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“Tonight,” I answered, picking up my phone to see if I had any messages or missed calls. There was nothing, so everything was fine and on-schedule. “I’ll pick it up from Brian’s guys later, bring it to you, and you can make the delivery. Payment still going to that offshore account?”
“Yes, it should be in by now. He made the wire as soon as I told him you were back and had made arrangements.” Fred washed up the breakfast dishes and then wiped down all of the surfaces we’d used. He was meticulous about cleaning and would often clean the house for me, even though he had his own house on the other side of town.
“Thanks, Fred,” I nodded, the headache and churning guts a little better now that I had some food and coffee in me. “Did you find that bottle I assaulted last night?”
“The scotch? Yeah. You really should drink stuff from the top shelf, Damien. This cheap stuff will rot your guts.” Fred kicked at the trash can where I’m certain he’d deposited the bottle.
“Cheap stuff did the job,” I grumbled, knowing he was right, but not willing to give in and say that.
“If that’s all you want out of life,” Fred shrugged, went to the freezer and dug around in it before he spoke again. “Want chops for dinner?”
“Sounds good,” I agreed, not caring at the moment because I still had a headache and knew that the day would probably only make it worse. I’d spend the day trying to figure out how to get Ginger back while waiting for Brian’s guy to arrive with the painting.
Fred would make dinner before he left, probably adding biscuits to the meal, a southern boy at heart. I’d learned to appreciate the man’s skills in the kitchen a long time ago. He’d taken care of me like a mother and a father would, even though he had no ties to me. He lived in the small RV behind the house, a place I’d rented out to him for $100 a month when I first met him. I wouldn’t charge him anything, considering how useful he made himself around the house, but he insisted.
People had their pride, and I understood that.
“I’m going to head into town, get some ingredients for a pecan pie, you need anything? And if you say another bottle of scotch, I’ll make you vinegar pie instead,” Fred said in a conversational tone, but I knew when he said things like that, he meant them. He’d done it before.
“No, I’m good,” I told him, deciding I’d go to the store myself if I needed a little help to get to sleep tonight.
I had planning to do, but no idea where to start. I’d Googled Ginger before, but very little came up about her. As far as I could tell, she had no social media, at least none that I could find. She wasn’t even listed on one of those scammy sites that promised to sell you confidential information that actually came from public records. All I’d found was a blog she’d started when she first arrived in Chicago, but she’d only made one post before abandoning it.
The only way I knew how to handle these situations was head on, and that’s what I’d done. Ginger hadn’t liked that too much, but he had a feeling that tearing down her walls one at a time, while being brutally honest, was the only option to getting anywhere with her. He’d wait, as Fred had advised, but he wouldn’t wait two weeks.
Being near her again had only reminded him of why he hadn’t been able to forget her as the years passed. She had wanted him, he knew she had, and she looked like she needed a good fucking. For a second, he’d almost thought she was going to ask him to do the job, but she’d squashed the idea in the next instant. Another dose of him might be needed to get her to admit what they both knew, she wanted him. Now, he just had to figure out how to make sure she didn’t kill him before they could both get what they wanted.
