“So what?” I asked Bastien. “We do it through my house?”
“The whole operation will be quiet,” he said. “We need to store the product before we distribute it. Somewhere the cops won’t look.”
“You want to store the city’s biggest-ever shipment of heroin in my house?” This guy was off his rocker.
“There will be people to handle everything,” he assured me, as if this wasn’t insane. “We’ll use vans that have cleaning company logos, gardening company logos, for cover. Rich people always have staff coming and going, am I right?”
I stared at him. My jaw had gone hard and my fingernails were quietly digging into my palms. “Is that it?”
He grinned again. “Not quite. There’s the small matter that I need to front a certain amount of cash to get a big job like this done, and I’m short. That’s where you come in.”
Right. This was the heart of it. This was why I’d been brought here, shown this little display, Craig Bastien lording it over Gray with Amy in his lap. He was trying to impress me. Because he needed money.
“How much?” I asked.
He grinned at me, but I could tell he was tense, saying the number. “I think three million should do it.”
On Bastien’s knee, Amy made a little sound of shock. Gray looked at his hands.
“Three million,” I said.
There was silence in the room, except for the fucking godawful stripper music. Everyone was waiting for me to say something. I looked around at them. No one thought I had that kind of money.
“I can probably get that,” I said, surprising all of them. “But what’s in it for me?”
Bastien found his voice. “It’s an investment.” He ran his hands up and down Amy again. She stared at me. “You’ll get your money back.”
“Sure,” I said. “No one’s used that line before.”
“You will. This is a big deal, my friend. A big deal. You get the money, you supply the house and the cover, and you’re in for a big cut. Your money back and a lot, lot more. You think you’re a rich man now? Partner with me, and you have no idea. No idea.”
As a sales pitch, it was pretty lame, except for the fact that I believed him. About the shipment, if not about my future life of riches. I could say no, tell him to go fuck himself. But something told me that stringing him along was the less dangerous option. The option less likely to get me—or anyone else—killed.
I looked in Amy’s lined, mascaraed eyes for a minute. I’d heard enough. “Four days,” I said.
“That’s when the ship comes in,” Bastien said. “Yessir.”
“Do I have a choice?” I asked.
Bastien looked at me. Then he looked at Gray for the first time. He looked back at me again. He still didn’t look at Amy. He laughed.
“We all think we have a choice, don’t we?” he said. “And we’re all so very, very fucking wrong.”
Chapter 19
Olivia
On Friday night, they wanted me to stay late at work. And for the first time, I said no.
“I have plans,” I said.
Corey glanced at Mikael, the project manager, with a baffled look, as if he’d never heard of this. Mikael frowned. Corey turned back to me. “But we aren’t finished the mockups for the l’Orifice presentation.”
I gagged inside. L’Orifice was a high-fashion clothing brand that always featured models who looked hungry and miserable, modeling expensive clothes no one would wear. But I focused on logic, not on my revulsion. “The mockups aren’t due until next Wednesday.”
“But we have meetings before then,” Mikael said. “We need to get these mockups done.”
I gritted my teeth. “Then have fun,” I said. “But again, it’s Friday night. And I have plans.” I turned to my desk, opened the drawer, and pulled my purse out. “Good night.”
“Olivia,” Corey said, chiding. “This is a disappointment.”
I turned and looked at him. “I’ve been working here for nearly three years,” I said. “I’ve put in all the hours you told me to. I’ve worked hard. I’ve had no life. I haven’t had a raise, a promotion, or even a hint of either one. I haven’t even had a pat on the back. So don’t be surprised when I have something else to do.”
“You have to pay your dues to move up in this business,” he said.
“Then I’ll move up a week later than I’d planned,” I said to him. “Good night.”
It maybe wasn’t my best move. But suddenly, I didn’t care.
Still, after an exit like that, I was happy that when I flounced out the door and onto the street, I found my ride waiting for me.
Devon Wilder.
I hadn’t seen him since last weekend. Was it possible he looked even better than he had last week? It was hard to tell. He was parked across the street from Gratchen Advertising, in the Chevy I remembered from the night he picked me up from art class. He was standing waiting for me, leaning against the passenger door, his arms crossed. He wore jeans and a dark button-down shirt—casual, but beautifully made. He’d been buying new clothes.
He watched me come out the door, his green eyes never leaving me, the corner of his mouth smiling as I crossed the street, which was damp with rain. At the intersection, a woman nearly tripped over the curb, staring at him as she walked.
I stepped up close to him. “Hi,” I said.
He was preoccupied with something, I could tell. But he looked at me, and without a word he uncrossed his arms, cupped my face, and kissed me. Properly and deep. Right there on the street. I hoped everyone from Gratchen was watching.
He broke the kiss, but his hands still cupped my face. “Date?” he asked.
I shook my head, pressing against his palms. “Let’s order in.”
“Okay,” he said. “Get in.”
In Diablo, he showed me more of the house. It looked a little lived-in now, with clothes in the closets and a few dishes in the sink. He took me into the back yard, where we stood in the damp greenery, looking at the professional gardens that were starting to become overgrown. His grandfather’s contract with the landscaping company had expired. Then I followed him into the garage, where he showed me his grandfather’s old cars, including the classic Mercedes he’d fixed.
“These cars were just sitting here?” I asked him, running my hand along one of them.
“I know,” Devon said, watching me. Something was definitely bothering him, but I knew better than to pry it out of him yet—and whatever it was seemed to be slowly loosening its hold the more we talked. “It’s weird. The keys are hanging on a hook by the door. He just had these cars, which didn’t run, sitting in the garage of the house he never went to.” He looked around. “It seems like a waste.”
“Maybe he thought he’d get them running someday.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “But he had all of this money, and all of these things, and my neighbor says he was lonely. My father was his only son, and he was a disappointment. His wife died young.”
“But there was you,” I said, turning and leaning against the car, crossing my arms. “And your brother. He could have contacted you, taken you in. He didn’t have to be lonely.”