BAD Beginnings (3 page)

C
hapter Four

H
ad she bought the story?
I sure as hell wouldn’t. Who changed their colors that quickly or sporadically? None of the people he knew, that was for sure.

Like she said, he wasn’t her boss. Thank God for that. Logan Indiris was one person he was glad not to behave like. Ironic since that’s exactly what he was doing. Pretending to be the asshole. Admittedly, even he probably came out smelling like a rose next to that dude.

A thought popped into his head and Baden stilled. Had the man ever laid a hand on her? He shot a glance at her profile—not likely. She wasn’t the type to hang around for abuse, and very likely could kick his ass if he’d tried. Logan’s ass, not Baden’s. Nobody kicks my ass anymore. Regardless, the only certainty was that this woman would definitely not work for a man who hurt her physically. Mentally, she seemed to be okay with Logan’s Type-A shit, but that’s where it stopped. For some reason Gemma seemed one most likely to put a man in cuffs if he got physical.

Besides Logan took his grievances out on people who either never saw it coming or were too weak to defend themselves—like the mystery date from the other night. Whoever that chick was, she had surprised him and given as good as she got in the end. Don’t forget you finished the job. His face was mashed potatoes when you left. Baden reminded himself that he should check the local hospitals.

And not get overly comfortable with this life of luxury. He cast another glance at Gemma. Better not get too attached to the company either.

He managed to grab a few minutes alone with a phone but it wasn’t until he made it back to the office several hours later. He checked the internet on Logan’s computer and found numbers for the hospitals, then dialed all of them. Not one had admitted a thirty-ish male with Logan’s description the night before. Where the hell was he? Had he just walked away? Was the man concussed and wandering around the streets all bloodied and incoherent?

Or worse, was he sprawled in a ditch somewhere? To be safe, he dialed the coroner’s office and asked if there was some sort of death report for the past week. The person on the line hesitated at the question, which probably was an odd request. He made up a story. “I have a college friend who died in the hospital recently and I was hoping to find out where the funeral might be.”

She advised that they’re not allowed to give out information to non-relatives. He should contact the family. That proved a dead end. It wasn’t likely that he’d ask Logan’s mom if her son showed up in a morgue at dinner tonight. Where else could he check?

The thought was interrupted when one of the office staff advised him that his car was waiting to take him home. Home. Thankfully, Gemma wasn’t around when he departed.

That evening he stared at his reflection in the gilded mirror above Logan’s bathroom sink. Logan’s pants and undershirt fit him like a glove. How weird was that? He had no idea how long he focused on the image in front of him. A complete stranger stared back. Was he really going to follow through on the parent meeting thing? He shook his head. No way.

“Not your parents, you idiot. You don’t even know them.” Actually, it hadn’t sounded as if Logan knew them either.

The bigger concern was, did they know Logan well enough to see through his charade? He smiled at the reflection, trying to fake the overconfidence he’d seen only briefly while driving the man.

“Damn.” He sure as hell looked the part. Chaco, the surliest barber in the city, had done a good job. In fact, it was so good he fell into a deep slumber during the scalp massage. Somewhere during the process he had dreamed of women stroking his hair, caressing his shoulders, and—clipping his toenails? He frowned at the foreign face in the glass and looked down at his shoes. Was it a dream?

Baden kicked off a loafer and slipped from the left sock. He’d never seen his feet without the callous on his outer toe…and buffed nails. Well, fuck me. Then that would mean—he lifted his hands and turned them over. Yep. That mani-pedi had really happened and he’d snored and drooled clean through the entire experience. God, he hoped he hadn’t actually said anything that went through his mind at the time. He vaguely remembered stumbling out.

“Chaco’s pretty good for a transplanted mountain man, isn’t he?”

Baden turned to the voice that was getting way too familiar and stopped in his sockless track. He stared at the low-cut gold dress that was painted on her health-club instructor body.

“Holy shit, Gemma.” It just popped out. Probably like his eyes did. He didn’t like that her name had also. As if they were—old friends.

