Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale (2 page)

A few steps through the bog, and I reach a small, wind-kissed ridge, dotted with boulders. The wind blows the sand into the air like dust. There are stairs a few feet to my left, but I feel like climbing, so I climb the stones in front of me, pausing for a few seconds at the top to take in the flat blue sky, the deep green sea.

Finally, my gaze stops on the dock, maybe fifty yards across the sand. On one side, where an awning stretches over the wood planks, I see a blue and white speed boat, its nose pointy, its body shallow and lined with cushioned benches.

In it are two men: a short, dark-haired one in a suit, and a taller one clad in black pants and a black t-shirt.

The boat drifts closer to the dock, and the big guy in black grabs one of the posts. He hooks a rope around it, and says something to the smaller guy. The smaller guy looks up, and I see the face behind a pair of Ray Bans.

My mouth goes hot.

John Linn?

I know Linn. He’s an attorney out of Brooklyn—one Bob works with occasionally, when his usual, Sarah Kurtz, isn’t around. The thing about Lin is he used to do a lot of business for the Smythsons. The man in black isn’t the boat’s driver—not just that. He’s Lin’s body guard. I’d bet my Swiss accounts.

Lin thinks I did it. Everybody with connections to the Smythsons thinks I did it.

I think of Red, tied to my bed, and my heart forgets its rhythm. Bob wouldn’t have sent Linn if he wasn’t trustworthy, but something about the way he lifts his chin to look at me makes my throat tighten.

I’m paranoid. Being over-vigilant. It’s been a long time since I heard from Smythson or any of his goons. Lin was, at one time, a Smythson family friend, but Bob trusts him, so I should, too.

I suck a big breath back. Why do I feel so fucked?

Because of Red…

What would happen to Red if something happened to me? She doesn’t even know how to start the boat.

I bite my cheek. She’s not my wife. I don’t even trust her—not implicitly, at least. That’s why Linn is here.

I need to quit letting my emotions displace logic.

With that in mind, I cross the beach and walk onto the modest dock, where I stand with my arms crossed as the man in black climbs out of the boat. Linn follows, clutching a folder. On the dock, he adjusts his tailored suit, then looks upon me for the first time in half a decade. Sweat dots his pale skin. His lips look chapped, which, combined with his prominent cheekbones and thin nose, make him look like some kind of dried out fish.

He steps forward and extends his hand.

I hesitate a moment before taking it, casting a glance at his companion.

“Ham,” Linn supplies.

I shake Linn’s hand, then resist an asshole impulse and stick mine out to greet the body guard. The man hesitates before taking it. Because of who I am?

I shroud myself in apathy, direct my attention toward the attorney. “How are you, Linn?”

“Doing well, Mr. Wolfe. Very well.” I swallow back the resistance in my throat, the hatred of my name. And then I realize: He didn’t call me Race!

“Mr. Wolfe,” I echo, sounding miffed. “No need to be so formal.”

I watch his face: the lips turn down, the brows go up. His mouth goes from frown to polite smile in a few slow seconds.

“Ah, so James it is. Or perhaps you prefer Jimmy.”

I feel pressure build behind my eyes.  

“Friends call me Jimmy. You can, too.” I nod at the folder. “What do you have for me?” Now everything is a test.

He hesitates a second—
why?
“This is a non-disclosure agreement. Your cousin had me draw it up on your behalf.”

“Very well.” I still don’t trust the fucker. “Let’s go to my house. I’ll look over it.”

I glance from Linn to the guard.

I could take them both if I needed to. Not because I’m bigger—that guard’s got a few pounds on me—but because I taught myself tae kwon do during the long months of my house arrest. I still practice almost every day, because I love it.

I lead the two off the dock, and we start across the beach. Linn’s dress shoes kick up sand. He looks down, tugging ineffectively on his pants legs.

I can’t help noticing the guard’s boots handle the sand better than my beat-up loafers do. 

I decide which maneuver I’ll use on the guard if something goes wrong, then try to focus my attention on Linn. “Have you worked with Bob a lot lately?”

He presses his fingers over his nose, like he’s just had a nosebleed. “Not so much.”

“Oh. Well how’s he doing?”

Linn cuts his eyes sideways at me. He’s still wearing his shades, but I can feel it. “Well, or rather he didn’t tell me otherwise.”

I catch the guard eyeing me and decide to go there. “You always bring a guard, or is that just for me?”

He smiles, tight and cunning. “Mr. Ham is my chauffeur.”

I twist my lips. “I’m sure.”

I nod at the sandy, faded wooden stairs that arch over the rocks. “Gentlemen first.” No way in fuck am I walking in front of them. They reach the top of the stairs and I call, “Hang a right.”

We’re not going back the way I came. There’s no way for them to know the unmarked path through the woods, so I’d have to walk in front.

As we cut around the island’s perimeter, sticking to the grassy shoreline, Lin becomes preoccupied with the hemline of his pants again. The guard walks on the inside, closer to the trees than the sea. Because he’s trying to keep Linn safe from any threat on my island?

