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Still no sign of Stone, though of course I can’t help checking in both directions for his truck before I trudge onto the road and head toward my apartment.
No word from him, either. Not that I’ve been checking my phone every ten seconds since 5 or anything. I pull it out one last time and open my text feed with him. Heading home. Sorry I didn’t see you tonight.
That’s all. He’s smart enough to figure out the rest.
Before I slide my phone back into my purse, I find myself dialing Ian. I’m still pissed off that he couldn’t tell me what’s going on, but I’ve never been able to stay away from him long—not even when he was drinking and gambling. And if anything will cheer me up and remind me that I don’t need a man’s affection—as much as, admittedly, I really want Stone’s—it’ll be popping a bad, made-for-TV movie into my brother’s DVD player and ordering a pizza, heavy on the cheese.
Tonight’s a night for comfort food and pretending like everything is right with Ian. I can start stressing over his big secret again tomorrow.
Four rings in, it goes to voicemail, so I send Ian a text. I’m coming over. Shitty zombie remake tonight?
I’m almost able to forget about the sinking ache spanning across my chest by the time I reach my apartment. Inside, I change out of my work uniform, wrinkling my nose at the whiff of diner-scent that still clings to it, and shimmy into loose jeans and a tank top. Not the cutest outfit ever, but I’m not in the mood for dressing nicely tonight.
I grab the zombie movie from my stack of unwatched DVDs, toss it into my purse alongside a toothbrush—just in case I don’t want to drive home—and head down the stairs to my car. Distraction, here I come.
17
Stone
Every time I’m about to stand up and climb the rest of the way down this godforsaken building, yet another car pulls up out front, freezing me in place. By the time I finally have a long enough window to drop down all five stories to the ground, it’s dark out and I’m frozen stiff in my T-shirt.
I dust myself off in the flowerbed, and, still being careful to avoid any headlights or passersby, I make my way across the lawn back to my truck.
No sooner have I escaped the balcony where I was trapped than my phone rings. I was checking the time, inwardly cursing—already 7:45 p.m., Skye is probably pissed at me, or worse, upset—when the unknown name unknown number ID popped up. There’s only one person the call could be from.
“What the fuck do you want, Rich?” I demand when I hit accept.
“Shit. Did the call block break again?” he asks from the other line. I can almost picture him scowling at his phone now, wondering if he messed up the settings that allow him to anonymously harass most of his clientele.
“Nope, I’m just smart,” I reply as I unlock my truck door and swing into the passenger seat.
“Yes, well, I’m not so convinced about that.”
My fists clench in anticipation. “What now?”
“I just got a call from our cybersecurity expert.” Fancy term for the Man Bun lookalike he pays to monitor his online bank accounts, but whatever. “Cybersecurity” it is. “Looks like there’s someone mucking about in my email account. They left a message in the Draft folder, so we can’t trace the IP address or location it was saved from. But the log-in records show they’re based in downtown Atlantic City. Would you like to hear the message?”
My eyes dart up to the window in Ian Banner’s apartment. The soft yellow light spilling out of his computer room, highlighting his now-familiar profile, still bent over the keyboard, the same position he’s been in just about all day—except for when he stepped out with Too Normal. “I have a feeling you’ll tell me whether I’d like to hear it or not,” I mutter.
“Maybe you are smarter than you look,” Rich snaps. “Though not very adept at covering your tracks. ‘Dear Mr. Tomlinson,’ it starts out. Can you believe that shit?”
I don’t answer him. I shut my eyes and wait for the verdict.
“‘Dear Mr. Tomlinson, It has come to my attention that you’ve been sending your associates to check up on me and the remittance of a loan I purportedly borrowed from your establishment.’ This kid.” Rich actually laughs. “‘I would hate to have to file a police report, especially given the nature of your dealings. If you would like me to keep this quiet, I suggest you ask your employee to meet me face-to-face and tell me exactly what it is you need from me. That will be better than all this beating around the bush, don’t you think? Or shall I say, hiding on my rooftop.’”
Ah, fuck.
“Not sure what that last bit means, Stone, but I can take a wild guess,” he growls. “The email is signed Ian Banner.”
I grind my teeth together. Shit. Okay, so the little fuck is sharper than I took him for. It wouldn’t take a rocket science to tie me to Rich, considering the timing of my break-in at his apartment. “What do you want me to do?” I ask, my eyes shut tight.
“Well, I think we’d better do as he asks, don’t you? Go to his apartment, have a little chat. Tell him we’d like the $500,000 or we’re going to have to take this to the next level. Do me a favor and don’t be that polite about it, either.”
“You want me to hit this guy?” I spit out. Is he kidding me. I’ve got at least seventy pounds and five inches on Ian Banner so I know the guy will break like a fucking twig the second I lay my hands on him.
“That’s what you’re good for, Stone, remember? Just make sure you let him know we mean business. Think you can handle that without fucking it up?”
Deep breaths. I have to take real deep breaths not to tell Rich to eat a dick. “Got it,” I finally answer gruffly.
