The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (25 page)

I had a sudden urge to call Jace and tell him right now to protect himself (even though I believed he was not doing something illegal—just to be doubly safe). And I decided, instantaneously, that I
would
find a way to do so without giving anything away. I was highly intelligent—I would figure it out.

Jenny opened the glove compartment and produced tissues. I had never been a tearful person before moving to Australia and I informed Jenny of this fact. I had only cried a few times throughout my teens, that I could recall.

“No worries,” she said, adding that she was feeling pretty upset herself.

Oh. Yes. She had feelings, too.

“I’m sorry to mix you up in this,” I offered, quietly.

She patted my leg. “I don’t mind. It’s not happening to me anyway.”

Taking her word for it, I broke the silence with the next burning question in my mind.

“What do I do about knowing Mr. Bennett met with Joe and how he asked me to keep it secret from Jace?”

“Let’s see.” She proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions, very serious, including who Mr. Bennett was to Mr. Knight, who Joe the Italian was, why I did not like him, which necessitated telling her how we had met, and how he had implied he expected Jace to share me. Finally, together, we concluded it was best for me to tell Jace what had happened, since, clearly, Joe could not be trusted.

Jenny was very good at solving interpersonal problems. When I told her that, she glanced at me and stared back at the road, expressionless. I wondered if she felt like I do when given a compliment: awkward.

Jace was coming home on Saturday. He had told me over FaceTime, a short while after I told him about Mr. Bennett meeting Joe in his office earlier that day. “I am sorry if this ruins the surprise they were planning for you,” I said, emphasizing that I simply did not trust Joe (though I did not trust Mr. Bennett either, I did not tell Jace that, as he was his family).

Jace reassured me it was right that I told him, and while he put up a good show of being his usual lighthearted self—after a moment of chilling silence—I was very pleased with myself that I knew him well enough to see he was actually very upset by this news. Then I felt bad for him, and longed to make it all better.

Emotions follow absolutely no sound scientific patterns.

Before we said goodbye, Jace said he was taking me somewhere special Saturday, and that I was to meet him at the airport with a weekend bag. This gave me an unusual sensation: I felt . . . appreciated and rather as though I was not just another person in the world. I had been designated special.

Jenny spent an hour and a half with me trying to guess the places he might take me, which surprised me, again, because as I far as I knew, she was still not the greatest fan of Jace Knight. Perhaps she was putting in extra effort on my account.

We had finally “clicked” after ten days of living together, so, even though it was a Tuesday night, after our talk we “hit the turps” (had a few drinks at a local bar on Crown Street). She brought home a man and had extremely loud and brief sex in her room, which she was greatly ashamed about the next day and refused to discuss. I assumed this was because she suffered from a lack of confidence, which she had confessed the night before. I would never have guessed: she explained, or rather slurred, that Napoleon Complex is not exclusive to men. I attempted to reassure her she was a brazen four foot eleven.

On our lunch break on Wednesday she let me practice driving in the Plaza’s parking lot with her vehicle. My lesson on Sunday had gone better than the first, but Sam Cooper had still not been patient, so Jenny said she would attempt to help. Unfortunately, it went sour quickly, what with her banging on the dashboard, distracting me, pointing out all the expensive things I should avoid hitting in the parking lot. I decided then that she may have some control issues, to which I could fully relate.

On Thursday after work, I took the bus to B&L Driving Academy and waited in the grubby 1970s plaza strip storefront lobby area for Mr. Cooper to arrive. (I later learned its trainers are all contracted—had I known that in advance, obviously I would have chosen a school that properly vetted and hired full-time employees; as it was, I had signed up for the minimum twelve-lesson package.)

Mr. Cooper usually pulled up out front on time in his ancient Commodore. He was seven minutes late, and that should have been a sign. However, when the familiar, dreaded gray vehicle did finally pull up, I dashed out, not paying attention. Specifically, I did not notice the driver was climbing over the gear shift rather than getting out of the car. In my defense, I was extremely tense because I was determined to leave the parking lot in this lesson; furthermore, the sunlight was reflecting off the windshield in such a way I could not make out a face.

