One Wrong Move Page 17

  “What do you mean?” Camden asked. He couldn’t have Darrell kill anyone.

  “He could be a mole.”

  “I doubt it. The poor guy was arrested because he was doing a job for you.”

  “If they grill him and he buckles—”

  “Give him a chance.” Camden had no idea why he was taking up for Mike. It would be best to take him into federal custody and give Mike a chance to roll on Dare, but Camden thought he was better off being out here. Mike was just foolish enough to let something slip, as long as he stayed on the streets. In federal custody, he’d probably clam up and refuse to give any information. “Be cautious around him, sure, but don’t immediately suspect him. Better yet, let him stay in jail for a while.”

  Dare grunted as he rummaged through the bag.

  “I thought you were the one designing the drugs,” Camden continued. “What are you doing handing over your money for something like this?”

  “Testing my competition,” Dare said as he stacked bottles and bags next to each other. “Plus, I get a few ingredients and use this to make something even better. Change the name, call it something different.”

  Camden stored that information for later. They could prove Darrell was buying and selling, but evidence of his own drug creation would help seal the deal of a lifelong imprisonment. “You know there’s a lot better ways to exchange drugs without sending your men to troop through pastures of cow shit,” he said.

  “What, like sending you out on a luxury yacht? That’s not my style.”

  “Well, at least use some four-wheelers or something to make it easier to get away.”

  “It’s also easier to get caught. At least on foot, you can duck and hide without making a sound.”

  “Huh, maybe you should give that a try,” he murmured.

  “You don’t like my way of doing things, I can always pull you from the project.”

  “Well, I think I’ve earned my way out of dealing in cow pastures,” Camden said.

  “Hey, you wanted in on this.”

  “I want in on the fun stuff.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I’m a cook, Dare. That’s what I do. Cook.”

  “So you want to keep cooking for me?”

  “Whatever drug you’re designing, that’s what I want in on. You asked me for recipe ideas. Let me experiment with what you’ve got.”

  Darrell nodded and stroked his mustache. Camden almost regretted the offer, but this opportunity was exactly what he’d worked for the past few months. He wanted to be able to prove Darrell’s production, and being involved in the cooking process was a sure-fire way, but he refused to be a taste-tester.

  “Maybe soon,” Darrell mumbled.

  “I don’t like to be micromanaged during my creation process.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, just give me something to work with, and let me work alone.”

  ***

  Rayma

  Even the sun was starting to piss Rayma off. She wasn’t the type of person to sit still and study things for hours on end. She’d finished the book she’d been reading. It was interesting enough, but she wasn’t ready to start another one. She was tired of writing, tired of talking to Lacey when all she did was gripe, and she was tired of the absence of clouds in the sky.

  Dex was taking a break from babysitting Rayma because Moore had something bigger planned for him. Lacey had taken over, but Rayma personally thought Lacey was the one who needed the sitter.

  She’d told herself that she’d try to escape and meet her father, but only if things worked out for her. She never thought it’d actually happen. How could she possibly slip away? But things couldn’t have worked out any better.

  Lacey needed to go out, but she didn’t want to tell Moore. Rayma promised Lacey she’d sit right where she was, basking in the sun. She wore a bathing suit, for goodness’ sakes, where would she possibly go?

  Oh, the bag she carried? Towels, books, magazines. Definitely not full of clothes she planned to change into so she didn’t have to meet her father in anything less than her best. She hadn’t planned to actually need it, but had packed it the past couple of days just in case.

  Today was her just in case.

  She was crazy for wanting to meet with him anyway. She half expected her scheme to sneak out would fail, and she wouldn’t be able to go. That might be best, and it would take the decision out of her hands. But so far, things were looking good for her, and she was going to follow through.

  It wasn’t as hard to sneak away as she expected, even if she did cringe at every sound. Would Darrell or his cronies be out there waiting to spot her? If a bullet hit her, would it be immediate?

  Usually, Dex was with her every step, a little too close for comfort even when she took a bathroom break. Now, every step seemed like she was dodging landmines. She’d sworn she’d never speak to her father again, so why do this? Why now, when her life was falling apart?

  She considered turning back around, going back to the safety net of the house where she’d grown comfortable, but curiosity kept her moving forward.

  Curiosity, and the urge to tell her father exactly what she thought of him. Give herself some closure at least in that aspect of her life.

  Every move she took through the sand sent splinters of heat through her feet. Flip flops didn’t offer the shield she needed. Within a few minutes, though, she was on the concrete pathway, and she ducked into a bathroom to change. No way would she meet her father in her bathing suit. She needed to show him she was successful in life. She damn sure didn’t need his approval, but she wanted to make sure he knew she wasn’t a mere beach bum.

  She glanced around to make sure no one followed her, and didn’t see any gun-toting strangers. No one looked out of place, though how could she really know for sure until it was too late?

  It was a good twenty minute walk to the downtown piers.

  She should have been afraid. Even if her father wasn’t likely to kill her for revenge, Darrell Weberley could be waiting just around the corner.

