B. Ross put the phone down on Ms. Lincoln and moved to her purse in the back room. She took out her personal cell and scrolled down the contacts. She found his name and engaged.
She felt her heart beating hard. Since she first saw him, he’d always made her heart beat hard. He also made her pussy get wet. Not to mention a variety of other things.
“In the middle of something, babe,” he said as greeting, sounding distracted.
She hated it when he was busy (or distracted), which was often. Before she’d had him, when she made excuses to contact him, and especially after she’d had him.
“She’s coming,” B. replied on a whisper, head bowed.
She didn’t want any staff to hear. When at work, they were banned from making personal calls.
Though, since this was an order from her boss, it wasn’t exactly personal.
Still, he’d made it clear he wanted this matter treated with the utmost confidentiality.
And she was a girl who lived to serve.
“What?” he asked, now sounding a lot less distracted.
“She’s coming. Tonight. Ten thirty. I told her all the salons were booked. She’s in social, where you asked me to put her.”
“Do not put anyone else in there,” he ordered. “And cameras off the minute you leave her in there.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Does that mean you’re coming?”
“Yeah.”
Her heart skipped.
“Just so you know, I’d tell another client who shows that someone else is expected in the chamber,” she told him. “She’s never gone social as far as I know but she’ll know to expect that. You can’t just show. She’ll know that’s fishy.”
“Then share she’ll have company,” he allowed.
“Okay. See you later, Nick.”
“Later,” he grunted perfunctorily then disengaged.
But she was going to see him later so she didn’t mind his abruptness.
She smiled, stowed her cell and walked back to reception, anticipating Nick Sebring’s arrival and hoping, after he did whatever he did with Olivia Shade, a.k.a. Ms. Lincoln, he’d have time for her.
Chapter Three
Dawn Coming
Olivia
I leaned toward the front seat of the car, the folded bills between my fingers, my eyes on Harry’s profile.
“As usual, I’ll probably be a few hours, Harry,” I told him, extending my hand over the seat.
He turned to catch my eyes. “Walk you to the door.”
I allowed my lips to curl up and my eyes to get moderately soft.
Harry was a leftover from a different time. A time long ago when I’d slept easier. When I believed my daydreams could come true. When a look or a stolen touch was a promise. When plans were whispered and my stomach flip-flopped or my heart skipped with excitement at the mere thought of carrying them out. When I faced the dawn every day joyful because one day I knew it would be over. I would be free. We would be free. We’d be normal. We’d be together. We’d make babies. We’d grow old together. We’d be happy.
We’d die clean.
He’d helped us, Harry had. He’d helped me and Tommy.
Because my sister loved me and because Harry was a leftover from my grandfather, out of respect for me (from Georgia) and for my dead grandfather (from Dad), they’d let Harry live. They’d made him unemployable and taken nearly everything he had so he lived in a tiny house in a terrible neighborhood taking jobs at odd hours, all of them for cash
, all of them, except mine, for a lot less cash than he should considering many of them were dangerous.
Sixty-eight-years-old, scrimping, saving and destined to work until the day he died or was killed because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.
This was why the bill in my hand was a hundred dollars and the bill I’d hand him when he took me home in a few hours would be the same.
This was also why he had no choice but to accept it.
I used him only for the club.
My car had a tracker on it and my home randomly had someone watching it.
Dad had a long memory.
Harry knew how to spot surveillance. He also knew how to avoid it. He’d taught me both and utilized both for me.
We were good at our game. We’d had practice.
In the end, when it mattered most, not good enough.
But good enough to get me to the club.
“Harry,” I said in my soft voice. “They have cameras in this alley and Mr. Revere is right there to open the door for me.” I didn’t move my head to indicate the big man standing under the lone light in the alley, his eyes on Harry’s shiny, well-kept but not-near-new black Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t have to. Harry knew he was there. “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”
Harry continued to look at me for half a second before he turned and opened his door.
I sat back on a sigh.
He came around and opened my door. He shut it after I climbed out.
His hand to my elbow, his head turning this way and that to scan the empty alley, he walked me to Mr. Revere.
“Ms. Lincoln,” Mr. Revere greeted as we got close.
I nodded to him.
Mr. Revere jerked his chin up to Harry and moved to open the door of the club.
I turned to Harry, his hand dropped from my arm and I grabbed it. Pressing the bill into his palm, I gave him a squeeze and let him go.
“I’ll text you when I’m ready for a pickup,” I told him what I always told him.