“This is unbelievable,” I say. “It’s the best restaurant I’ve ever been to.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s great. And I love jellyfish. The way they move is so nice.”
The skin around his eyes relaxes a little. “Good.”
“I didn’t even know there were restaurants like this. I mean, I’ve read about those marine park places, like in Florida where the restaurants have views of the dolphin tanks, but this is a real restaurant restaurant.”
“Dolphin tanks?”
“Yeah, you know. Attached to the pools where they swim around? I read about them and thought it’d be cool to have lunch and watch dolphins. But this is even better.” I look around. The tanks are situated in such a way that we have complete privacy. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
A server comes over, carrying a tray with a bouquet of pink roses and two flutes of champagne. He hands the flowers to Tolyan then places one flute in front of him and the other in front of me.
“Congratulations,” Tolyan says, giving me the roses.
Unexpected pleasure heats my face. I can’t remember the last time I received flowers. “For me? Really?”
He nods.
I hold them gently and bury my face in the soft blossoms. They smell amazing. I look closely and note the white silver ribbon around the bunch. It reads, Congratulations. Emotions, warm and sweet, swell in my chest until my heart is full and achy.
I lift my head and gaze at him, my eyes hot. “Thank you,” I manage to whisper through the thick lump in my throat.
He isn’t smiling, but his gaze seems softer. “My pleasure.”
“You’re so good to me.”
He says nothing. The lighting isn’t the best where he’s seated, shadowing a big portion of his face. But I can see his lips curve.
This must be how Cinderella felt when she finally got to attend the ball and have a little fun after years of living a horrible life.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“It’s nothing. A toast?” He lifts his glass.
I raise mine, and we clink.
And I tell the universe that Tolyan isn’t just a fresh, fragrant lemon, but the whole damn orchard.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tolyan
The next few weeks go by as planned: uneventfully.
The café doesn’t bother her. Videos of Eric Jones acting like the ass he is go viral on social media, and Coffee Heaven is busy with damage control. They don’t have the bandwidth to pester Angelika even if they wanted to.
Meanwhile, the little fawn and I go to work together and come home together. Then we walk the dogs and have dinner afterward.
She loves to chat, but since I’m not a talkative person, she usually does ninety-nine percent of the talking, with me nodding and making a few appropriate noises. It’s amazing what you can gather from mundane conversation.
Like how she managed to stay half a step ahead of Roy, how she learned latte art, how she stretches her money and what she’s planning to do with it when Roy’s taken care of.
When she said she wanted to go to college, I imagined it would be to study literature or some such. But she wants to major in math and economics.
“They’re practical and useful, and I feel like I can use what I learn to help people, you know?”
Her eyes sparkle whenever she talks about her plans, and her walk becomes carefree, hips swinging until lust envelops me, and later I find myself fisting my cock in the shower.
Not an optimal development, since she’s bait. But it’s just lust—nothing too complicated. I can deal with it, even if this is a particularly intense case.
By the time we hit the five-week mark living together, I’ve decided to put the next stage of my plan into motion. It’s an adjustment to my original plan, but I like it far better. I’ve waited long enough, and it’s time to poke Roy. Hard.
The little fawn is puttering around in the kitchen, making one latte after another. She’s been doing that on weekends since she quit Coffee Heaven. I doubt she’s doing it to keep her barista skills sharp. Baristas generally need to make more than lattes.
I don’t know why she is making her fourth coffee when she hasn’t even taken a sip of the other three and I already turned her down when she offered me one. But I let her brew as many as she wants. It’s Saturday, and it’s good to have a legal and unproductive hobby. My dogs are leaving her alone, since she isn’t making anything they can eat. Stravinsky is trying to dominate Mussorgsky, without much success.
I lounge on an armchair with some vodka and my favorite cigar. Beside me is a special phone I set up just for Courtney Young.
After today, she’ll quit contacting Angelika directly.
I’ve never cared much about what happened to the bait in an operation, but somehow I don’t want Angelika hurt in the process of getting to Roy…even though ridding Roy from her life—permanently—is what she wants, too. That means I need absolute control over what is getting fed to Roy Wilks. I need to be in charge of the messages the snitch is getting.
So now, Courtney Young thinks Angelika’s phone got hacked and she got a new number and device.
Even though I didn’t update anybody with my new number, I couldn’t NOT get in touch with you. You’re the only friend I have left, the only person I can trust.
I might as well have texted, You’re so special, you see. You’re my BFF. Or some other such saccharine bullshit.
She bought it. But then, liars always do. They consider themselves so slick that they can’t imagine anybody else finding out about their betrayal.
It’s hard not to sneer at her moronic arrogance. The only person she could have fooled is someone as innocent and sweet as the little fawn.
I type up more bullshit.
–Me: Don’t trust anybody who says they’re me and contacts you. If they do, let me know.
–Courtney: I will. Don’t worry.
–Me: Actually, no. I’m putting you in danger by asking you to do that. Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.
–Courtney: Do what?
Are you holding your breath, Courtney? The cigar smoke drifts lazily toward the ceiling.
–Me: Stay in touch. I’m not saying we should never talk, but just wait until I know I’m safe.
–Courtney: Which will be how long? It’s been eight years. It could be another eight!
Of course you think that. And you’re panicking.
What is Roy giving you, Courtney? Money? Drugs? He’s good at what he does. Deserves his street name of the Dealer.
I wonder if I can flip her to be my informant. But no. People who switch allegiances so easily aren’t trustworthy. Besides, who cares if Roy Wilks finds out about her screw-up and does something about it? It can’t be anything worse than what I would do if Courtney fell into my lap. I have a singular dislike for people who betray their friends.
–Me: It’s going to be different this time. Roy has made me realize I can’t just run.
–Courtney: What do you mean?
Her bated breath is almost tangible through the digital space.
–Me: I think I’m in love. But I can’t be with the guy if I keep running from Roy.
Three dots appear on the screen. I take a swallow of the vodka. Then another. Still no text from Courtney. Just the three dots.