“Good.” Tommy paused. “I suggest you think long and hard before you connect with your friends on or off the police force, Mr. Hardy. Despite her demons, your mother was a clever woman, and I’d like to think the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. But if it did, well, I won’t give you the same choice Miss Sanford just received.”
The phone went dead.
Cam’s fingers itched to fling the phone across the room so he could watch it shatter against the wall, but that wouldn’t solve a damn thing. They were well and truly screwed. He used more care than necessary to hang up the phone.
“Who was that, and why did I tell him anything except to go fuck himself?” Drea asked, uncertainty shaking her voice.
“That was Diamond Tommy Houston, micromanaging crime boss, drug kingpin, and overall shithead who kills with impunity inside the Harbor City lines. He personally knocked off a district attorney, and the cops still won’t pin it on him. Mostly because he has some key cops in his back pocket.”
“That asshole? I’ve never heard his voice before. How does he—” She gasped and stepped back until the refrigerator blocked any further escape, anger burning in her gaze. “How does he know you?”
Not how she thought. “My mom was his mistress for years until her heroin addiction went from quirky to an embarrassing liability.”
Calling his childhood educational wasn’t a lie, it just wasn’t the kind of schooling people expected. He’d learned to make mac and cheese with water instead of milk in third grade, knew to avoid his mom’s boyfriends by fifth, and had perfected being anywhere but home by sixth. Not that anyone knew that part of it. People tended not to dig very deep when they thought he was just a shallow asshole who slept around. He’d created the perfect cover, so perfect he’d even begun to believe it himself. But he’d begun to hate the lie just as much as he despised the truth.
She blinked slowly, the wheels turning inside her pretty head, but she didn’t look away. She held his gaze, neither pitying him nor shying away in horror.
The whole situation had gone fubar in record time. Now it wasn’t just the police closing in on Drea, it was the most powerful crime syndicate in Harbor City. He needed to get his head wrapped around this cluster before something else blew up.
He glanced out the window at the opposite rooftop and saw light reflecting off the shooter’s scope. Looked like Diamond Tommy wasn’t taking it on their word that they’d vacate.
He covered the small of Drea’s back with his palm and guided her toward her bedroom so she could pack a bag. “We’ve gotta get out of here. Fast. Take only what you need for a weekend.”
“Where are we going?” There was no mistaking the nervous tremor in her voice.
“Somewhere else. Somewhere safe. At least until we figure out what the hell is going on and what it has to do with you.” He smiled. “You didn’t think we were going to follow orders from a psychopath and run scared, did you?” He paused beside that God-awful torture device posing as an ugly green couch, then turned and looked down into her face, noting the fear lurking behind the bravado. The bastards had done that to her too often lately. They’d pay. He stroked his thumb across her full bottom lip, so ripe for kissing. “Nobody fucks with my girl.”
Life snapped back into her mahogany-colored eyes. “I’m not your girl.”
“But you will be.” He winked and gave her his best cocky grin. “Now grab whatever you need. We’ve gotta go.”
Chapter Six
“Happiness is the best makeup.” - Drew Barrymore
Dark, small, and mildewy, The Salty Dog sat across the harbor in working class Waterburg and wasn’t a place where everyone knew your name. It was a bar for people who didn’t want anyone to know them. Patrons kept their eyes on their glasses of cheap beer and hard liquor. Inquiring chit chat wasn’t just frowned upon, it could get you a trip to the ER and a spot at the front of the triage line.
Cam loved the place. It was the perfect location to hideout for a few hours and try something totally new—putting a plan together. Together they needed to figure out how to find the real killer who carried out the hit, clear Dea’s name, and shove Diamond Tommy back into the shadows.
He pushed open the tinted doors and took stock of the crowd. A couple of lonely souls sat on stools on each end of the bar. A game at the single pool table had drawn the attention of a handful of others. He led Drea toward a booth in the back against the wall where they could watch the door without worry of anyone sneaking up from behind.
Her eyes were huge as she slid across the ripped brown vinyl seat. “Are we going to get killed?”
Cam scoped out the dingy room. No doubt there was at least one shotgun behind the bar and a few armed patrons, but no one struck him as particularly dangerous. “Not likely.”
She kept her palm on the table and covertly pointed to a guy in a biker jacket with a large skull smoking a blunt. “But possible?”
He shrugged. “It is Friday night.”
“I hate you right now.” She laughed, low and easy.
It reminded him of the BBQ when he’d followed the impulse to kiss her. The memory relaxed him, right before he remembered how Alex had swooped in to remind Cam that losers like him didn’t end up with girls like Drea—and the asshole was probably right. He couldn’t help but chase her, but damn if part of him hoped she’d stay just out of reach but still in his bed. He needed that emotional distance between them and he worried that for once he couldn’t provide it. That was a new one for him. Really, another new one. Par for the course with Drea. She wasn’t like all of the other girls who called him after one night and hounded him for a relationship.
He and Drea were in this for the same thing: hot, unbridled sex. Or at least they had been. Until he’d fucked up at the BBQ.
That had turned out to be a lucky break. There was more at stake now than just getting Drea into his bed again. If he couldn’t keep his head straight, she could end up dead. He needed to be the stone cold mercenary he’d been in the jungles. He’d just concentrate on making sure she got out of this alive. Then he’d back off. It was the right move to make. As much as it twisted his nuts to admit it, the puke stain, Alex, was right. Drea deserved better.