Sticky (11 page)

T
he last two
days have passed in a haze. I go to work. I come home. I sit on the couch and stare blankly at my television screen, uncomprehending the stupid sitcoms and reality shows that flash before my eyes. Eventually those eyes start to droop with sleep, and I curl up alone in my empty bed, staring at the wall until sheer exhaustion finally allows me to collapse into the sweet erase of sleep.

My stupid memories don’t help. They keep replaying, a constant loop of pain in my head.

You’re hot as hell, do you know that Sloan?

I want to devour you.

I see you all the time. Every day, every night, every time I blink.

His words are a constant refrain in my head, and I can’t stop searching them for the broken thread, the clue that should have let me in on the fact that he was lying the whole time. What should I have doubted? What should I have ignored? Should I have disbelieved him the second he said he wanted me that much?

How does it feel?

Like you’ve claimed every part of me.

I have. And you own me too.

I let him have everything, every ounce I had to give, and he made me believe he felt the same way. He made me think I had his heart, the way he’d stolen mine. I know it was fast, I know we were only just getting started, but the whole thing had felt right, felt inevitable, in a way no man I’ve ever been with before has. It felt like coming home, or finding my path after a lifetime lost in the woods.

At the diner, I go through the motions. Serve my tables, smile robotically at all my regulars. Mr. Tim, the eighty-year-old guy who lives down the block from Morton’s, asked me this morning if I was all right, if something had happened to my family.
Yeah,
I wanted to say.
My brother fucked up our lives permanently a decade ago, and there’s no other family left to warn me away from ruining my own life too.

Instead I told him I had indigestion. That seemed to satisfy him, or at least distract him into an hour-long rant about his own struggles with digestive tract problems.

But at home, it’s impossible to escape the flood of memories. It doesn’t help that we went through every inch of this apartment in our handful of nights together. Bent over the couch, splayed out across the bed, even one morning in the kitchen, as I brewed coffee, and he ran his hands up my inner thigh to toy with my panties until we both abandoned the coffee and woke each other up with our mouths instead.

Ugh
. I abandon the pot of coffee I’d been in the middle of brewing on my countertop and wander over to collapse face-first on the couch instead. Fuck it. It’s my day off today, I don’t have to wake my brain up. It’s probably better off half-asleep and un-caffeinated. Maybe it will finally shut up.

That’s when a crash outside my door startles me to attention.

Great. What now? Probably my idiot brother coming to apologize and try to crawl back into my good graces. All while trying to explain that the only man I’ve ever felt truly myself with, the only man who’s ever made me feel like a sex goddess, doesn’t actually give a shit about me and was just using me to get to him.

Yeah. This is definitely a conversation I’m looking forward to having.

Still, I can’t help but remember my brother’s words.
These people are dangerous criminals
. I pause halfway to my door and peer out the peephole instead of just throwing it open the way I normally would.

The hallway is empty. Which is weird, because I definitely heard a sound—and a loud one at that—not moments ago. I squint. Maybe it was Lacey coming in or out? She works a day job, so she’d be gone today, since it’s Monday. But maybe she’s running late or something.

A glint catches my eye. At the end of the hallway, through the window that leads out to the fire escape. A flash of brown that looked almost like . . . but that couldn’t have been a shoe, could it?

A loud buzz fills my ears, and I actually jump and scream softly. Then I can’t help laughing at myself. Just the door buzzer.

I hit the door to buzz whoever it is inside. But I also keep my eye pressed to that peephole, because a thought has started to form in the back of my head. If they sent Gage after me, and Gage isn’t here anymore . . . 

Surely Gage would just knock, though, right? He wouldn’t skulk around on fire escapes peering at me. He’d confront me head on. Right?

I shiver and pull my sweater a bit tighter around my body. The sudden sensation of eyes watching me tingles all down my spine, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something here. Something telltale . . . 

Footsteps stomp up the staircase, and then my brother’s stupid head lifts into view. I breathe out a sigh of relief and roll my eyes, but I undo the latch at the same time. Angry as I am at Fred right now, I’m relieved to see him and not . . . well, anyone else, on that staircase.

