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5
~Charlotte~
IT’S SURREAL.
I can’t believe this is happening, that I’m actually here in Cal’s home.
Seeing him again after all this time, so unexpectedly, too, is more than a little jarring. It’s a major shock to my system, and I’m not someone who shocks easily.
There’s something different about him now, something that’s shifted in him since the last time I laid eyes on him all those years ago.
And it’s not the extra gray hairs, or the fact that his hair is a lot shorter now. It used to be long and straight, jet-black locks falling down past his shoulders. Now it’s cropped short and sprinkled with gray. That’s to be expected, given he’s now in his fifties. The same with the extra few lines etched into his face. It’s not the tired look in his hazel eyes either. He’s always had that, brought on from living a very difficult, high-pressured life. No, it’s none of that, it’s much more than anything superficial.
I watch him over at the bar making his drink.
He’s filling out a pair of black linen pants and a black tee very nicely. After all this time he’s still rock-hard muscle.
I need to test a theory here, my theory of what’s different with him.
There’s only one way to do that.
His Achilles Heel.
“I’m sorry about Kim Barron.”
I watch him tense, spilling some of the Jack over the rim of his glass.
Cringing, I realize it’s just as I suspected.
Somehow, he’s softened over the years.
He would’ve been able to keep his emotions locked up tight, to stifle that reaction with ease back in the day.
This really doesn’t bode well for this… situation we’ve found ourselves in tonight.
He cleans up the mess he’s made with a few napkins, then grabs his glass and makes his way over to the seating area. It’d surprised me when I’d first set eyes on it, his place as a whole actually. There’s a lot of antique, high-priced furniture, his home boasting a refined style that’s a complete contrast to both the man within and his run-of-the-mill leather-clad appearance. The biker and the sophisticated mansion? Not what I’d expected at all. The only thing I can fathom is that it’s his attempt to distance himself from the man he was, his unspoken hope for a better life. A tall order indeed.
“I know what she meant to you,” I go on.
He takes a gulp of his Jack. “Don’t need your sympathies, Charlotte. You didn’t kill her.” He mutters bitterly, “That’s all on Skinner.”
“I’m sorry, because I had to make a choice.”
He finally looks me in the eye. “What?”
“Between her and your daughter.”
His eyes narrow. “I ain’t liking where this is headed.”
I take a long swig of my drink and brace myself to tell him an awful truth, one that I never imagined I’d have to. I never thought we’d see each other again. But, although, as a rule, I’m a big believer in keeping secrets where they belong—buried—that will only be detrimental here. I know him. He always insists on full disclosure when doing business.
“After you went into hiding, I kept an eye on Roxana.”
“I had that taken care of.”
“Right. Ralph Taylor.” I shift my weight. “Unfortunately, Roxana is a lot like you. She knew how to keep secrets and how to evade him when she needed to. For example, when she was looking into your death. She became obsessed. It had her walking across some very dangerous ground.”
“Know all this. She went by Skinner’s place.”