  ***

  Lacey

  Lacey followed Darrell, she in a classy but inconspicuous metallic blue sedan she borrowed from a friend, and he in his sumptuous green Jaguar convertible. As she watched, he pulled Bimbo Blonde from the car and they entered a Tex-Mex restaurant, a place with way less panache than he was accustomed to.

  Cyndi clung to his arm like a decoration, and Lacey couldn’t bite down the distaste forming in her mouth. Cyndi was sleeping with the enemy, and Lacey was jealous. She wanted that job.

  They were supposed to meet at the beach today, and she’d been there, primed and ready. But he never showed up. And now he was with Cyndi.

  She walked into the bar of the restaurant and ordered a margarita. She watched as he cozied up to the other woman in a corner of the room, as if they’d come here specifically to make out.

  She longed to scratch his eyes out. Not, she told herself, because he was with another woman but because he had ruined her life for the past year, dealing drugs, killing people. What kind of person was she to want to have anything to do with him?

  She gulped her margarita, took a tequila shot, and wrote him a note on her napkin.

  After paying for her drinks, and feeling a little more daring, she slipped by his table. “Mr. Weberley, how are you?”

  If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. “Good, and you?” He shook her hand as if they were old friends but didn’t stand. That fact insulted her. “You remember Cyndi? She works at Sanctions Gateway.”

  She ignored Cyndi. “You’re being disloyal to your own restaurant.”

  “Just need something different every now and again.”

  “Good to see you,” she said and, before leaving, she dropped her napkin in his lap.

  She sauntered to the bathroom, resisting the temptation to glance back to see if he read her note. Apparently he had, because a few minutes later, he followed her into the ladi
es’ room.

  “I missed you at the beach today,” Lacey said, taking him in her arms as if they were lovers. She had to be bold with him or his interest in her would wane. No one else was in the bathroom. She pushed him into a stall, unsnapped his jeans, and unzipped him where he stood.

  “Yeah, sorry, I wasn’t able to make it.” His tone was flat, impossible to read.

  “I see that,” she said, teasing him with her hand. Though she was perfectly lucid, the alcohol had given her an extra shot of audacity. She used it to her advantage.

  “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “No worries. If you want to take bimbo blonde out on a date, that’s your business.”

  He grimaced. She stood her ground and did her best to be rough enough to keep him interested.

  “Besides,” he said, “you’re married.”

  “I never thought I’d be the only girl in your life,” she said before kneeling and taking him into her mouth.

  He groaned and she rocked against him, taking all of him yet wanting to inflict pain on him as well. When he came, she stayed with him and muttered against him, “I only hoped you’d find someone better than an undercover agent.”

  “What did you say?” His body tensed, and she was glad to be down on the floor, close to his sensitive spot. At least if he tried anything, she could defend herself. No such luck. She didn’t even struggle when he gripped her hair and pulled her up, forcing her to look at him. She tried to back away, but his hold on her tightened.

  Had the alcohol made her dense as well? Or was that just plain stupidity? Either way, there was something about this man that made her feel stupid, and she knew it wasn’t love.

  She’d just blown Cyndi’s cover. She could deny everything, but he wasn’t stupid. Cyndi couldn’t be linked to the rest of them, but telling him had been a risky move. Why did she feel so good about it?

  “Check her out if you don’t believe me.”

  ***

  Rayma

  Rayma sat with her dad on a bench at the downtown piers as the sun shone high in the sky. Waves crashed against the shore, the mellow atmosphere making her heart sink. She gritted her teeth and repressed the urge to flee as her father spoke, but dread weighed her down. Dread and curiosity.

  “You’ve done well for yourself.” He flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette and onto the concrete slab. Richard O’Riley eyeballed her silk chartreuse pants and matching shell top as if he resented her. She’d arranged her hair in a tight bun, trying to appear professional and strong, almost like a schoolmarm yet with class. She was no longer a child, and his stare could not panic her anymore.

  Never mind the way her heart hammered her chest.

  “Don’t ask for money,” she said.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “You’ve grown claws,” Richard said in that throaty, irritating rasp that nearly always made her feel as if those claws—hers or someone else’s—were scraping down a chalkboard. Or worse, down her back. He rested on the bench as if they had all the time in the world. As if she weren’t planning on getting up before he said what he had to say.

  She should have hated him. Seeing her father again should have left her with cold fear. She remembered clearly being twelve and shaking in dread as she sat on the witness stand, all eyes upon her. Someone actually had to wrap a blanket around her shoulders to make the quivering stop so she could talk. Even that hadn’t helped.

  Now, she felt nothing. She saw her father as the pathetic man he was, and he could no longer hurt her.

  He was sick, not her. What happened was not her fault, no matter how much her mother wanted to blame her.

  He no longer had power over her. He no longer had power to hurt her. To control her.

