Four Seconds to Lose

to find my phone in his hand and that strange, inexplicable look on his face. It was like a punch to my stomach.

And then he started questioning me, as I’ve dreaded him doing for weeks. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, so . . . I turned it all back on him. As if he were to blame for all this.

I could tell he was angry with me. Worse, by the look in his eyes, I could tell he was hurt. When he turned his back on me and walked out, I did the only thing I could think of. I walked out to the street and hailed a taxi.

“Does he know . . .” Sam’s voice trails off, deceptively calm.

“No!” That comes out strong and fast and unmistakable. “Nothing.”

“Then how did he have my name?” Suspicion. I hear it dripping from his voice. He thinks he caught me in a lie.

“I was drunk. I let your name slip. It was something harmless, though, about birthdays and—”

“Nothing is harmless!” he snaps, and I flinch. With a breath, he adjusts his tone, though there’s no mistaking the ice. “You are down there for a reason. You will do what I ask and you will follow the rules! And, if you don’t feel that you owe it to me for giving you all that you have, then do it for your friend’s sake because, if I have to come down there, I’ll make sure he isn’t causing me any more problems. Do you understand?”

Dread seizes my lungs. Somehow I don’t think a simple conversation with a teenage boy—as he most likely had with Ryan Fleming—is what Sam has in mind now. “Okay,” I manage to get out in a raspy voice.

“Good thing, little mouse. Right away.” The line goes dead.

Quickly logging in to the Gmail account, I find the draft folder. Sure enough, the instructions are there.

Ten tonight. Eddie and Bob. Fuck . . . Bob. How is that going to go? I have to hope he realized his own mistake after he sobered up. Maybe he’ll apologize?

Maybe I’m the biggest moron in the world.

I have to get out of work tonight. I wonder if Cain even wants me there anymore.

If Sam gets hold of him, he’ll wish I’d never walked through his door.

* * *

I never noticed how heavy that black door at the back of Penny’s is.

I could have just phoned Cain. Or texted him.

And yet here I am, walking toward it, aching to see him, ready to crawl on my knees to beg his forgiveness. I can’t think much beyond right now, except that I need to see Cain. And that I’ll be doing the drop tonight, to make Sam happy. To find some reprieve.

After that . . . I can’t think about it. I know what needs to happen and I just can’t face it right now.

On the third knock, the door opens and Nate’s giant body fills the doorway. His face immediately splits into a wide grin when he sees me. Hope sparks. Maybe Cain doesn’t hate me after all. If Cain hated me, Nate would know about it.

I walk down the hall toward Cain’s office, butterflies stirring, preparing to give an award-winning performance on deathly female cramping—complete with hands pressed against abdomen and hunching over. That’s the only thing I can think of and, given that my period is due any day now, it should work well.

I push open the door to find China, with her skirt hiked up around her waist, straddling Cain’s lap on his chair, her lips locked onto his.

And the butterflies drop dead.

chapter thirty-three * * * CAIN

Fucking perfect.

I was one second away from forcefully removing a brazen China from my lap because she wouldn’t get off voluntarily—after leaping on, uninvited—when she decided to plant her lips on mine, crushing my dismissal.

And of course that’s the exact moment that Charlie would show up unannounced. Because that’s the kind of luck I have.

By her wide eyes and hanging jaw, I can tell that Charlie is both surprised and hurt.

And I can’t blame her.

In one quick motion, I remove China from my lap—trying not to shove her too hard as I push her off—and I stand, straightening out my pants. Charlie’s eyes drifting down tells me that the bulge in my pants is noticeable. Dammit! That wasn’t from China! That was because, while China was working on a basic math problem, I was eyeing the silver tie hanging on my door, remembering how I walked in to find Charlie wearing it—and only it—a few nights ago.

This is exactly why I should never have sex in my office.

Clearing her throat, her voice is strangely calm. “Sorry, I should have knocked. I came by to tell you I need the night off. I’m not feeling well.”

Not feeling well. Bullshit.

Neither am I. Fuck, China!

I stall. “What’s wrong, exactly?” Stupid question.

“Female issues.” Her eyes avert to the floor and I know without a doubt that she’s lying. But what can I say, except, “Sure, okay. I’ll drive you back to my place.”

“No. That’s okay.” She threw that one back fast. She begins to turn and my hand instinctively flies out, clasping onto her forearm. Not tightly, but enough to keep her there. “That wasn’t what it looked like, Charlie. I promise.”

She responds with a tight smile. Twisting out of my reach, she turns on her heels and briskly walks out. I hear the heavy exit door slam shut a moment later.

And that’s when I explode. “What the fuck was that?” I spin around and settle a deadly glare on China, who has the decency to keep her eyes on the ground as she bites her lip. “What made you think that would be okay?” Picking up my glass from my desk, I swig back the last mouthful, those few seconds of emotion on Charlie’s face replaying in my mind. “Dammit, China!” The empty glass is sailing out of my hand and toward a far wall before I realize that I threw it. It detonates into countless shards.

I’ve never lost my temper like this with an employee, but, tonight, I can’t help it. I look like a more polished but equally slimy Rick Cassidy.

It takes me a moment to stop my shaking, and then I finally make myself turn around to face China again.

And my heart sinks.

There she is, backed into a corner behind my desk, trembling, her shoulders pulled in tight as she cowers. All color from her face has vanished. The China who works the crowd like she’s got puppet strings affixed to their backs is gone, replaced with a pitiful young girl whose father used to scream and throw dishes at her. Right before he raped her.

My hand flies over my mouth as I realize what I’ve done.

Shit.

“Christ . . .” I start to rush over but when she shrinks farther, I slow my steps, holding my hands up in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I approach her with extreme caution, until I’m close enough that I can wrap my arms around her shaking body and pull her against me, all while the thickness in my throat grows. I smooth her sleek black hair back with my hand as her tears start to flow, dampening my shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she offers between sobs, her voice so pitiful, so weak, so childlike. “I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy.”

“I know.” She needs to get back into therapy. She was doing so well. Then she started focusing on beating her learning disorder and she let the therapy part slip. She shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let that happen. China still needs professional help. And lots of it.

When she quiets but stays pressed against my chest, I ask, in as gentle a voice as possible, “What made