I’m filled with the old, familiar frustration of constant misjudgment.

I would never hurt someone I asked to come here.

I notice the guard’s eyes never seem to be on me, and think that strange. What are the odds he isn’t actually a guard at all? What if his marching orders are to take me down?

Smythson
could have sent them here.

He didn’t; Bob did. Because I needed the NDA.

Still, my mind races.

I wonder if Red is still sleeping. She wouldn’t attempt to untie herself, would she? I don’t think so. She might not be willing to admit it, but my sweet fuck doll is a born sub.

The island curves, and we come in sight of Trudie’s cottage. 

“Charming,” Linn says. His face is expressionless.

I lead them through the fence, into the garden. I’m sweating by the time we reach the back door, though fuck if I can say exactly why. Words pile in the back of my throat, threatening to spill. Questions to assuage my ridiculous paranoia. Confirmation that Linn really spoke with Bob.

So what if he didn’t call you ‘Race’? He probably forgot.

No one has ever forgotten, but what does that matter? Maybe Linn doesn’t want to call me Race. Maybe it’s important to him that I be addressed as exactly who I am. A man who very nearly got convicted of murdering his wife.

I lead them through the sitting room, past that Huxley quote about solitude Trudie had me paint on the wall, and into the kitchen.

I can feel their eyes on everything. Questioning? Scheming? This place looks like what it is: an old woman’s home, but I don’t give a fuck. They can think what they like.

Linn stops beside the tiled bar, and I walk to the refrigerator. I tap my knuckles on its worn, lime green surface. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Linn says. He more openly surveys the kitchen, where a cat lounges by the sink, where a small vase of dried flowers sits beside the Dawn dish soap. His eyes seem to rest everywhere but in line with mine. When he finally lifts his gaze, the guard has crossed his beefy arms, and I’ve started feeling an almost maddening urge to return to Red.

“You’re involved with the woman? Sarah?” Linn asks, holding up the folder.

“Does it matter?”

He looks around, and I can almost hear him thinking
this looks like a woman’s house
.

His eyes return to me. He takes his sunglasses off, revealing large brown eyes. “You have done well, man, with your art.”

I grit my teeth and pull air in through my nose. What does that mean anyway? ‘Well’ by whose standards? His? What does a lawyer like Linn know about success in art? Or in anything? I’ve spent years reflecting on this and concluded it couldn’t be more meaningless. I have enough money. People buy what I paint. And that’s it. That’s all I have. That’s all I’ll ever have, and while I’m fine with that, I never walk around thinking, “I do well.”

I notice I’m gritting my teeth and have been staring at him—probably with some hostility. I ignore the guard’s gaze, which has finally found me, and hold out my hand for the folder. “Let’s see this.”

Linn passes me the agreement. He swipes a hand over his coat, as if there’s cat hair there. His hairline is damp from sweat now.

I lean against the sink as I look over the NDA, finding every detail perfect, right down to Red’s full, legal name. Guilt pulses through me. Why did I invite her here? Why did I think I could get involved with anyone, even on a superficial level? Why did Red have to send my photo to her friend?

Her friend!

Fuck! Her friend told someone at the paper. Is it possible word could have gotten back to Smythson this fast? Surely not. Cookie had a cousin at the
Times
. But Red’s friend works in Boston…

“How does it look?” Linn interrupts my paranoia.

I squint down at the thin packet of papers. I’m only on page two. I look up at him with the poker face I learned in court.

“I think you have her name wrong. It’s Sarah Ryder
Smith
.” His brows draw together. “She married and divorced. You didn’t know?”

Lin’s eyes widen. “No. I didn’t know.”

“Pretty sure I’m correct. I need to call her and find out.”

“She’s not here?” he asks sharply.

I give him a warning look. “She’s on her way.”

The guard’s mouth twists into a smug bow, and again, something in my stomach catches. I know this feeling. I used to feel it in the seconds before my father found me in the house and asked me to his ‘workshop.’ I felt it the night Cookie called, long before I made it to Paige’s house.

Something’s not right.

What’s their fucking game?

“Do you share the home with her?” Linn asks. His tone is casual, but his eyes are still drinking in the mundane details of the kitchen. Cautious, or over-eager? Voyeuristic? I can’t tell, but it’s as if he expects Red to spring from one of the cabinets.

I notice I’m popping my jaw, something I only do when I’m really irritated.

“Wait here,” I say, in an authoritative tone I haven’t used since I was an entitled, younger man. They work for me. I hope that, and the fear I presume they have of me, will keep them waiting patiently. I tuck the papers under my arm and palm my cell phone for show.

I hate to leave Trudie’s place open to them, but my head is buzzing with tension now. My chest feels like it might crack open. My mouth is hot and dry. I
have
to check on Red. Untie her. Maybe my sensors are faulty and there’s nothing amiss, but if there is…