“Well, family was born to break your heart. Like Trick did. Yes, I am incapable of not bringing it up.” She pointed her brush at her. “You two were engaged.”
Those tears she'd banked since coming to Shakedown pooled and threatened to spill over. “Something like that.”
“Mhhhmm.” She stood and smoothed down the long rows of sequined fringe that had tangled along her waist. “His fine ass goes to prison, and you have not moved on. I see it. I saw you hovering around his office.” Cherry pursed her lips at her.
Prickly shame started low in her body and spread. Oddly, she'd been caught twice listening against the door like a juvenile with nothing better to do, and she'd yet to be fired. Maybe everyone here snoops a little? “I'm doing what I have to do.”
“So, what are we looking for?” Cherry put her hands together. “Info on a new girlfriend? Going to poison his coffee creamer? You know, a little spill of glitter on his chair would sparkle his butt for months. Nothing gets that stuff out.”
“Answers.” That was all she wanted. Maybe then she could move forward.
Cherry laughed. “Answers?” She eyed her. “Or a way back? Because back is never a good option.”
What was back anyway? What she really wanted was to be free of memories. Trick taking her mouth in a warm and possessive kiss in his car at the curb on Prospect Street before she cracked open the door to get out. Talking with other girls her age about weekend plans to meet at Dean & DeLuca or the latest manicure place. Holding contraband cups of hot coffee between her legs under the desk of Professor Lambert's marketing class because he’d banned all food and drink. It was the familiar, the patterns and routines that had held her life together like glue, that she missed the most.
The dressing room was hot. The chemical hair spray and scent of cheap fabric pressed in on her, and her stomach roiled. Rachel swallowed and studied her fingers. “Is that what you do? Don't look back?”
“Never. Nothing but broken glass and emergency room receipts back there. It's a good life here. You could have it, too, you know.”
“I'm sorry. I must come across like such a … princess.” That's what Trick called her, right? Maybe she was.
“Listen …” Cherry lifted her chin again. “Everyone here's a little broken. We live life in between the bits and pieces. Like you've tried to do since Trick did” —she waved her hand in the air— “whatever he did. Just make sure you don't stay broken for too long. Otherwise, you won't know how to be anything else. Trust me, I've put in the research.”
“I'm sorry.” She couldn't imagine what the people here had been through, and here she was whining about losing a few million dollars she’d never earned, just inherited, a few girls being bitchy to her when she hadn’t exactly been the most open person in the world, and a man she couldn’t stop thinking about who probably didn’t give a fig about her. It’s just that she was so sick of the loneliness, those ever-present, sharp prickles inside her that wouldn't let old wounds heal. Hell had to be a constant state of limbo.
“Don't be. Just come see us. We'll get you out of those funeral-black clothes.” Cherry snapped her fingers.
A little bit of sorrow, like one piece of a giant jigsaw puzzle, shifted. “I will.”
“I have three rules.” Cherry tapped her palm. “No tragedy on stage. No drama in the dressing room, and when anyone's crown tilts, fix it. We'll do the same.” Cherry pulled on a long silver glove. “Now, the most important thing of all. How do I look?” She cocked her heel in a pin-up pose and placed her hands on her hips.
“Perfect.” She was … like a Kintsugi vase cracked and sealed with gold.
“Come on. Our public awaits.”
She rose and followed Cherry's sashay out into the hallway. Cherry gave her a wink before she headed across to the stage steps, and Rachel turned to face the end that led to the main door. Except she couldn't make her feet move. Her gaze kept tilting toward Trick's office. It was time to start gluing some pieces together.
12
Someone named Alexander Rockingham was arriving tonight, the name whispered by Jackie as if Jesus himself was descending. The universe had given her an opening, so she was going to take it. She’d borrowed Jackie's keys to the wine cellar to retrieve a bottle of the Joseph Phelps Insignia 2015 red wine. She'd seen those boxes in the storeroom, and surely Jackie would appreciate such initiative, plus Jackie’s keyring held more than just the keys to the storeroom.
Rachel clicked the doors to Trick’s office shut behind her and pressed her palm against the fluttering in her chest. If she had any luck left, no one had seen her enter Trick's office. “It's going to be fine.” She had a story all lined up. If caught, she was going to leave him a note that she’d taken this very expensive wine without asking first.
A lone—and quite frankly, pretentious—accountant lamp lit the space. Her footfalls were muffled by the thick carpet under her feet as she made her way to the other side of his desk. She hit the edge and the thick clump of keys in her hand jingled, which restarted that drumbeat in her rib cage.
She lowered to Trick's chair and pulled open the top drawer. A pen rolled toward her but got stopped by a Glock. Holy shit. How does an ex-con have a gun?
She ran her finger over the graphite barrel. She scooped up the barrel with one hand, the handle with the other, and evaluated its weight. The gun was kinda sexy. She rested the thing back in place.
Now, where would a con man keep a lot of cash? If he had a ton of it lying around, like in a safe, it would answer so much. More than, say, $100,000 found in this office, and he could still be guilty. Less, it could just be club business—at least, that’s what she’d learned working in restaurants and clubs the last few years. They had cash on hand, just not gobs of it.
She swung her gaze around. Her ears rang and every nerve thrummed with wicked electricity as she rose to investigate a door nestled between two bookcases. After yanking open the door, the very air around her appeared to sparkle because, bingo, a silver safe about four feet high filled the small space.
Her birthday would be the first combination she'd try.
A mental stop sign shot up like a spear had landed in front of her. What the ever-loving hell was she doing? She backed up. She needed a second to re-center. Breaking and entering, cracking a safe all seemed good in her daydreams, but now that she was here, a sick feeling settled in her belly. She was just about to turn around when the click of Trick's office door went off as loud as a gunshot.
“What are you doing?”
Oh, thank God. She drew in a breath and turned to face the music. “Nathan.” Her hand flew to her chest, and overwhelming relief wiped away her shame, at least for a second.
“Rachel.” A scolding father couldn't have sounded more disappointed. One side of his mouth lifted, and he crossed his thick arms over his chest, a feat, given the size of his biceps. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something.” She rolled her lips between her teeth. She didn't know Nathan well, and offering up that she was trying to reclaim stolen money or sort of clear Trick’s name in her mind, well …