Hitch, p.14
Hitch, page 14
But then the woman stumbles forward with a pistol in her hands, a gunshot barely missing my head. She pulls back the hammer again, her gait uneven as she tries to fix her aim this time. I drop Michael and grab my own pistol. When it comes to the paid-girlfriend, there’s no reason to draw it out. She’s just caught in the middle of this. But I can’t let her live.
I shoot her in the head.
She falls back, the red dot in her forehead spilling with blood.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Michael chokes, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Is this all for Reggie?”
I put my boot on his skull, shoving him back down to the ground.
“You ought to learn to respect someone as special as her,” I growl. I aim my gun at his forehead, pulling back the hammer once again, ready to make the little bitch beg for mercy.
“S-she’s playing you, man!” he says.
My world goes still, his words caught in my ears. He’s trembling, full of fear, like he should be, and it takes me a second to really imagine him as Reggie’s sugar daddy. She’s so fearless compared to him. He’s already crying and I’ve barely even touched him.
“Y-you’re the one she’s spying on, right?” he stutters. “W-when she stole from me, s-she had me call my employees to set up hidden cameras on her purse.” A vein in his forehead throbs in panic. “I don’t know if she’s stealing from you too, but she’s not as good as she seems. She’s not the victim here.”
I clench my jaw. That’s damn right.
As much as Reggie likes to run, she’s never been a victim. My woman always knows exactly how much she can get away with.
I steady myself, shifting my weight to my boot, crushing him against the floor. I wanted to draw this out, to make him experience every second of it, but I won’t tolerate another word. Not if he’s talking poorly about my girl.
“No,” I say. “She’s not the victim. But neither are you.”
I pull the trigger, shooting him in the neck. He wheezes, his eyelids flapping like baby bird wings, and as the blood spills out, painting his skin like a fresh beet, his eyes go still, and that fog finally settles me.
Sed’s death didn’t do anything for me, but Michael’s will do just fine for now.
A puddle of blood mucks the floor. I find bleach and a rag under the sink. Unfortunately, Michael is the kind of person who will be missed. I have to be careful about this.
After cleaning up the bodies, I move onto the surveillance cameras. It takes a while, but I finally figure out how to erase the footage from the last forty-eight hours and make it seem like the cameras have been having problems for a few days now. Then I pack a suitcase, throwing in a bunch of miscellaneous clothes for the both of them. In the paid-girlfriend’s lingerie dresser, there’s ten grand bundled up and tucked away, like she’s saving it for a rainy day. I chuckle. She blamed my girl for stealing from her sugar daddy when she was the one who was stealing all along.
Once the suitcases are packed up, I use Michael’s computer to buy two plane tickets to Europe. As far as the police are concerned, they eloped. Or maybe they got caught up with some bad people over there. Reggie mentioned the sugar daddy liked drugs. Drugs can lead you to unsavory types, like myself.
But as I pull the tarp over the back of the truck bed, Michael’s words come back to me: She’s playing you!
It was a last-minute attempt to live, something he said to save himself. But something about it sticks out to me.
Did Michael say that for my benefit? To save me? A man like him, victim to her games?
I don’t doubt he’s right. Reggie is just the type of person to spy—to blackmail me. It’s part of why I respect her. The girl knows to look out for herself. She even said she’d kill me if she had to. It’s why I’ve got this fixation with making things right for her. The woman deserves it.
But even as I drive away, cleaning my hands of Michael and his paid-girlfriend’s murder, his words keep repeating in my mind.
I have to confront her about this.
If I stop giving her money, then there’s no reason for her to keep me in this blackmail limbo. We’ll have to part ways, and she’ll have to make her final decision to turn me in, or cut me open and get more money.
And I’ll be forced to decide if I really ought to kill her.
Chapter 18
Reggie
I clasp the flash drive in my hand, holding it like a grenade. There’s not much footage, but there’s enough to make it the final blow that destroys Grainswept Fields. I kept avoiding it, but when I called Michael to check in and make sure Duane didn’t kill him, he didn’t answer the phone, and a knot grew in the pit of my stomach.
Duane has probably killed a lot of people. And Michael may be another person added to his list.
Turning Duane in is the right thing to do. Especially on my mother’s birthday. I’ve always done the right thing for her, and she would never be able to forgive me if she found out that I was sleeping with a killer.
But even as I stand outside of the police station, I can’t bring myself to go inside. Instead, I pull out my phone, wondering if I should call Duane.
But he’s a killer.
And one day, he’ll kill me too.
I shake my head and gaze up at the sky, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do. At that exact moment, my phone vibrates, and I drop it. Luckily, it doesn’t crack. It’s a refurbished phone, but it’s still new, and I need to be more careful with it.
As I pick up the device, a woman with a low bun glances at me as she enters the police station. I turn away from the door.
Duane flashes on the phone’s screen. I answer it.
“Speak of the devil,” I say.
“Ain’t I talking to her?” he asks. A huff out my nose playfully. It’s probably wrong to flirt when I was seconds away from turning him in to the police, but I don’t know what else to do. “Where are you?” he asks.
