I pushed him away playfully, knowing if I wanted to get a shower and some dinner I’d have to avoid another round of our lovemaking.
Standing in the middle of my bathroom, I stared at the empty shower cubicle as the image of John continued to taunt me. What the hell was going on with me? Was I hell-bent on self-destruction? Was I just looking for something to distract me from the memory of Murphy’s death stare?
Turning away from the shower, full of self-loathing and arousal, I ran myself a bath instead.
The water pressure was excellent in the building, and it didn’t take long for the tub to fill. I dumped a good amount of lavender body wash into the warm water and sank my weary body into the bubbles, sighing in appreciation as my limbs were caressed by liquid heat. It felt divine, and I reminded myself to take more baths.
I grabbed a rolled-up towel from the stack next to my head and nestled it under my neck. I wouldn’t be long. I’d have a quick dip, a wash off, and then get dried and join Dornan out in the kitchen, where I could hear him banging and crashing things. I thought of Murphy, of how he’d died here in this very apartment and nobody had even mentioned his absence to me, yet.
I thought of John, closing my eyes as I let my mind drift. I barely ever relaxed, always too tightly wound, but grief and killing had numbed me in some small way. I was too exhausted to be strung out. I was too devastated to be anxious.
It felt good to let go a little. I skimmed my fingertips over fresh self-inflicted wounds on my thighs, the ones I’d been able to hide from Dornan despite what we’d just done. It wasn’t too hard. I was good at redirecting his attention to other parts of my body.
The ends of my long hair floated loose around my shoulders, weighed down by the water, as I remembered John’s hands on my head, on my face. I licked my lips and thought of kissing him. I shook my head from side to side, trying to rid myself of thoughts of somebody I’d never be able to touch like that again, and remembered the way he’d cradled me.