She ran a nervous hand over the shiny cloth. “It’s a little too much, isn’t it?”

Baden cleared his throat and hitched a brow. “Too much of what? You or the material?” Dammit. Why’d she have to show up looking like that? He had just about talked himself out of going to the parent dinner shindig and escaping from Logan’s life as well. In fact, he had been two minutes away from putting Baden’s shoe on and hot-footing it back to his rinky-dink apartment. Sure, he’d have to seriously kiss some ass to try to get his job back. Nothing he hadn’t already done just to get the piece of shit paycheck. He could handle groveling.

Gemma crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Very funny. Are you going like that? I thought it was a formal thing. Did I get it wrong?”

Baden doubted she got anything wrong. Ever. “Sorry. I’m behind. Had to do a little work first but I’ll change now. So what do you think I should wear to impress the new daddy?”

“Like you really care about impressing. I half-expected you to wear shorts out of spite. Here, put this on.” She pulled a dark suit from the rack that was the exact duplicate of the other four next to it. “You might as well wear your favorite.”

His favorite of what, five suits with exactly the same shade of black? Without turning, he rasped the zipper down on his current slacks before an awareness of his audience kicked in. He darted a look over his shoulder and collided with her brilliant browns. “You planning to help? Or just gawk?”

“You wish.” Gemma rolled her eyes, stepped away from the door, and removed herself from his presence. He chuckled at her flushed cheeks. So much for leaving.

The suit was nice—and tight across his chest. Was it supposed to fit like that? The last time he’d worn a monkey suit, he’d been in court eight years ago. That suit was his father’s and hung off him like a rag. The overall feeling of wrongness returned. He had been a young man in another man’s clothes and another man’s crime then. Ironic if he thought about it. He had gone full circle. Now he was again in the wrong man’s clothes and the wrong man’s life. Yet it certainly tasted a lot sweeter. He remembered standing in front of the judge that doled out “justice”—when he still had hope.

Hope that whoever really had done the damage would be found or ’fess up. Hope that they’d realize he wasn’t their guy. Hope that his old girlfriend, Natalie, would come out of the coma and prove his innocence.

Hope disappeared with the years that he spent paying a debt to society that wasn’t his to pay. It was buried deeper when, after five years, Natalie woke—with permanent brain damage. She had been beaten within an inch of her life, and that inch was all that was needed to survive. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to make her whole. Her memory was gone, along with a great deal of motor skills. According to her parents, she was in a home now, playing board games and singing karaoke. Of course they hadn’t told him; he’d learned from an old classmate.

He had only gone out with Natalie four times, and to one high school dance before it happened so it was hard for him to grieve as much as the public expected. He had anger more than anything and that had been his downfall. His life had been ripped from his grasp when she disappeared—just as hers had ended. He hardly knew her yet he was supposed to be sad for her, not mad for his own situation. Everyone but his parents thought him responsible. In the end, they gave up as well.

He shook off his lapse into self-pity, grabbed three of the fourteen ties and rubbed the silk between his fingers. He had no clue how to tie the damn things, having not used one but once. If he walked out with it in a mess, she’d recognize his failure. It would serve to escalate her suspicion.

Voices from the kitchen caught his attention. She was talking to someone? A woman? Had his accomplice returned—the unknown date from taekwondo land?

He rushed toward the sound. He rounded the corner, fully expecting to be exposed.

“Hey, asshole.” Of course. She was conversing with the parrot. Thank you, Tora. I love you too.

Gemma’s profile as she stroked the bird’s chest was nothing short of amazing. She chuckled. “Guess he has you pegged. The question is, who’d he learn it from? Is that your mom’s voice?”

He shrugged. How the hell was he supposed to know? “Stupid bird. Why couldn’t he learn something useful like how to pour bourbon or work the television remote? No, he just picks up on the perfect insult. Remind me to work on his training.”