I scan the area. “At the burger place across from the police station,” I lie. It’s close enough that it’s almost the truth. And besides, I didn’t turn him in.
Yet.
“Police?” he chuckles. “They finally catch you up to no good?”
“The only one they’re going to be catching up to no good, is you,” I snark, pretending to tease him. But I clutch the flash drive, and my abdomen tightens.
It’s so close, I can taste it.
But I can’t bring myself to finish that threat. No matter how much I know it’s the right thing to do, Duane has been good to me. Listened to me. Protected me when Michael was harassing me. Gave me power for once. Treated me like I deserve his respect.
Can I turn Duane in for something I’m not even sure he’s responsible for?
“Is that right?” Duane asks, his voice full of tension, like he knows exactly what I’m hinting at. My stomach quakes slightly, but I don’t let the fear come to the surface. I’m not doing anything wrong.
“Tasty Burgers?” he asks.
“That’s the one,” I confirm.
“I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“But—”
The line goes silent, and before I process what I’m doing, I’m in my car, re-parking across the street before Duane finds me. I sit on the hood of my car, watching the entrance to the police station as different people go in and out. People doing the right thing.
I could be there. I could turn Duane in. Then, this nightmare would be over.
But I don’t want it to be over.
His familiar pickup truck comes into view, and those thoughts float away like clouds. The mere sight of him brings me peace.
“Where’s your burger?” he asks.
I lift my shoulders. “Already ate it,” I lie.
He cracks his neck, a rigidness cycling through his muscles as he readies himself.
“Let’s be real, Reggie. Why were you at the police station just now?”
Frost blooms in my chest. How the hell did he know I was there? Is he always watching me?
“How do you know I was there?” I whisper.
“Why were you there?” he asks again. “You going to snitch on me?”
I clutch the flash drive in my palm, but the urge to tell him the truth takes over.
“I saw a finger in your mushroom farm,” I say quickly, the words spilling out. “I didn’t know what it was. But after the body in the back of your truck—”
“Prop.”
“Right,” I say hesitantly, “and a finger, I knew I had to do something. But I—”
Our eyes meet, and I hold my breath, expecting Duane to grab my throat and kill me right there. But there’s something else smoldering in his eyes.
Is it pride? Affection? Warmth?
How can a man this cold be warm for me?
“What was it?” I whisper. “Who put it there?”
He wipes his forehead with his palm, then starts rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, adjusting them to a higher height. The ends of his tattoos poke past the edges of the fabric, and I bite my bottom lip.
“Honestly, I don’t know who put it there,” he says. “Someone up to no good. But I’ve taken care of all the suspects.” He hooks his thumbs back into his belt loops. “Part of the business, I’m afraid.”
I press my lips into a thin line, unsure of what to say. It’s not like his explanation makes anything better. He’s not the person who put the finger there, but ‘taken care of all the suspects’ sounds like a euphemism for murdering his enemies.
“Listen, Reggie. I’m calling our arrangement done.” He tips his head toward me. “You owe me a lot of money.”
I blink at him. “For the mushrooms I gave to Michael?”
“I should’ve asked you for it the other day at the Double Take.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “But here’s the thing. With all the sex work you’ve been doing for me, we’ll consider it even. No one owes anyone anything, all right?”
I furrow my brows together. Why is he bringing this up now?
“Are we done?” I ask.
“I’ve been doing some thinking. I can’t have extra people running around my business.”
My gut sinks. “You don’t trust me?”
His eyelids lower, but then his expression straightens again, tucking those emotions away.
“It’s a solo business,” he finally says. “Dangerous for someone like you.”
Someone like me.
That could mean that he doesn’t trust me to handle it, but a hint of a smile pulls at my lips at the other possible meaning. Duane may not admit it, but maybe he doesn’t want to see me get hurt. Maybe he wants to protect me.
“No more sex work,” he says. “No more drugs. You’re out of this.”
“But why the sex work too?” I ask.
“Because, Hitch,” he says, with a dose of irritation in his tone, “you seem to get a lot out of it. In fact, why should I pay for something when you’re benefiting just as much as I am?”
The two of us scrutinize each other, as if we can find the words we aren’t saying underneath it all. I laugh out of nervousness, but when I see Duane’s stoic expression, I stop.
There’s got to be something else going on here. He wants to keep having sex, but he wants me to do it out of lust. Not money.
I can understand that.
“What if I don’t want to stop?” I ask. He leans forward, waiting for me to finish my thoughts. “You’re right. I like it a lot. And I don’t care if you don’t pay me. I don’t want to stop.” I lick my teeth in faux annoyance. “You’re going to have to force me to stop.”
He stares at me for a hard minute. “You’re giving up a lot of money.”
“It’s not about the money.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and it’s like a world has been lifted from my shoulders. I’ve put money and survival above everything else for so long—it’s why I stayed with a sugar daddy, knowing that he could make life easier—but now, even when I’ve got a drug kingpin lusting after me, a man I could drain of every cent or lock up in jail for life, I don’t want to be like that anymore. I want to do this for myself.