I pulled open the driver side door. There was a gun, pointed at me, along with a pair of bright blue eyes.

Sullivan Blaise, of course. He wore a cap of some sort, and his usual black T-shirt and blue jeans. He also had on a jacket with the collar turned up.

My heart shot out of my body, figuratively speaking, and was already across the parking lot hailing the giant bus I heard passing by.

“Get in. Act like everything’s normal.”

Now, while it was a busy thoroughfare, and there was a teenager waiting in the lobby for his lesson, having a gun pointed at me was a brand new experience and worked not unlike the effect of a conductor’s baton on an orchestra or a laser toy on a cat: I followed its every direction.

I climbed into the vehicle, my vision blurry from tears.

“Close the door. Jesus, Charlie, I’m not going to hurt you! I’m trying to help you.”

I closed the door.

“Drive.”

Hand shaking, I struggled to put on my seatbelt so much so he had to help me.

“Drive, ay!” he said, sinking lower, glancing behind him.

“Where?”

“Wherever you usually do. Just don’t peel out!”

I sighed with relief, and turned the key in the ignition. The vehicle made a terrible screeching noise and I yelped. “It’s already on, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted, grabbing my hand off the ignition.

“Well, Mr. Cooper leaves it off so I can practice turning it on!”

Sullivan stared at me with great derisiveness.

“Drive,” he muttered.

I moved the gear shift into the D position and set my foot on the gas pedal. We rolled forward rather quickly, hitting over fifteen kilometers per hour, faster than I had ever gone. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I pushed down the blinker button while checking left and right for any traffic. My brain was in overdrive and the cortisol was making it hard to concentrate. Before turning the wheel, I braked urgently, tossing us forward, because I had taken far too wide a berth for the turn in the parking lot. I almost nicked the parked cars flanking my right side! My hands were gripping the wheel so tight they hurt, and I sat far forward, both behaviors discouraged by Mr. Cooper. But these were trying circumstances.
Concentrate!
Coming upon the next turn, I reduced the speed to ten kilometers per hour, and steering clear of taking a wide berth this time, took too narrow an angle and braked hard and fast just in time to avoid nicking the cars that flanked my left! Fuck! I moved the gear shift to the reverse position and, checking my rearview mirror, prepared to back up—

“Holy fuckin’ Christ! You’re a fuckin’ bingle!! Give over!” shouted Sullivan, leaning over, undoing my seatbelt, climbing right over me, forcing me to shift out of the way. “I thought you were taking the piss, but you’re worse than a hoon,” he blasted, shifting on me.

Outrage.

He had managed to shove me halfway, which left me straddling the gear shift, before he took over completely, reversing and taking us right out of the parking lot—with one hand!—the other holding his gun in his lap, as I wrestled my leg over to the passenger side.

I would have a bruise on my hamstring from the gear shift.

We were out of the parking lot, and down a quiet side street. I tried to correct my ragged breathing by telling myself that if Sullivan wanted to hurt me, he would have done so already.

“Quit glaring at me, Charlie. I’m here as a favor—had to make sure you got in the bloody car!”

A favor.

“So you are not going to kill me?”

He glanced at me, face twisted up in a disgusted fashion. “What the fuck?”

“I won’t tell Jace or Mr. Bennett about you, I promise!”

He flashed on me, before glancing in his rearview mirror. “Jace, ay? Drinkin’ the Kool-Aid.”

A pun. Perhaps a snarky one, at that.

“You know he’s using you, right? Real shit. Doesn’t trust you either. Put one of his best men on you now, the second you left the airport after your little Port Douglas weekend.”

My mouth popped open.

He shook his head, driving along slow, glancing in the mirror. “The boys keep watching your balcony show. It’s making the rounds. Couldn’t you have used some fuckin’ discretion, Charlie?”

All blood drained from my face.

“What? What do you mean . . .”

Men had seen Jace and me make love on the veranda in Port Douglas? I pictured myself straddling Jace’s face, then bent over . . . him pounding me from behind. I gasped and covered my mouth with both hands.

“God, you’re such a fuckin’ no-hoper,” he muttered. I sat forward, unable to process anything, fighting an urge to evacuate the contents of my stomach.