“Yeah, right. I bet you barely remember to feed him and if it weren’t for that nosy neighbor of yours, he’d be dead. She has the hots for you, you know. She watches your place like a hawk.”

He rolled his eyes and strode to the bar. “Want something?”

A guarded look crossed Gemma’s face. “You sure you want to do that? I thought you quit.”

If he was going to meet the parents for the first time, he could certainly use a little liquid courage. Ice clinked as he dropped it into the glass then added a dose of the golden liquid. “Stop frowning. It’s just a single drink, not a binge. Besides, what gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I can see the whites of your eyes for the first time in two years.”

“You have to actually look at a person to see the whites in their eyes.” Baden handed her a glass of bourbon filled only to the half mark. Were they close before? He had no idea but doubted it if she hadn’t recognized the differences. In the short hours he drove for the man, Logan hadn’t seemed the type to let anyone get too familiar. Not to mention, judging by the way he had beaten his date the other night, he had some habits that didn’t lend nicely to long-term relationships. He doubted very many could stand the guy for more than a few hours unless their livelihood required it as hers did.

*

Gemma smiled at the lack of tie, and wrinkled shirt—his method of pointed rebellion. She doubted mommy-dearest knew about the tats either. Ironically, it served to calm her jitters. This was destined to be a big evening, one that could shed light on her stagnant case. At the very minimum, it would open up the locked diary on his past.

She’d seen pictures of the woman but they were old. Engagement photos or wedding photos that were in the news from her other hubbies. Logan had no pictures in his office—of her, his dad, or anyone. He was a blank page, which in itself, was a bit eerie. And served to further substantiate her suspicions.

She ran a glance across the sea of attendees at the event, searching for the dark-hair she’d seen in the last photo. “How long has it been?”

Logan grabbed a champagne flute from a tray as the waiter weaved past. By the way he downed it, it was obvious the recovery was over. He scrunched his nose as if the bubbles surprised him. “What?”

She heaved her shoulders up and down, noticing his glance never wavered behind the crystal glass. Apprehension filled her body and weighed like lead on her frame. Yes, he planned to get toasted tonight if he kept that up. Part of her looked forward to his loss of control. Maybe he’d slip up and she’d finally get some solid evidence. If so, would she be able to handle herself with him? Could she make the arrest single-handed? He was bigger. Stronger. And her only protection was the tiny .38 in her handbag.

“When was the last time you saw your mother?”

He closed his eyes in thought. Damn, why did the profile make her stomach turn? Not in fear, but in anticipation. The kind of anticipation one gets when they’re stepping into the ocean for the first time. It was the same feeling she’d had the first time she skydived. A subdued giddiness.

“Can’t remember. You know, we could skip this thing and go have a nice meal somewhere. You like barbecue? There’s a great place two blocks from here.” His face had paled to the translucent color of wax paper. His vacation tan had disappeared, leaving a sheen of perspiration that thinly disguised –nausea?

Gemma grabbed Logan’s arm. “Very funny. Us going to get barbecue dressed in formal wear. Sure. These people are counting on you, remember? You have a speech to make.” His face lost another shade of skin tone and she sucked in air. “You’re not going to puke on my fancy dress, are you? I spent a week’s salary on this thing and if you ruin it, I’ll—”

“There’s my diamond in the rough!” called a loud, gravely voice with feminine undertones.

They both whirled just in time for Gemma to get a glimpse of the aged face of his mother before she circled him in a hugging performance that rivaled the best actress. Hmmm. Yeah, that woman loved her son about as much as Gemma loved spinach. Now I know where the bird got its vocabulary.

“Hey, Mom.” Logan patted her back before stepping away and jotting a glance around the room as if seeking a reprieve. Or hiding spot.

“My name is Sharon. You know I hate to be called mom. This is Rafi, dear.” A man two inches shy of Sharon’s height stepped forward and offered a hand to shake. The only word that came to mind was—mousy. Rafi, the new husband, was bald, slightly round, and mousy.