“I want you, Duane,” I say. “You always say that I’m yours, but here’s the thing.” I try to give him a serious look, but he cracks a grin, and I know that my attempt has failed. “You’re mine too, and I’m not going to let you get away just because you’re getting cheap all of the sudden.”
He chuckles, but then he grabs my throat, pulling me in for a kiss, and it feels different from before. Like something’s changed between us. And I’m not sure that I hate it.
In fact, I sort of like it.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” Duane murmurs, and my stomach hardens. He’s looking at me like he’s shocked at the power I have over him, but god, he owns so much of me too. He doesn’t know half of it.
“There are better burger joints,” he says, changing the subject. He gestures to the fast-food restaurant behind us.
My eyes linger on the station across the street as two police cars pull out of the parking lot.
“Had to get a bite to eat before I go to Oakdale,” I say.
“Oakdale?”
“It’s my mom’s birthday. I bought her a car. It should be there in an hour or two.”
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before he opens them again. When his eyes rest on me, I’m not sure what it is, but I get this feeling like he’s reaching out to my soul. Like he sees another part of me.
And for some reason, I don’t want him to leave him here.
“You could come with me,” I say.
He tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“Why not?” I say. “You like cake, right?”
He pats his stomach. “Do I look like someone who would refuse cake?”
Duane is muscular, but he’s bulky too. And though I doubt he diets, that hard labor out in the fields must keep him in shape.
“So, is that a yes?” I ask.
“Get your ass in my truck. I’ll drive.”
A giddiness sweeps over me as I get into the passenger side of his car, once again getting into a vehicle with a man I know is a criminal. A killer. A man willing to shove my ex-sugar daddy into a wall. A man selling drugs. A man who technically came into my apartment without my consent. A man who has taken so much from me, and yet, he’s given me so much more confidence and power than I thought was possible.
Because with Duane, I’m always enough.
On the drive over, Duane and I take turns, switching from a country radio station to a rock station. I like country, but rock is my jam, and both genres have overlapping influences, kind of like the two of us. We’re both from such different backgrounds, and yet, we connect in this primal way that shifts those differences. And I don’t want it to stop.
Right inside of Oakdale, we stop at a family-owned bakery. I search through the pre-made cakes and find a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. The baker writes Happy Birthday! on the top with black icing, then rings it up at the cash register.
Duane pulls out his wallet. I wrinkle my nose at him.
“I can get it,” I grumble. “If I can get my mom a car, I can get her a cake too. Trust me.”
“Just shut your mouth and let me pay,” he says, handing over a wad of cash to the baker. “It’s a sign of respect. Intruding on your mother’s birthday? Showing up unannounced? Buying a cake is the least I can do.”
His eyes linger on me, and my entire body flutters with nerves. I don’t know what it is with him, but I know I won’t win this argument. Still, he’s sweet in his own way. Who buys a cake for a woman he’s never even met, just because it’s the respectful thing to do?
Duane.
When we get to her apartment, the car dealer waves to me, waiting with my mom’s brand new car. It’s not the exact make and model I wanted, but it’s one I knew my mom would accept. Any more expensive than this, and she’d straight up refuse.
With her new keys in hand, I lead the way while Duane carries the cake.
“You ready for this?” I ask. Duane nods toward the door.
“Go on,” he says. “Get on with it.”
Nothing scares him. Not even meeting my mother.
I bang on the door. It opens.
“Happy Birthday!” I shout.
“Regina?” My mom bends forward. “Who did you bring with you?”
Duane steps forward. “My name is Duane, ma’am. Duane Patrick.”
“And he’s not all I brought,” I say excitedly.
I take the cake from Duane, setting on the kitchen counter, while Duane and my mom shake hands.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re certainly tall.” She looks up at him. “Duane Patrick. You aren’t the one who bought Grainswept Fields, are you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
Mom tilts her head. “Interesting,” she says. “I guess you made new friends in Stockton.”
“I guess?” I bounce on my tiptoes. “Let me show you your present!”
After I show my mom the car and give her the keys, she gawks, completely speechless. The car dealer offers the paperwork to my mom, but she doesn’t take it.
“Regina,” she finally says with hesitation in her voice. “You didn’t have to do this. It’s your money. You need to spend it on yourself.”
I shrug my shoulders. I knew she would protest.
“You’re right,” I say. “It is my money. And this is how I am choosing to spend it.” I pull her hand into mine. “Please. Let me do this for you.”
Her eyes dart back and forth between mine, searching for the answers.
“It’d be disrespectful to refuse a gift like this, ma’am,” Duane adds.
At his words, my mom sighs. “All right,” she concedes. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
After she signs the paperwork and we send the dealer off, the three of us sit at the round table in the kitchen and light candles. I sing Happy Birthday to my mom, and though Duane doesn’t sing along, he beams at me through the candlelight. It’s strange, but I realize I don’t know anything about his family. I know he left Florida, but that’s it. I don’t know if he’s close with his parents, or if he doesn’t speak to them at all.