“It’s not right,” he muttered.

I removed my hands from my mouth.

“We were . . . filmed?”

He snorted. “I all but told you he’s being watched. Yeah, it was filmed by the boys, at ASIS. Shouldn’t’ve been, but it was.”

Silence permeated the car. He flicked a switch on the front panel. Apparently the air-conditioning was broken (guess that was why Mr. Cooper never turned it on), and Sullivan cussed under his breath.

“You know you’re just a bit of fun,” he started in again. “Like I told you.”

I bit my lip and felt my nose burn. I deeply resented all of the filth Sullivan Blaise seemed intent to import into my life.

I shook my head. He did not know.

“No, Jace cares for me,” I said quietly. “I know he does.”

Sullivan’s lips pursed. “I’m sure he does,
right now
.”

Condescension.

I stared straight ahead.

“Don’t matter, don’t give a shit. Things are turning black, soon, ay. Came to warn you. You’re in the fuckin’ shit, Charlie, or will be. Danger. The real deal. Charlie! You listening?!”

I shook my head. Was Jace just having some fun with me?

Was he?

Why do feelings have to complicate
everything
?

I reached for the door handle, but Sullivan grabbed my arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Getting away from you! You . . . ruin everything! You’re wrong about Jace, about everything!” I shouted, incensed.

His mouth popped open. “Me? Are you a fuckin’ dingbat or what? I’m trying to help you. Listen to me!” His face was bright red, a shade I had never seen on him before, and he checked behind for traffic, though we were stopped at the residential corner. He tightened his grip on my arm. “Don’t believe me. I don’t care. Just know this: your bloke’s about to take it up a notch, launching a new level of racket, semi-legit business fuckers with enough dosh to bribe a small country, never mind businesses, markets, fuck with things! You get that!? He met with six of ’em all last week and this week in Vegas. And there are others who want in, want out, want to stop it, or want to lead it. Any second he’s going to be wiped out and guess who’ll be collateral damage?! When your brains are hanging out of here”—he pressed his finger on my forehead—“don’t say I didn’t fuckin’ warn you.”

I stared at him. This could not be true. Jace was in Vegas to buy a property to develop a hotel.

But . . . a cold hard logic shoved its way to the forefront. Why would Sullivan lie?

Why would he be here now?

There was no benefit to him, to tell me this.

He was not asking me to spy anymore.

Logic does not lie.

My eyes became blurry again, and wetness slicked down my face.

“You got money?” he said, accelerating again to turn the bend back to the parking lot.

“Charlie! Do you have money to fly home?”

I stared at him, his eyes. Suddenly they were not so menacing.

They were full of . . . pity. And perspective.

PERSPECTIVE.

I shook my head. “No. No, I do not. But—”

“Fuck,” he said, his mouth a tense line. “Niagara Falls, was it?”

B had just been relocated to consult in California. “No, Silicon Valley,” I whispered.

“I’m going to swing it as soon as I can, and you better fuckin’ use it. In the meantime, you act like everything’s smooth. And don’t throw me under the bus, either, or I’m as good as dead. Got that?”

I nodded, and a sob broke free.

“Just be prepared to go to the airport at the last minute when I get word to you. Don’t know how he’ll react if he hears you’re boarding a plane for America. And don’t tell another fuckin’ soul about this, got that, or it’s my arse. Charlie! You listenin’?”

I nodded.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

The rest of the one-minute ride back to the parking lot was silent. When we arrived, he dropped me off and then sped off without a word or even a second glance.

The only time I ever called in sick to the Niagara Falls Public Library where I worked, I had a terrible case of pneumonia. I believe I caught it from Shorty, a very tall crack addict with three children who had sneezed on me when I was questioning her (as I had done several times in the past) as to which floor of the abandoned building on the outskirts of town my mother was last seen in.

Three weeks later, I was flat out in bed, as the vicious bacteria weakened my red blood cells, reduced the oxygen circulated through my body, and created extreme fatigue. I had been willing to spend the money on the antibiotics, mind you. I had just left it too long. So I sent my mother instead, with eighty dollars cash in hand and my prescription.