“What is it?” I ask, cracking the door wide enough to fit one eye through, but leaving the chain on. No way I’m just letting him waltz in here like nothing happened.

“We need to talk,” Freddie says. He hops from foot-to-foot, glancing over his shoulder at the hallway. Almost like he, too, can sense what I did. That weird second sense that there’s someone else here, someone else watching.

“We can talk here,” I say.

“It’s private,” he hisses.

“So’s this. No one else is home. Unless there’s someone here I don’t know about,” I point out sharply.

His frown deepens. Now that I look closely at him, my brother seems pale and tired. Nervous, too. Even more nervous than he usually is, which is saying something. “Sloan, please just let me inside.”

“Tell me what it’s about first.”

“It’s about your freaking boyfriend,” he whispers sharply. “He met with me today. At the place where we’re doing the drop on Saturday—”

“I don’t want to hear about this,” I interrupt, moving to shut the door.

He presses a hand flat against it to stop me. “He says you’re being watched.”

The tingle along my spine increases twofold. I can’t help it. I actually shiver, and cast a sideways glance at my window. Blinds are still drawn shut. Good. “By who, him?” I mutter, trying to keep my voice sarcastic. Because if I don’t remain sarcastic, I might start to sound scared. And I definitely do not want to sound scared. Not right now.

Not when I actually am.

“By other of Aaron’s people. People Gage doesn’t trust.”

I snort.

“I know,” Freddie says. “It’s not like I trust him either. But why would he tell us that, unless he really doesn’t want to see you get hurt?”

I shrug. “Maybe he wants to make us paranoid. Spook us and see where we go running to.”

Freddie runs a hand along his jawline. “Maybe. Either way, I feel awful for getting you involved in this, and I don’t want you in harm’s way, Sloan. I booked a hotel up in Jersey City. If you leave tonight, you can stay through the weekend, until all this is done.”

I plant my feet and stick my face closer to the door, closer to his. “Oh hell no. You are not getting rid of me that easily, Frederick Casey.”

“You’re in danger, Sloan.”

“So are you.”

“And it’s my own damn fault, whereas it’s not yours. Just leave, please? I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going anywhere while some mafia creepfest threatens you. What the hell kind of a sister would that make me?”

“The smart kind?”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Freddie. You are not my keeper, and you are not going to treat me like some breakable porcelain doll just because shit’s getting real. I’m staying put, and I’m going with you on Saturday to this thing—”

“Oh, no you’re fucking not—”

“Yes I fucking am, or I’ll text Gage right now and tell him to please come over and take me away to whatever creepy shit Aaron has planned for me.”

“Sloan. Be mature here.”

“I am being mature. I will stay away from Gage and stay locked up in this apartment and safe this week, if you promise me that you’ll bring me with you on Saturday. Deal?”

He throws his hands in the air. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“And you’re not? That’s my only offer, bro. Take it or leave it.” Then I slam the door hard, so fast he only barely manages to yank his hand away in time. As I turn the lock, I hear him through the hard wood.

“You’re not safe, Sloan.”

“No one is,” I shout back. “That’s life.”

But I do turn all three locks in my door, after listening to his feet stomp down my staircase. I turn all those locks, and then I circle the house, checking every window. I’m not running away from this, but I’m not planning on being an idiot, either.

One week, I tell myself as I pick up my cell phone to call in sick at the diner. Just one week. Then this nightmare will be over.

T
he next day
seems to move in even slower motion than the first two.
Seventy-two hours since I last touched her,
I recite as I go through the motions, pouring coffee and straightening my tie and getting into my car and driving through this stupid city to Aaron’s hideous office, in the back of the Revel, where renovations are almost complete.

I sidestep a mob of shouting construction workers, hoisting a gaudy new sign for
The Daily Double-Up
, some new slot section in the corner of the Revel. Trust Aaron to not only work in a bad pun on his own last name—O’Malley/Daily, really?—but also to steal a Jeopardy line in the process. I hope absently that someone will please sue his ass for that.