  She was selfishly thankful she hadn’t received the brunt of his sickness. That was reserved for her friends and the children at the church, as if he drew some line and touching his own daughter was worse than touching another child. When the truth came out and he went to prison, Rayma herself took the witness stand against him, and her mother never forgave her.

  “I didn’t come here for small talk.” Rayma couldn’t remember why she’d come. To prove to herself she didn’t need to be afraid anymore? To give him a piece of her mind, tell him how disgusted she was that he was released from prison? He’d wanted to see her, he’d told her he changed, but from what she saw he was only a worse specimen. Older, more bitter, but just as creepy.

  She clutched her purse and began to rise from her seat when his words stopped her.

  “Then let me tell you why I came.”

  “Why don’t you?” she asked, sitting back down.

  “I’m not your father.”

  His words stole her breath, then she just wanted to laugh. Or cry. The air thickened, heat stalking down her back.

  “Is this your way of liberating yourself from the guilt of touching your own daughter?”

  “You aren’t my daughter. That’s what I want you to understand.”

  “Not in my heart,” she replied. She’d craved his attention when she was younger, the kind he lavished on her brothers. He played ball with his sons, ruffled their hair, roughhoused in ways only boys could do, but ignored her. She remembered shrinking into the background when he’d walk by, because he never glanced in her direction when she called out to him. Now, it made her sick to think about what kind of attention she ultimately received. “You’re saying this like it makes what you did less bad.”

  “Your mother had an affair with James Noose. Why do you think I’ve always hated him?”

  “Because he sent you to prison?”

  Richard smirked. “Yeah, he enjoyed that.”

  Rayma rose on unsteady feet, but couldn’t find the will to move away. She gripped the back of the bench stay upright, her other hand clutching her purse. He stood along with her and reached out his hand.

  She shook him off. “Get the fuck away from me.”

  She didn’t trust a word he said. Never had and never would.

  “Think back, Rayma. Look in the mirror. Look at James.”

  “If you think this admission is going to absolve you of all sin—”

  “That isn’t my intention.” He remained where he stood, close enough to touch, but he didn’t come closer. One foot angled back, ready to dart away. “I’ve served my sentence. I think it’s time you knew the truth of who your father is.”

  “I’m glad to hear your blood doesn’t run through me.” She hated him. People had told her he was sick, but she could never understand that kind of sickness. She should be relieved he wasn’t her father, but grief and resentment ravaged her.

  James Noose? The only man she ever trusted? Did he know?

  “I just thought you should know the truth.”

  With that, Richard walked away, as if somehow sensing she was about to blow and not wanting to catch the brunt of it. Waves crashed against the pier. She saw herself being carried away by their sway, the tide slowly taking her out to a point she could never come back from.

  Richard was a sick freak, but there was no reason for him to lie to her about this. Maybe he wanted to hurt her for sending him to prison, or he had a revelation in prison and felt the need to make things right. Whatever the cause, the fact he wasn’t her father should have filled her with great joy.

  She loved James like a father. She always wished he could be her father. If what Richard said was true, why hadn’t James told her?

  That hurt. More, it filled her with a deep despair. James had lied to her. By not telling her the truth, he had lied to her about the most important thing in her life.

  And at the most important time in her life, when she had to send the man she thought was her father to prison, when she’d cried in James’s arms day after day, yet went back to a home where she wasn’t welcome anymore. She was only twelve years old, and her mother couldn’t stand looking at her, as if it were her fault Richard was in prison.


  But still James hadn’t told her. Did he know? Yes, he had to know. Why else would he be so interested in her? Why else would he remain friends with her all those years, even when her mother no longer wanted anything to do with him?

  She should have rejoiced. She wanted to scream. She’d missed out on knowing her daddy, a daddy she had only dreamed of. She was furious at him and her mother for not telling her the truth. And she still wouldn’t know if it hadn’t been for Richard, the man she hated.

  Her family hadn’t shared a Thanksgiving meal since Rayma was twelve, but she had plenty of love elsewhere. Like the time all of James’s family came to visit him, and there were so many people. She ate dinner with them and pretended they were the family of her fantasies. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and Grandma were all hers during that time, and though it should have been weird, it wasn’t.

  At first, her mother and brothers had gone to the prison to share Thanksgiving dinner with Richard. It was something she would never do. As they grew, her brothers found friends to be with at that special time, and she was content to spend it with people who weren’t her family but treated her as though they were. And those times created memories that would last a lifetime.

  Those memories could have been real. They could have truly meant something. Those people could have been her real aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  She walked, zombie-like, with no idea where she was going, what she would do. She could keep running, but where would she go? Certainly not to James. She’d made it out of the safe house, so why go back?

  When she saw a woman with a phone and a baby, she approached her and asked, “Excuse me, can I borrow your phone a moment?”

  “Oh…”

  “I need to call my dad. It’s an emergency.”

  “Okay.” The woman handed the phone over, and Rayma punched in James’s number. Thank God she knew it by heart. She turned away, but not too far to concern the woman. The ring shrilled in her ear like a warning knell.