Aaron’s new “office” looks exactly as sketchy as you would imagine. From the outside it’s not bad, located at the top floor of the Revel’s new glass central staircase, offering a view of the entire gaming floor. But the moment I knock and the door swings inward, any hopes I had that Aaron might finally bring some class to this operation are flushed down the toilet.

The walls of the office are plastered with pin-up posters. Not the vintage kind, either, with real women in them. Posters that look like they were pulled straight from porno still-shots, stick-thin women in every position getting fucked six ways from Sunday—in one case, by six guys at once.

Then, of course, there’s the live action version. Aaron on his leather couch, a girl in a tight thong and nothing else perched beside him, absently rubbing her foot against his thankfully-still-clothed crotch as he types something on his phone. He glances up at me when I enter, grunts, and looks back to the phone.

I lean against the door and wait.

I swear he takes extra time on purpose, knowing I’m standing there. And the whole time, I have to stare at the ceiling to avoid watching his hooker stroke his hard-on. Not exactly something I want burned into my memory, thank you very much.

Finally, after at least five minutes of complete silence, aside from the small grunts Aaron emits when the girl hits a particularly sensitive spot through his pants, he snaps his phone shut and tosses it aside. “What now, Hunter?”

That, more than anything else today, sends a chill along my spine. I cannot remember the last time Aaron called me by my given name. I wasn’t aware he even knew I had one.

“The location is set,” I tell him.

He brushes the hooker’s foot away impatiently and shoves to his feet. Standing, we’re almost at eye level. I’ve got a couple inches on him, yet Aaron is stocky in a way I’m not. More fat than muscle, but still, it would insulate him against any punch I might throw.

Then I make myself mentally retreat. I’m not here to intimidate Aaron. Jesus. My death wish isn’t quite that strong yet.

“You could have texted me that,” he says.

“Thought it would be better to talk in person.” I shove off the door and cross the room to stand by his desk, maintaining eye contact. “What’s the plan for Saturday? If I’m coordinating I ought to know the full details.”

“You know the plan.” Aaron waves a dismissive hand. “Get the money, get out before anyone sees us with Casey.”

As he says this, though, his eyes drop from mine to the desk between us, and his hand goes to his pocket. Fidgeting. It’s a wonder this asshole ever wins at poker. His tells are a mile wide.

“That the whole of it?” I raise an eyebrow.

“More or less.”

“What’s the more?”

“Well, we’ll be putting contingencies in place, of course.” Now he lifts his eyes to mine again, a hard line in his. “Can’t be too careful in cases like this.”

“Oh, I agree. That’s why I’m asking.” I shove my hands into my pockets, so he won’t notice the way my fingers want to clench into fists. “This is my last job, Aaron. After this I’m done.”

“I’m aware.” He stares, waiting for my reply. “And?”

Now is when I need to stay hard. Convince him I’m in this for me and only for me. “And if shit goes south on this job, I am never going to forgive anyone involved. So, yeah, I want to make damn sure there are ‘contingencies’ in place. This needs to go smooth.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” Aaron lifts an eyebrow and reaches for the liquor cabinet beside his desk, opening it to reveal a row of scotches worth more money than my life at the moment. He draws out the nearest one, a twenty-five-year label that most collectors would kill for a taste of. He doesn’t offer me a glass. Just pours his own.

“Are we?” I take a step toward him. Not menacing, just enough to show I mean business. “You still haven’t told me any of the backup plans. How am I supposed to run this thing right if I don’t know what your backup drills are going to be?”
How am I supposed to protect Sloan if I don’t know your end-game, Aaron?

“We’re running this job the same way we’ve run every job, Gage.” His use of my last name makes me relax a hair. “The various possibilities are need-to-know only. You need to focus on your job, that’s all. Make sure Frederick Casey shows up with the money. If he doesn’t, make sure you’ve got a bead on that delectable sister of his.”

Fury. Pure, red-hot, blinding fury pulses through my body, at hearing him describe Sloan like that. Of course, she is delectable—more than that, she’s absolutely gorgeous. Any sane, hot-blooded guy would kill to be with her. But the idea of Aaron O’Malley, Aaron getting-his-cock-sucked-off-at-business-meetings O’Malley, Aaron getting-a-footjob-from-a-hooker O’Malley, the thought of
him
thinking about her in a sexual way makes me want to rip his cock off and shove it down his own throat.

But I’ve played better poker games than Aaron has ever dreamt of. Not an ounce of that anger shows on my face. “I know my job,” I tell him. “That’s why I’m wondering why you sent your buddy Topknot out there to do the same job.” I lift a single, cool eyebrow. “He was staked outside Sloan’s apartment today. Freaked her out, actually. I think she spotted his car.” A bit of an exaggeration, but when I combed the tapes from her place last night, I did see her checking the locks on her door, the latches on her windows. She slept with the light on in her bedroom, too. She’s never done that, not in the whole time I’ve known her. Something has her spooked, though what exactly, I never caught on camera. Unless it was something Freddie said to her, when he showed up outside her door.

“Like I said. Contingencies.” Aaron shrugs.

“And you didn’t see fit to warn me about this? What if your man blew my cover? What if he tipped the girl off to something going wrong?”

“Then lucky you’ll be there to comfort her,” Aaron replies with a steady glare.

“Not for long, if she catches wind of this shit mess. She already knows something’s up with her idiot fucking brother. She’s—” I catch myself. I’m getting too involved. Sounding way too invested. “Unfortunately she’s less of an idiot than him. I think she’s suspicious already. So I’d appreciate it if you’d share the details with me, Aaron, so that I can do my goddamn job properly. If you didn’t want me to handle this one, you should have saved your final favor for a better job.”

He narrows his eyes. But then he spread his hands wide. “I was trying to let you have plausible deniability, Gage. But if you don’t want it on this case? Fine by me. I have it on decent authority that the Casey boy might try to run. He’s rented a hotel out of town, up in Jersey City, under a false name. We were talking about the possibility of bringing the girl in. But if you say she’s suspicious already, we might as well move ahead with it.” He snaps his fingers, and my eyes widen in horror as the hooker uncurls from the couch, grabbing his phone to bring it to him.

“No,” I say. Shit. Way to sound suspicious, Gage. “I mean, he’s not planning on running,” I stammer. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t. I’ll bring Sloan in myself.” I hardly hear what I’m saying. I just want to make Aaron stop looking at his phone like that. I want to grab it from him and crush it against the tabletop. I want to punch that smug, faux-thoughtful look off of his face, and make him swear to never touch a hair on Sloan’s head.

Hell, if I needed to, I could drive that letter-opener on the desk into his neck, and make damn sure he never does myself. Take matters into my own hands . . . 

But the moment has already passed. The door behind me opens, a few more gooneys of Topknot’s variety flooding into the room.

“You called, boss?” one of them asks.

Aaron looks past me, straight at his men. “It’s about the Casey girl. We’re going to have to bring her in.”

“Let me do it,” I hear myself saying. “I can make it quick and easy. I won’t even need to B&E. She’s given me her key.” A lie, but a white one. I can talk Sloan into letting me up into her apartment. I’m sure of it. And if not, I can talk Fred into letting me in instead. Either way, I’ll make it happen.

Aaron stares at me, long and hard. I stare back steadily, not letting anything show on my face. Not the anguish flooding through me, or the panic that sends my pulse skyrocketing, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I look like the rest of them. Blank-faced soldiers awaiting our orders.

“Fine,” he says at last. “You have five hours. After that, I send in the cavalry.”

I nod, just once, sharply. “Don’t worry. You won’t need to,” I tell him aloud. Inwardly, as I leave the office, I think,
You’ll need a hell of a lot more than this pitiful cavalry to stop me saving her.